port.N.E.R.folio

One act stage play with live music, approx 60 min

(2 f identifying characters, one male identifying)

This piece of movement theatre has been a collision between explorations of Natalie’s work over a period of 4 years, and the discovery of poems by award winning poet Philip Schaefer.

His publication of Bad Summon (https://uofupress.lib.utah.edu/bad-summon/) came into her life through a mutual friend and fellow artist. When she read Philip’s work, she immediately felt she wanted them to play a part in her creative world, or perhaps she wanted to find a way into theirs. Instantly, their exquisite beauty, melodrama, and humor brought her inspiration and kinship. She was bold enough to ask if he might grant her permission to use his poems for a night of plays she was producing. Soon after, knowing she was not yet done exploring them, she approached him about using his poems as text for a brand new play; He said yes.

At its heart, this project is a tumbleweed that has been rolling for quite some time. The experience of grief has been a driving theme for her in art making, and her own personal investigations inspire play in the grey area where tragedy, love, and humor intertwine.

Workshopped and Shown Spring 2023, revival TBD

Workshop Cast:

Playwright/Choreographer/Producer/Performer Natalie Elizabeth

Director/Collaborator Corinne Hastings 

Performer/Collaborator Scott Dare

Performer/Collaborator Tatiana Pavela

Performer/Violist Nora Willams

10 minute play. Father (50’s) Daughter (20’s)

After a night of conversational tug-of-war, a father and daughter find their peace…as ‘the apple does not fall far from the tree”.

Pair of short plays set on a tennis court

(a couple who have been together for at least 10 years, a couple who met 10 months ago)

short film screenplay, 16 min

(2f)

Whitehall, Michigan

Two best friends in their late 20’s retreat for the weekend confronting new pathways and their friendship’s ability to ride the waves.

Screened at the Lake Michigan Film Festival 2023

Short film screenplay, approx 20 min

(2 lovers , 2 strangers)

Set in 1970’s Isques, France

Thursday is a fantasy of love. A romantic comedy capturing the “what if” of Joan and Ned, two outcasts who have found only one unconventional way to be together.

Short film screenplay, approx 15 min

(1f, 2m) Set in Manhattan.

Someone’s in love. The other, eats cake.

In the end, she couldn’t think of anything else. All of them were like falling stars. Their voices coming in and out, sometimes a whisper, other times a scream from the mountain top. Urging her to move forward, keep going. Then she remembered the word “go.” written on her left inner wrist. Shane had pressed the black ink into her skin before playing her Clair De Lune on the dusty piano at 1am. She felt like it had stayed there forever, an invisible tattoo to remind her what others saw in her; things she knew deep down were true but couldn’t access. At the time she felt zipped up tight, suffocating and tired of her own insecurity. Through the window she saw strangers passing on the street. They were holding hands; their jackets flapping in the wind as the streetlamps made halos over their heads. It was raining in New York City, but that night she looked down and saw no one rushing. The rain was sweet in her mouth as she leaned out of the window, her belly pressing against the iron balcony. For a moment she realized the bar could break and she could fall 3 stories down. She thought about John, and how grateful she was for him. At the party where they first met, she saw him across the room, he was loose and relaxed, much different than he was now. She noticed his shirt was un-buttoned and she relished in the opportunity to tease him about it. His ability to laugh at himself feels completely stripped from him now. She knew it could return, but when? She wanted his success. She wanted him to find purpose, like she did, knowing now how important it is. For peace. For direction. She knew every issue between them stemmed from his struggles to search for it. Lately his green eyes seemed darker. It was strange, they were a new shade of jungle green that pierced through her. It was only recently that he started to make her nervous. Suddenly, it stopped raining. She reached into her pocket for a cigarette. She just recently started smoking again. It disgusted her, but she wasn’t in the mood to stop.

