I didn’t know I was missing art. I can’t draw, that’s real
art, I mean, my art. Writing. Listening. Movies.
Somehow after 18 years of raising kids and writing a bunch
of stuff, books, plays, essays, mostly unpublished…I was sitting in the trunk
of our new (we miss the old, crashed) van while crew members scurried around,
and I watched a monitor where two actors were playing my dead dogs having an
argument about their terrible relationship and why they can’t just love each
other.
A few people HAVE actually died since I wrote the plays that
are becoming these movies. Dirk and Will, they were there in the trunk with me.
Because I couldn’t see the actual actors, or even the sound person who was
cozily crushed into the second row backseat with her blue hair and her bipolar
attitude, I could just see my feet in socks, my monitor propped up on my
stomach, and for 3 days I didn’t see blue sky recently washed by torrential
rain ( Los Angeles miracle), I didn’t have to interact with crew so could
remain mysterious (Trunk Girl) and on my lap I could only see their faces and
my words all came out floating around the car that was also now an actor housing
us and our scene together.
It’s a bizarre, unleashing and powerful situation to be
listening and watching people say your private words. To share yourself – and then
be on an actual ride of yourself. It was a ride, too, because the actors were
speaking then driving erratically while sparring with funny and slightly sad
dialogue, and then stopping and making out. It was like being a passenger in my
own life while other people acted it out, in way better hair, lighting and
clothing than when I acted out messily first while living it. All while never
getting out of the trunk, like a stowaway.
I guess I was an immigrant, making the trip from making
sandwiches every day to having a moment to let the funny words out. I know Tina
Fey gets to make the funny words everyday, even while NOT in the trunk of her own
van.
But I liked hearing my junk in the trunk. Unlike Tina Fey, I
got 18 years of every moment with my kids. And now I’m getting time with my
version of art. 3 days in the trunk. Feels like Hawaii.
Exotic. Expensive.
Rectangular. Covered in felt.
I wouldn’t trade 18 years, or the 3 days. All of it, and
Dirk and Will
,belong to me.
