Birdie's New Mexico Time Machine

Matt wins the Caption Contest...

...with his non-verbal entry! ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Caption my dogs!

I cut portholes into the gate between my house and garage so that Dante (left) and Sissy can keep an eye on the neighborhood.

Caption the dogs!

Time and Fortune

by Birdie Jaworski

Madeline (left) and Ani help stage the play.

UWC Theatre Instructor Tim Crofton handed me a wrapped fortune cookie last Saturday night. I pierced the cellophane with my teeth, let the cookie tumble into one hand. Sixty pairs of nervous eyes watched as I cracked the brittle treat and read the message out loud.

"Look at the moon. Show only your bright side to the world."

I handed the slip of paper to second-year UWC student and budding playwright Holly Jones. She raised her eyebrows above black rimmed glasses. The room echoed with the laughter of writers, directors, and actors as each fortune was read. In twenty-four hours eleven cookies would grow into eleven original written and staged performances. I would direct Jones' play exactly twenty-four hours after meeting her, twelve hours after being handed her brand-new script.

Some say God swept His hand through the void, creating firmament and fire. He had seven days, though, 168 leisurely hours to mold something from abject nothing. Crofton's writers had but twelve overnight hours and one cryptic Chinese phrase. Writers know what it is to gather expelled breath, knit it into a hope-spiked scarf. To do this under pressure, in twelve hours better spent in study, in dream, is quite another thing.

Cookie crumbs gathered under a growing disarray of gray folding chairs. A forgotten brown blazer rested on scarred wooden floorboards near the velvet curtains. Some playwrights retired to their dorm rooms. Some found cozy corners in the UWC campus and hunkered down with tall shot cans of Starbucks espresso. Jones made her way to familiar quarters, my fortune in the pocket of her plaid pajama pants. I watched her saunter out the double door, her blonde bob swinging in a declaration of bravado.

Twelve hours later, red-eyed writers filed into Kluge Auditorium. I sat with the two youngest actors in the event, my son Louis Jencka, 13, and his friend Max Robertson, 12. Jones arrived early. She handed me her script - two filled sides of one paper with the enigmatic title "Don't Look at My Finger; Look at the Moon."

I quickly read both sides of the page. I read it again, slowly, tried to make sense of the Kafka-esque storyline. A woman sits in confession with her priest. He is bug-like - literally bug-like - with antenna and a penchant for scurrying across the floor on all fours. The woman has an affair with her student. Her husband finds out, calls the police. A wandering angel in white steps onto stage, spouting words not-quite-from-the-bible. The woman is silenced by the Hand of God, the angel standing above her lifeless body. At least I thought that was the sequence of events. Told in flashback from the confessional, the dialogue only hinted at what transpired. I glanced at Jones, wondering what midnight terrors fell from our combined fortune. She smiled.

"Directors! Cast your plays!"

Crofton's voice boomed across the hall. More than once exhausted writer winced. I consulted with Jones, and cast UWC students Madeline Noteware as the fallen teacher, Eldar Undheim as the priest, Carlos Grandet as the student, Anirudh Baveja as the mysterious angel, and my own young, yet incredibly tall, son as the husband. We were off and running!

Two hours into rehearsal, my team realized that Jones' script was simply too unusual. Off came the priest's antennae. We erased his floor-scuttling behavior and replaced it with a traditional cleric's collar and the sign of the cross. Young Max Robertson passed us in the hall as we rummaged for props and costumes.

"I'm the Radiation Kid. I think it's a science fiction play. It's weird," he explained.

"You don't know weird." Louis muttered his response, his mind clearly challenged by our racy, avant-guard dialogue.

I struggled with the role of Director, with whether to play it serious or camp. Noteware pointed out that if we delivered our lines without irony, it would probably be funnier. She borrowed clothes to dress her part - a button-down sweater and a librarian's skirt. Baveja added one special low-tech effect - a flaming cross meant to represent the swift justice of the Lord.

During technical check, we watched the ten other five-minute plays. It became obvious that ours was the most unusual, the most controversial, the one play that might offend and bewilder the audience. We continued to rehearse, refining line and movement, until our play became a synchronized swim of confession and flashback.

"Maybe this isn't so bad," I giggled, after one particularly good run through the script. "At least our actors are pretty good."

"Mom, I still don't get the play." Louis raised eyebrows in perfect mimic of our playwright.

At 8 p.m. Sunday, exactly 24 hours after opening the cookies, the auditorium was packed with UWC students and a few people from outside campus. It felt like a week since we first met, since we first read Jones' play. We waited in the wings, pushed our makeshift confessional onto Stage Left when it was our turn. Undheim responded to his sinner with expertly acted furtive glances, with a quick thumb through his bible. Noteware fluttered mooning eyes at Grandet. The audience giggled. Baveja stood backstage with me, waiting his cue to take the floor with his winged majesty, his glowing cross. As he strode to Center Stage, one hand lifted in flaming splendor, the audience held a collective breath.

