Charlotte’s Letterswas named a Second Rounder in the 2018 Austin Film Festival Playwriting Competition. The play also won the 2018 Henley Rose Award and the 2017 NEWvember Festival Dublin competition, among other awards.
The thing about juggling—what no one really knows—is that it has no clear definition. Not unlike some people. What is it, really? Is it art or entertainment? Reality or illusion? One thing is certain: you must never take your eyes off the balls, not for a moment. For if you do—if you look away, say, at something that’s coming at you…then everything falls.
Rodney (to Audience), Juggling with Mr. Fields
In twin chairs by the lakeside tonight we’ve watched day’s last light
spread like a bright blush over treetops past the point where cabins stand
abandoned, sealed against winter. In the middle distance the island floats,
fading. There alone the wild blueberries hang like unmarked globes over water
separating shore from shore. Why they grow there but not here
puzzles, like love or the coming bereavements of autumn, or rumors of empty, drifting skiffs.
For now at least the island remains part and not part of the unknowing night
as we are to each other island and mainland, ship and shore,
a familiar place; a mystery.
Anniversary, Exclusions & Limitations
I never understood the expression “heavenly bodies.” Because a) they’re not bodies, and b) they’re not in Heaven. Heaven’s a place we can’t see until we get there. If we get there. If it even exits.
She is making herself and not herself— anguish dressed in baroque repose,
a motionlessness that is never still, arranged, betraying nothing—
the restrained line of an eyebrow or lip, the arc of a neck, the skillful reflection
of a sleeve of the moon-white gown in the olive-green water
gradually assembled, balanced there in this unexpected moment,
this small world holding its breath.
from Susanna and the Elders, White
When I was a kid I had a pitchback. I’d throw the ball to it, and if the pitch was right, it would come right back to me and land in my glove. If the pitch was wrong, the ball would end up on the lawn, rolling away. Other people are like that, I think: They’re like a pitchback. You throw your stuff at them, and if it’s right or good enough, it’ll come back to you in some way, and you’ll be changed. Of course, sometimes someone steals your pitchback, or it breaks, and you don’t know where to pitch the ball. There’s just a mass of open air before you. So you go out, and get a new one. It isn’t the same as the first one— they never are—but it’ll have its own beauty, its own tensions, its own lovely form. And when you pitch to it, if you do it carefully, it’ll respond, and pitch yourself back to you, and you’ll know who you are. Again. If you ever knew.