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Rocks and BlocksSeptember 29, 2010 If Sisyphus had been a New Englander, the gods might have sentenced him to clear rocks from a quarter-acre paddock. If superhumanly vigilant and persistent, not to mention fast and blessed with fair weather, Sisyphus might have managed to produce a rock-free paddock. In that event -- or more likely as soon as it seemed that he might be down to the last few dozen rocks -- the gods would send rain, winter, or a series of freeze-and-thaws and Sisyphus would be back where he started. My writerly mind is like that quarter-acre paddock. All my adult life I've been clearing it of rocks, blocks, and other obstacles, but more keep appearing, over the fence, through the gate, and (most often) from underground. It's rarely that I'm not writing at all; I'm always writing, if only blog entries and e-letters. What I'm not writing is the stuff that matters. The stuff that matters takes a long time. Since Mud of the Place and the two really good essays I've written since then, "My Terrorist Eye" and "And Will Rise?," have gone pretty much nowhere, I'm just not motivated enough to disappear from sight for two or three years and work on Squatters' Speakeasy. (I've conned myself into working on To Be Rather Than to Seem by persuading myself that it's really a bunch of short essays or blog entries.) Last Saturday I went to the memorial gathering for Eileen Wilson, co-founder of the Vineyard Playhouse. I worked with Eileen a few times and reviewed many Playhouse productions; I even helped edit The Dogs of Summer, a neat book she wrote about West Tisbury dogs. The gathering was wonderful -- full of stories, songs, and even a film of Eileen doing a dog-related monologue. I've been wanting to write about it, but I haven't let myself make the time: answering e-mail, organizing files, or playing another game of Spider comes first. Writing about the gathering is this sizable boulder that's appeared in the paddock. Not far from the gate -- I'm not sure I could squeeze out the gate if I tried, and I don't want to find out either way. Eileen catalyzed so much -- productions, the Playhouse, the theatrical careers and other enseeavors of so many people, many of whom I knew "back in the day" and on Saturday saw for the first time in about 15 years. Most of these careers and endeavors are now going on off-island, and there's just about no one doing what Eileen, and Mary Payne, and Yann Montelle were doing in the 1980s and early '90s. Wintertide Coffeehouse was part of that scene, bringing people together and encouraging creative sparks to fly and catch fire. And now there's nothing. Just that big rock blocking, or maybe not blocking, the gate.
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