Lisa and I played a round of frisbee-disc golf today—let’s reminisce.

I love the ‘live performance’ of sports, how you must physicalise
discipline. You get this instant feedback that you have to own and
lean hard into. The being present to adjust, the internalised mechanisms of performance—the ‘liveness’—is the most exciting thing about sports. And, of course, the one who does it best wins—there’s a simplicity to it.

Being Sunday, the course was crowded with guys. Most of the groups were college teams of five or six guys. Since there were only two of us, we were playing faster.

I don’t like going up to a group of guys and asking to play through.
They always let us but we get these appraising looks—not strictly golf related—that you can feel. So we skipped around the guys and played open holes—still playing 18—they just weren't contiguous and it took a bit longer.

It was great to get out in the sun. The course was all rolling fairways, there’s no grass greener and no sky bluer. I came in 14-under (straight brag). I’m a little competitive, my ego loves to be placed in a hierarchy, and winning seems to give form to me, it’s such a pleasant and coherent narrative.

As we were leaving our escort Charles stepped away for a minute and a couple of Yale looking guys offered us a ride back to campus—which was all very innocent and chivalrous—to save us waiting for an Uber or something—I'm sure (we were all sweaty and looked like drowned rats).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘let’s run off into the sunset.. not.’
But I said, “No, thanks, anyway.”
.
.
Songs for this:
Golden Boys by Res
Fruitcake by Subsonic Eye

{For solo performer (mask optional). Lighting: warm, then cruel. Microphone optional. Heartbreak required.}

[Lights up. One step too close to the mic. She smiles like she’s survived something.]

POET:
I said I was shattered.

[Pause—look down, then up. Like you’re remembering it too vividly.]

And the crowd snapped.
I said I couldn’t sleep.

[Soften your voice here. Sell it. They love insomnia.]

And they nodded.
I smiled at the right moments.
Let my voice break on the word left.

[Yes. That word. Linger on it.]

Called it a poem.
Called it truth.

[Invisible margin note: Remove “pathetic.” You already said “poem.” Same effect.]

POET:
And it was—
mostly.

[Look away. Smile like a secret.]

I didn’t mention
how long I waited
for him to text back.

[In script: add something about refreshing Instagram. Delete it later.]

I said he left,
not I begged.
I said I healed,
not I still Google him sometimes
just to feel something specific.

[Optional: laugh. See who laughs back.]

[Stage note: Adjust mic stand like it’s his hand on your jaw. Let them feel it.]

POET:
I sharpened the metaphors.
Cut the clumsy parts.
Dressed the grief in short skirts and darling dresses,
and made her look like a woman
you’d want to cry over.

[Look devastating here. Not sad. Iconic.]

I didn’t lie.
I edited.

[Beat.]

Like any good writer.
Like any sad girl
with an audience.

[Margin scribble: Underline “audience.” Question whether you meant “witness.” Leave both.]

POET:
I know which line they’ll post.
I know where to pause
so it sounds like I might
still be heartbroken.

[Optional: blink back a tear. If it’s real, even better.]

So it sounds like maybe
I’m brave.

[Cut alternate ending: “So it sounds like I won.” Too desperate.]

POET:
But the truth is—
I want to be loved
perfectly.
Understood
accurately.

[Harsher here. Like it’s a confession you didn’t rehearse.]

And if I have to script my suffering
to get that—

[Pause. Look right at them.]

Fine.
Cut to black.
Cue applause.

[Lights dim. She stands still. Hands at her sides. Someone coughs. Someone claps. Someone regrets texting their ex.]

[End scene.]

non-reacting
presenting an acting exercise

— it’s windy outside.

non-reactors finding.
searching.
stillness in the storm.

Can I tell you a secret?

Sometimes my jaw hurts from
Smiling
So much.

The room is filled with voices, the din
Of a kitchen in the back of an echo chamber
And none of them know the way I ache
Because all I do is
Smile.

They don’t know—
They don’t know that I go home
Exhausted
From this constant, grand performance.

They do not know I am a liar.

I touch the fingers of the girl in the
Glass as I wash off the makeup and
Study the acne scars underneath.

reality is all that exists.
context is the curtain edge of
the proscenium.
the play is
you and I
performing every day.
ovations and uproar
are all just noise in the end.

Many laugh and many sing.
Many mouths sit agape with a cheek-to-cheek grin.
Fire swirls in the air as the acrobats swing—
Elephants weep, extravagently, with a tusk-to-tusk grin.

Amidst the cages,
Monkeys sit,
Faces pressed against the bars,
Rubbing their *******,
Dreaming of the trees
From which they would swing.

The freaks and the clowns sit amidst lurid lights
Applying their faces with a cheek-to-cheek grin,
Constructing their masks,
Aided by the conjure of the magicians,
Those who draw salt from the air and harbour apparitions.

On stage now:
Rotondo, the clown.
He dances, naked, with an ear-to-ear grin,
Rubbing his *******-belly,
Penetrating the mind of the big-top ring,
Shrouded by the coiling laughter of an audience who yearn for the lights of deformed suffocation as Rotondo, the clown, paints a new face and ushers in a parade of freaks and deformed grins.

Freebies
Look how happy the reps are
Eating the free pizza
Given by the client
Some reps have 1 piece
Another ate 16 pieces
Talk about greedy!
Free coffee was given
As only coffee went with pizza
On a call centre night shift
Plus Pepsi cold 2 litres
Wish it was drink all you can
Don’t be selfish now!
Think of your team mates
You're on the account together
Nobody will be left behind
Or so they say in training
When nesting is passed
And production starts
It's obvious who makes it
Right now enjoy the free pizza
Given by the client
The new reps are happy
Will it soon change?