The Tempest

Suddenly I was on the subway again, familiar rituals hurtling forward as if nothing had happened. The neighborhood people less impressed this time around with my reappearance--Oh, you're back. Again. The cats felt the same. My make-up has worn off, the bruises fading more quickly now that the repetitive action has ceased, the curls allowed to run rampant, I've said good-bye once, twice, over again and over and over. The welcoming committee shot me in the mouth with Novocaine, bumped into me on 60th and Lex, left me with a broken towel rod, and some rotting food in the refrigerator. But I've been tossed up by the ocean before--forced into an underwater spiral, eyes drawn open by the velocity, my father searching for me, his heavier body scratched by sand. I came up to the surface and had a sip from my mother's Pepsi, and never looked at the sea the same way again. But always dove back in.

Precision

There is a traditional trajectory now, a physical response to the life at hand. A smoothing over of the skin, the rare nonchalance of a curl, a curbing of consumption, a piquing of wit. The body acts too, and in the stillness of constant movement a new lane runs forward and all around, like the automated belt at an airport, suitcase in hand, in heart, in mind, in form.

The Long-Suffering Only Child

My father persistently and frequently litters my mailbox and inbox with an assortment of letters and forwarded information, often interesting and entertaining or offensive and irritating. When they are of the latter variety they usually pertain to some idea he has of my (supposed) faults, shortcomings, or deficiencies. Most recently, I received a photocopied chapter from what appears to be a book about parenting. Chapter 13: Improving Emotional Control.

"In elementary school, children whose ability to manage their emotions is weak frequently encounter social problems; they may have trouble sharing toys, losing at games or sports, or not getting their way during make-believe games with friends. Kids who have good emotional control are the ones you'll notice can make compromises, accept winning and losing at games with equanimity, and may act as peacemakers in altercations with peers."

Suckers.

Biscuit, Aunt Stella, and I recently made the trip up to the 32nd floor to visit my Grandfather. The last time I saw Herbert I happened to have had my hair straightened for some P.A. and it seemed the shock of my hair having returned to its natural and wild state was a little more than Grandpa could take:

Herbert: Did you ride the subway like that?

Margaret: What do you mean Grandpa?

Herbert: It was straightened out last time--did you get on the subway like that?

Margaret: This is how it's always grown out of my head Gpa. What's wrong with it?

Herbert: It's very (long pause and then with obvious disdain) noticeable.

And then I practiced emotional control.

Libel

I scorned the weeks of rain last month and welcomed the rain that fell today, along with the temperature. A cancelled lunch date, a cat by my side, coffee and Hit cookies, and four blissful hours of Wives and Daughters made my cocoon for the day. Wives and Daughters is one of several BBC miniseries I've been watching this summer, having already gone through He Knew He Was Right based on the Trollope novel and North and South, which like Wives is based on a novel by Elizabeth Gaskell, an author I've been interested in for a while and whose writings I have never been able to finish once started. I got through less than half of Mary Barton though I can't remember why. I can't get enough of the dramatized adaptations--the Hamley brothers who send little bouquets of flowers to the young ladies before the ball (if I were a man I'd do just the same thing); the angry and surly Mr. Thornton, the proud Margaret Hale. Yes, sharing her name made me that much more attached. I can't help it. I've thought a lot about my name recently, as I deliberated on the domain name for the website that I've been working on. To include the middle name or just the initial--or no initial at all. My father wanted to name me Stillpoint. My mother's choices were Nora, Laura, and Anna, all of whom I'm fairly sure are also characters in a Gaskell novel. A search on Google for "Margaret Robinson Actress" found a curious posting on BroadwayWorld.com that includes one show that I was in as a teenager in 1994 along with several other Broadway credits of mine beginning in 1900 and ending in 1913. Further inqueries into my illustrious Broadway career provided this review from Feb. 6 1901: "Many of the other parts are well acted. . .the dainty prettiness of Margaret Robinson in her new blonde wig. . ." http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=9B00E6DE103DEE32A25755C0A9649C946097D6CF And yes, there's the Margaret Robinson who--like the MR who got to the MR at AEA before me--got to the .com before me. A bisexual Canadian writer. Never have been able to find out who the other me at Equity is. I imagine her a Floridian octogenarian, regularly sending in her dues biannually with a relish for self celebration reserved only for actors. . .