Every Saturday night we have a family film. Usually the kids pick the film and we have to watch some kind of Tinkerbell adventure but last week I convinced everyone that it would be a good idea to watch Into the Woods. I’ve always loved the show so I was exited to watch the film and for the most part everyone enjoyed it although my wee girl fell asleep before we got to the end, it’s a rather long affair.
Mostly I love the integration of all the different fairy tale characters, I want to be Little Red Riding Hood, she gets to eat a lot of cakes, but I did once attempt to learn Cinderella’s song for a musical theatre class I was in. Anyone who has ever tried to sing Sondheim will probably understand when I say that I epically failed. The song was just too hard for me, the words to tongue twisty and the melody too strange to stick. In the end I cut Cinderella and replaced her with a Tori Amos song although in retrospect I am not sure she’s all that much easier to sing! Still the song seemed to be a better fit for me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about things that fit this week, or rather the things that don’t fit. Most of the time I feel like the latter, a thing that does not fit. I am the ugly step sister’s too big toe trying to cram its way into the slipper as pure as gold. And just like the too big toe I can’t seem to squeeze myself into the shoe.
I am guilty of the romantic idea that we are all here to do some kind of work that is as unique to us as we are to the world. My head tells me this is a kind of new age foolishness but my heart still believes in it much the same way as I still more excited on Christmas Eve than the kids. So I believe in this magic idea of work I am meant to be doing which would be fine, if I could figure out what my work is, by which I mean what my place in the world is, what I am actually here to do.
Writing wise there is nothing new to report, I do my draft each day, I have a book full of drafts, I read a few poems each day and that is it. Perhaps over the summer I will sort a few of them out, perhaps I won’t. I doubt it matters all that much, I just want to feel happy, I shall see what emerges, see what fits. Maybe the shoe that fits is just a story, maybe the shoe that fits isn’t what we imagine it to be. Sometimes when we get somewhere it’s not what we expect anyway, we end up running back to the woods like Sondheim’s Cinderella. In the end she wanders off with the Baker, Jack and Little Red She finds a new place to fit. I’d settle for that, I don’t need a golden shoe, no one really does, a motley crew of misplaced characters will do nicely.