I'm so proud of all of you. Not a single person said "fried mermaid"
yesterday.
As author Patricia Madson tells it, audiences at improv performances often shout out strange words in the belief that it's creative and helpful. But really, as she points out, once you've said, "fried mermaid," how much more creativity can you stomach? (Sorry, that's my bad pun, not hers.)
Instead, generous audience that you are, you gave me:
Poison ivy, treehouse
uncle, duck, chew
plow, stream, nut
gratitude, window, play
theater, aspiring, light
Each of them lovely words, each worthy of an entire post. My instinct is to use ALL the words, and to dazzle you with my depth and agility in linking them together. But as sure as I do that, someone will add more words, and I'll be back at square one. Which, I suppose, isn't a bad place to be. It could even be the name of an improv troupe: "Square One...because we're always beginning."
I remember doing improv in Theater class in high school. The words my group received were: cactus, diamond and cowboy. (I think. It's been awhile.) We created a mini-Western, in which I, Polly Pricklebutt, the cactus heroine in distress, was rescued by cowboys who rode bucking black diamonds. There was a logic to it all, and snappy dialogue, and we got great laughs.
What I remember most, though, was the astounding fun of making something out of nothing. To say to the audience: I'm a cactus named Polly...and have everyone
believe me! No one batted an eye at cowboys lassoing diamonds and then mounting and riding them. I wanted to live in that world forever.
But I don't. I live in a world where trees that cradle the most intriguing treehouses sometimes have poison ivy curled around their trunks. How to get up there?
Should I cry "uncle" and duck quickly out the back, so no one notices that I tried and failed? Or should I chew up the scenery, crying and wailing, and acting my little heart out,
oh, woe! oh, woe is me! until someone comes to help?
I could plow up the neighbor's yard, plant a magic nut, divert a stream to water it, and watch over it day and night, waiting for a different tree, a less difficult tree, to grow. Then I could climb it and lightly step over into that treehouse, as cleverly as Jack in the old tales. I would wave out the window to those below, waiting for their applause.
But who would be there, watching still, after all those careful years? Theater happens in real time. This blog happens in nearly real time. If I post about improv or library cats or
gratitude, Google sweeps it up, and carries my words out, where other readers find them, before I have time to even catch my breath. Those readers arrive, bearing gifts, more words. Sometimes, the author of
the book you're reading even shows up. (Thanks for coming by, Patricia!)
I don't think there is such a thing as an aspiring writer on the Internet. We all just write and what we write becomes part of the day. What we write becomes part of each other. I honestly had no idea what I would make of your words when I began to write this post. Now I see where I was going:
I do live in a world of cacti, diamonds and cowboys. I also live in a world where there is poison ivy. And now, I'm going to speak up for that ivy, because I had it all wrong. The ivy wasn't a symbol of an impenetrable barrier; it was a metaphor for what spreads. Because I forgot that just because "poison" and "ivy" arrived together, they don't have to stay together. They can get up and find new seats. Poison, you go over there and be helpful, answering the phone at the Poison Control Hotline. Ivy, honey, I've got a job for you: think you can lift me up---up there?
Oh! look! I did use all the words---showy, showy me---and I'm right where I want to be, in the ivy-covered treehouse, with all my friends. Let's put up a sign and spread the word:
Come and play.
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