The curtain fell on our strange morality lesson. I wandered to the audience with my actors. I caught Jones' face in profile as I found my seat. She smiled, the same knowing look she gave me when I first read her work, and I realized she discovered what it meant to swipe one's hand through the void, to collect the light from the moon.

24 Hour Play Project... yeah, I did it, the glutton for punishment that I am.

I wrote about the 24 Hour Playwriting Project at the United World College for the Las Vegas Optic last week. And last Saturday night found me, my son Louis, and his friend Max at Kluge Auditorium, participants in the crazy event. I was a Director, and Louis and Max were actors. I have a story coming out in today's Optic about my experience. Once it's in print, I'll post it here as well.

A couple photos from the event:

Max (left) and Louis practice their lines.

Charlotte (left), Ani, Eldar, and Madeline ponder the meaning of life... and Holly's script!

workin' nights, can't sleep

I'm setting up a little Secret Stories list. I have many stories to tell and some venting to do, but since some of my students and co-workers read my blog, I need to be... sneaky.

If you want "in," please send an email to secretbirdiestories@mac.com! I can't promise a regular - or even reasonably often - schedule, but it would be great to share some of my life with you once more. I set up a little listserve so that we could chat and post stories for each other. I haven't had time for reading my dear friends' blogs (I'm working nights as well as full-time at the school... and that's the subject of my first Secret Story...), and I thought this might be a nice way for each of us to keep in better touch with each other, maybe even for us to make some new friends and readers.

My new little writing project is called Twenty-Nine Plus One. I have 29 students in my class and a co-teacher. I've started writing one story for and about each one of them. I won't post these in public even though they are uncompromisingly kind, but I will share them with my Secret Stories list.

I'm finally putting together my sidebar list of Blog Buddies. Please be patient while I get it together - I don't want to leave anyone out, so if you feel I've left you out, give me a week or so, then drop me a HEY YOU note!

One more thing: I have been the worst, and I mean WORST communicator lately. It is mostly due to working two jobs, trying to be some kind of mother to my boys, and finding virtually no time to hang out online. I haven't answered emails, I haven't read anyone else's stuff. Sad but true. If I can figure out a way to make an easier life, I will rectify this. But for now, it is what it is. Please know that each of you crosses my mind many times a week, and that I send you my best silent wishes and all of my love.

a quickie before ski trip

My class has a ski trip today. I'm getting ready to leave. I wanted to let you know that I am starting to post my archives of Las Vegas, New Mexico news stories at My Tiny Vegas. Please click on over to read about my dear friends Kevin and Alex! I want to write a proper Birdie-esque story about them, soon.

I'm still figuring out what to do with this site. I think I will do what I originally intended - post thoughtful, longer stories here on occasion, and just have fun now and then. I'll leave the newsy stories for My Tiny Vegas. I miss all of you. Can't wait for summer vacay, that's for certain.

Louie had a great birthday, thanks for the well-wishes! Tomorrow is the Big Teenager Party!

xo!

From 9 to 13 in Sixty Seconds

Happy Birthday, Louie!

Stats
Name: Louis
Age: 13
Height: 6 feet, 1 inch
Favorite Bands: ELO, Greenday, U2
Favorite Subjects in School: Math, Science, Language Arts
Signature "Look" : Black leather jacket, jeans
Quote: "So that's how it is...."
Hobbies: Guitar, acting, reading, girls
Sport: Skiing
Known for: His kindness, his gentleness, his off-the-wall sense of humor
Favorite Movies: Monty Python, Dr. Who

A mom's favorite Louie Moments during four years of blogging:

Love Potion Number 9
Richer than the Sum of My Skirt
Love Letter to Star Trek
A Mom Called Paladin

Okay, we're freakin' out! Pierogi time!

My three sons tackle the peirogi! I'll post the recipe after the party. Two hours left to prepare and I'm nowhere near done! Ack!

I wish you all could come!

I'm holding the first ever Polish Feast in Las Vegas, New Mexico! I was up late, late, late cooking and now, in the wee hours of the morning, am at it again. On the menu:

Pierogi, three kinds including a New Mexican green chile version
Mushroom sauce
Beet relish
Herring in sour cream
Stuffed cabbage rolls
Kielbasa
Plum cake
Paczki (pronounced "punch-key"), yummy Polish donuts!

The guest list includes all my favorite artists, writers, free-thinkers, and philosophers. Most folks are bringing something to add to the table. One of my dear friends is bringing a homemade poppyseed cake PLUS other Polish goodies. She's Polish, too.

I have a couple of CDs of polkas to play during dinner, and rumor has it that some folks may be coming in costume. I'm handing out name tags with pre-selected famous Polish folk, from Pope John Paul II to Liberace! What else should I do? I'll be checking in all day to hear your suggestions!

My oldest son is home from college and will be in attendance. I think he's nervous about meeting all my friends, especially after all the stories he's heard.

