Openings. . .

—From EF—

I think something is starting to jiggle loose in my mind. Maybe it’s because of the piano. I took a solo day (as each of us does about once a month) to Salt Point State Park and stayed overnight. On the way back, I stopped at Portuguese Beach, put on my Teva hiking sandals, and went down to the shore level to check out my magic cave at low tide. I was overwhelmed by how powerful it felt to stand in the mouth of the cave and let wave after wave wash over my feet and legs, feel how the sand caressed me on the way out, and just be there in that place of power.

And then words jumped into my head. “Feeling good about where I’ve been.” OK, that was true. I’d had an exceptional time at Salt Point, visited the seals and had a magnificent camp-cooked dinner. But this didn’t feel like a random brain-bubble, it felt like the beginning of a song. It’s been years since a song has come calling. Very soon a second line joined it: “I didn’t always know where I was going.” Aha. I realized this was bubbling up from the memoir, which was nearing the end of a first draft. (Finished that today, first draft of Volume I of three.)

This is a strangely big deal for me, the possibility of a new song. It means my creative mind is waking up after a long Covid nap. Today while we were having our Sunday ocean picnic at a new site (a keeper), a wig-bubble splatted me. Yesterday, at our regular Oral Tradition poetry gathering, I recited a short poem by Jo Carson from her book Stories I Ain’t Told Nobody Yet. I’d recited a couple of her poems over the years, and the response has always been warm. Years ago I played the role of Jo Carson in her play Daytrips and came deeply into her writer’s heart, and suddenly I had a thought. What if I made a solo piece from these poems and called it “Diner?”

Jo had a serious hearing disability and had a pretty high-powered hearing aid. She loved sitting in a booth at the end of a diner, cranking that puppy up, and listening to everybody talk. That’s the feeling of all these poems: listening to real people talk in their own voices. Back when we were in Lancaster PA, I did a massive solo piece based on the poems of Pamela White Hadas, Beside Herself: Pocahontas to Patty Hearst, so I’ve been there before. I’d love to do this.

I have no idea whether we can start touring live performance again, but I surely want to do it if it wouldn’t mean a death sentence. House concerts are good. I don’t know whether we’d do book readings or perform or both. Jo left this plane in 2011, but I think her spirit just came to say she’d be willing to come along. Howdy, partner.        


Kindness. . .

—From CB—

I would like to be kind.

I don’t think I’m cruel, not often hurtful, sometimes sardonic or cutting, rarely ad hominem. But kindness is much more than absence of cruelty. It involves reaching out, sensing what’s felt and trying to ease it or at least acknowledge it—at least let it be known that you hear it.

My instinct is that of a repairman: see something wrong and fix it. That was my shortcoming the few years I was teaching: you build from the positive, not from knocking down the negative. I could get caught in that trap as a director, but the best times were when I was able to evoke something in the actors and the actors in me. My best times have been when doing interviews for public radio series we produced: just being able to promote the flow of people’s stories. Not to cure them or promote them: simply to midwife the voice.

I’m a very shy person, and it’s worse with age. I see few people, talk to few beyond “Sixteen ounce Americano, room for milk.” Facebook is a snare. Good that I connect with people I wouldn’t otherwise have an excuse for connecting with—being hyper-reclusive—but difficult in that it evokes my dentist’s instinct for going after cavities.

I perpetually get into hassles with people whose politics I agree with totally but whose language or tactics I feel are counterproductive. They seem to have no tolerance for anything less than violence: if you don’t counter hate with enlightened hate, you’re part of the problem.

That’s another conversation entirely, but I state it here because it traps me into a tone I don’t want. In the long run, I think it’s greater service to say “Happy birthday,” and when you can, to commiserate with someone, to say, “My heart is with you.” Even (very sparingly) to risk advice. To share yourself.

I don’t disparage Facebook activists, though I sometimes wonder whether their activism is confined to posts on Facebook. But far be it from me, whose service to humankind involves writing novels that few people read, to criticize ANY means of improving the human condition, or even that of rabbits.

My focus is simply this: how can I be kind?

One interviewee on our last radio series had founded a hyper-grassroots charity, finding ways he could make a difference in people’s lives (in other countries) with gifts of $100 or $50 or $5. He spoke of a frequent criticism (from friends) of his efforts: it’s a Band-Aid, it’s one family, it does nothing to address a world of suffering. Yes, he said, true, but for that one family, it’s goddamned meaningful. Words can do the same.

And a friend wrote a play that we produced. ACTS OF KINDNESS. And at our last horned-moon ritual, I praised my mate Elizabeth for her kindness to many—not something that came naturally to her but evolved over the years. Those words were themselves a kindness. I hope for more.


Conception. . .

—From EF—

  I’m close to the end of my current first draft of the memoir, which appears to have declared itself to be a three-part opus. Too many events have happened in eighty-one years to be crammed into one volume. This first section climaxes with the discovery that our dream of parenthood, after years of learning to accept that it would never happen, happened. Two years later came our painful recognition that the theatre company we’d left our planned academic career to embrace was not, could not be the core of the rest of our theatrical life. In the process of being rocked by that grief of separation, another baby began, born into the cold Chicago winter of our first year as a solo duo, and the rest of our life’s pattern was set.

 In 1971 we’d learned that Conrad’s faculty position would not be renewed, and quickly decided not to look for another academic post. The theatre collective we’d helped bring into being showed promise of finding a life, and indeed Theatre X had a thirty-five year run. March 4, 1972 was the grand opening of the building that became our theatrical home, the very public declaration that this was our committed path. That same night, fertility blessed our choice.

What followed was a local season of new work and an ever-growing roster of touring performances. Our creative work was the company’s core, but in order to be able to put full-time work into that very demanding process, salaries were essential. Salaries meant money. Money meant touring. We worked on self-promotion, and some college-circuit showcases turbocharged our efforts. At the beginning of 1974, we cashed in with a ten-week tour of Wisconsin, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia, and made a lot of money. But it was seven people and a toddler in a van for two and a half months. You can’t make new work under those conditions.

With one exception. In West Virginia, we made another baby.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about conception. What opens the gates? Our first time, it was in-your-face obvious. Our whole life together, up until then, had been single-mindedly focused on going as fast as possible toward the Ph.D. and the faculty jobs to follow. It was damned hard work but it was right—until it wasn’t. Being part of a collective that made significant new theatre cast a harsh light on the reality of academia: cranking out productions that lived for five nights and vanished, cranking out students with degrees and no work. We found ourselves willing to set sail into a life for which no Ph.D. prepared us, and once there was no going back, life said, “OK. You’re ready now.”

I was astonished. I’m still astonished. Remembering the doctor saying, “You’re probably about six weeks.” Remembering the quickening, bored silly on a ferryboat ride across Lake Michigan and suddenly feeling that tiny flutter. Remembering how it feels to have the milk come in.

And most of all, marveling at these two miracles, offering themselves just as we were caught in our lives’ most turbulent white water. Conceiving as we were reconceiving ourselves.


A weekly view of the world we
wake into every morning. 

Books and Media by
Bishop & Fuller


a historical fantasy

a novel of promises broken or kept

Blind Walls
a novel of blue-collar ghosts

Galahad's Fool
a novel of puppets & renewal

50 Years in the Making

A Memoir of the Creative Life

Rash Acts
35 Snapshots for the Stage

A Novel of Dystopian Optimism

Mythic Plays
From Inanna to Frankenstein

Stage Performances!


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