Stupid Girls

Thursday, June 24, 2004


You are reading

repost You are reading

The computer's on line. I have work PILED UP! LOL

I bought someone a cup of ginger tea, to celebrate. Circling, circling...who are you? Can I trust you? Do you see me? Do I see you? Celebrate with me!

I need to write a script for Radio Theater. I need to write a script about Marianna Dengler. With music by Copeland, Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel...and a little South Pacific, thrown in for schmaltz.

I'll need to email her husband. I need to email her girls. I need to do this RIGHT!

I'll need to get some voices, to act it out. One woman I know has a voice very similar to Mariana's.

Nobody has a voice like Marianna's. I can hear it as I write. Oh, I miss her!

My advisor is getting in to playing Secret Santa now. He showed up to tinker with the computer today.

He laughed at what I've changed: dayglow window headers, cursor shaped like a mouse, picture of my scooter for wallpaper, psychodelic maze for screensaver, large fonts, large icons arranged around the scooter, cheerful sound effects....

Soon, CDs appeared from nowhere: work for me to do.

He explained the tasks....and offered to pay me a nice chunk o' change. Good lord!

I have plenty of time; I'll start tomorrow.

I walked him out. He leaned on his car and pursed his lips, trying not to smile.

He asked of which of my produced pieces I was the proudest.

I said I didn't know, but that my Memorial Day apology to Viet Nam Vets seemed to have gotten the most response. Why?

Because, he said, by the second week of July, he'd like to send it to some mentors he knows, who would work with me.

Pursed lips, casual shrug, wicked glint in eye: one of them is National Public Radio.

Well, I was too stunned to squeek. I was busy trying not to lose control of my legs at the time, and was too distracted by that to explode.

I wobbled a little, regained my balance, swayed at the hips to make sure my legs were still under me, made a slow piroette in the yard, latched the gate and sighed.

He got in his car and unrolled the window, watching me too closely.

I scrunched up my shoulders, hugged myself and said, "I'm trying not to freak out."

Large, toothy grin, "I'll see you later," and he drove off.

It took about fifteen minutes for the delayed reaction to set in.

I flew to the WebTV and emailed my tea companion.

She replied, "there's no place like home..."

This is an adventure.

Nothing is as it was.

If someone dropped me in the middle of Paris, France with fifty million dollars, I couldn't be more stunned, excited, amazed, thrilled, disoriented, lost, energized or giggly.

So THIS is Home!

My heros, as a young woman, were: Nina Totenberg, Cokie Roberts, Margot Adler, Linda Worthheimer and Linda Elerby. Back when NPR was young and not an institution; back when it was still experimental and naive.

I am at a threshhold. I have no idea what's inside that dark room in front of me. But it smells delicious and sounds captivating. A cool, refreshing breeze wafts over me and I teeter on the balls of my feet, waiting to go in.

Hard work. Useful work. Good work. My work.

Marianna, I'm coming home!