I sincerely wish each of you could attend. It just won't be the same without you! If you want a recipe for any of the above dishes, let me know. I'm a great Polish cook.

Okay, back to work!

Shoeless Joe Pitches the Priest

Late 1982

I shaved my head stone cold, left a strip of long mousy brown from forehead to nape, molded it into a row of egg-white solid spikes. My mom screamed. My dad pointed marched me to Father Ayer's confessional, to sit face-to-post-Vatican-II-face in a stuffed leatherette chair.

"Birdie, you didn't sin by shaving your head."

Father stifled a giggle. He wore bend 'n stretch jeans, a button-down shirt from Penney's, a pair of tasseled loafers. He smelled like Old Spice and hot dogs. My head itched. I sneered.

"Tell that to my dad."

I tried to act cool, smooth, a mohawk chick with three safety pins in each ear. I was nothing like the girls who listened to John Cougar Mellencamp, the girls who wore starched sideways ponytails and bright red lipstick, the girls who spread their legs for a ride in any hot Camaro. I wasn't like them. I told myself this, blasted The Clash while my mom watched Days of Our Lives, practiced smoking hand-rolled cigarettes in the second-floor bathroom mirror, my hips wound with two studded belts.

Father couldn't help it. He started giggling, a liberal preacher with sixty years of small parish life behind him, a life of sitting sin shiva with those Camaro girls, with sullen punks like me. His laugh pierced my ear a forth time. I tried to keep my sneer. I tried, I swear. But damn Father Ayers tripped me, the way he always did. I cracked, my parental pain giving way to a burst of laughter as sharp as my hairdo.

"I think it looks great." Father stood. His pants hung under a belly blessed by tater tot casserole, by seven layer church lady dip. He padded across the confessional to a Lazy-boy chair and grabbed the book sleeping on the green surface. "Jesus was an outsider, too. Did you realize that? Every time you buck authority, you're closer to Our Lord than ever. Now get out there and push over the money changers' tables, okay? And take this book with you."

Shoeless Joe by W.P. Kinsella. A ghostly baseball player in profile held two bats on the cover. I waved goodbye, hustled home, stuck the book on my nightstand and retired to the bathroom to smoke another 'rette.

I didn't crack the book that night. I didn't crack it for a couple of years, not until one lonely Christmas Eve. I was pregnant, unmarried, my mohawk and safety pins melted into wistful memory. I pressed the play button on a yard sale cassette player, invited Elvis Costello to serenade my kicking child. I pulled the lid from the box I called my time capsule. Elvis began "Everyday I Write the Book." I pushed aside my favorite Blondie t-shirt, a three-inch diameter ball made entirely of rubber bands, my Rubics cube, a naked Barbie doll with a homegrown Mohawk.

I held the spine to my nose. The book smelled a bit like Old Spice, a bit like hot dogs, a bit like Father himself. I opened the cover, thumbed to the first chapter, Shoeless Joe Jackson Comes to Iowa. I didn't close the book until I finished the last page, my eyes bloodshot and heavy with tears, my heart about to burst with home run love, with a new sense of hope. I gave the book to my mailman two days later when he handed me a blank envelope filled with ten dollars and told me someone must have left it in my mailbox. I knew he lied, but I pretended along with him, let him treat my unborn child to a grocery bag filled with real food.

I won't tell you what happened in the book. Maybe you've seen Field of Dreams, the movie taken from its pages. Maybe you've read the book itself. If so, you know the magic of a hard wood bat, the magic of seeing things that aren't the same kind of real as the bills that fill my mailbox these days. The book made me trust my inner voice, all those Heys and You Can Do Its no one else would call.

Shoeless Joe came into my life once more, a few months ago after I decided I was a bigger failure than a woman is allowed to be. I couldn't sell my own written words. I was facing a few years of study and apprenticeship to take on a new career whose shoes don't quite fit. He literally fell on my head at the Salvation Army Thrift Store as I perused the book stacks for something interesting to read.

I picked up the offending tome and realized it was the same edition as the book Father Ayers handed me. Shoeless Joe stood in profile, a diamond imposed on his thoughtful face. I wondered if I would ever hear his voice, hear any voice other than my own sorry ramblings. I opened the cover. Author Bill Kinsella's signature surprised me, a splash of ink across the title page, with a message I know was somehow meant to read, to hear:

"Go the distance - Bill Kinsella"

I read the book again, and sent a silent Thanks to Father Ayers, now in certain heaven, safe from old punk rockers like me. Thanks.

And because I believe in messages from the universe, because I believe that somehow someone, somewhere needs to know that she or he can Go the Distance, I am following my intuition and sticking this book on eBay. I know someone else needs these words, needs to know that Shoeless Joe moved Kinsella's hand in deliberate scrawl. I'm starting the bidding at fifty cents, no reserve. I trust that somehow both Father Ayers and Shoeless Joe will guide this book home.

My Shoeless Joe Auction