Françoise loved to hear her voice, and made soft demands for lectures before bed, sometimes even in the afternoon. She wanted to hear the same story over and over as if to make it hum like a tune that gets stuck in your head. She did it willingly, enjoying the little performances she could give. She hadn't been on stage in years but instead passed her joy to the young dancers that lined up for her ballet classes and clutched the bar like spring birds. Their tiny tutus and baby swirl buns reminded her of herself when she was young, falling in love with the art, and always waiting for the curtain to rise. Now she yearned for something else entirely: To fall in love with being still. The sea called to her and the weekend in Vannes showed a new path for living. She was nervous to spend time with her girlfriend's family. Francoise swore that they liked her but she knew that her love of the French language was not enough to make her coherent, and she was disappointed knowing that the conversations she could have felt shallow and flat. She smiled a lot, she hoped that helped. It was easy to do as she was truly happy. That weekend in Brittany they all had lunch with a view to the sea that felt like being inside an impressionist painting. The reflection of the clouds in the water with bursts of red in the boats hovering above them looked like an edible dream. The bowl of warm mussels sent steam up to the sky and their orange insides matched her salty hair. The stone house to the left of the shore had baby blue shutters that reminded her of Francoise’s bathing suit from their afternoon swim. She had been laying peacefully reading her new favorite book Swimming Home, her toes like a zen garden brushing the sand. She wore a straw vintage visor with orange trim to keep the sun from her already sunkissed face. When she looked up and saw the love of her life emerging from the water she forgot for a moment she was human. Francoise was her new family. She loved how her tiny face fit in her hands, and when Francoise looked at her, she felt like the most important person in the world. She wasn’t sure if she could pull her away from Paris but she could see them settling in a small house with a fig tree in the back on the seaside. She envisioned mornings making porridge and picking from the tree with delight, afternoons sunbathing topless with the freedom she couldn’t find in the states, and in the evenings wrapped up in a blanket on the dock watching the stars appear after sunset. She was far away from home but felt closer to herself than ever before. She supposed that’s what love does; it brings you closer to everything. 

She woke up to the call of a rooster and the cows mooing, reminding her of when she was young and spent summers at her grandmother’s farm. Mary was a mean old lady who never had anything nice to say about her, and loved to boss her around and keep her busy with chores. She resented her parents for sending her when they knew she wanted to be at sleepaway camp with the other kids at school. When she came back in the fall everyone had stories to share about running down dunes, bonfires, and  jumping into the cold lake at 6am. What hurt the most is when they would burst into songs she didn’t know. Songs like “cold pierogies,” that were silly nonsense but filled with history, and when they sang them, they had a sparkle in their eyes that she could never have. She would slither away with her lunch tray and sit in the hallway alone, listening to the older students making-out on the other side of lockers. She couldn’t wait to grow up. She wanted to be in control, take herself on vacation, she wanted to tell people what to do like Mary did. Next to her, Bridget was snoring; it was cartoonish, almost like a whistle. You’d think she had a gap in her tooth the way the air left her mouth that way. She questioned whether she was doing it on purpose just to fuck with her. She tried once to hold underneath her chin to keep her jaw from dropping, but her arm got too tired and she resorted to ear plugs instead. She let Bridget make breakfast and pretended to like it. She always burnt the toast and wondered why the rainbow sprinkles were necessary. She was ready to meet the day with yoga, and afternoon hikes. She was happy to wear her bucket hat and rainboots and tromp in the stream beneath the house. This is why she rented it in the first place, this, and the hot tub. She still had the olive green bathing suit her mother gave her. It was old and worn out and was constantly riding up, giving her a wedgie. On the way down the path, she found the skull of a raccoon that enchanted her. She liked that this place was both quaint and spooky. She hoped she could pry that stupid IPad out of Bridge’s hands so they could truly disconnect but she was glued to it like a toddler with a Teddy Bear. So she wandered off on her own, checking back on her with an occasional “everything okay over there, babe?” She thought about Charlie, whether he was lonely in the basement. This was her first time leaving him down there so long. She hoped she left him enough food. She loved the way he was always so excited for her return. She thought perhaps, he was the only one that truly loved her. She had always felt so alone, and he was her first real friend, but also her adopted child. She had swaddled him, sang to him, and pressed him to her empty breasts when she was only just a girl herself. She needed the distance from home that weekend, but looked forward to twinkling the keys on the piano before seeing his sweet face behind the door. 

The gallery was full of paintings from children she had collected from babysitting over the years. She was struck by how they saw the world, and the use of colors that seemed so specific. She wondered if her own child would enjoy painting, what colors they would choose, if they preferred blue or yellow. Would they try to eat the paint? Every night she shuffled around the frames. She liked to hold them in her hands and developed an attachment to each one. She put the red “sold” stickers under half of them, and the orange “offer made” on the rest. She never intended to give any of them up. She realized the first time someone actually wanted to buy one, that she couldn't bring herself to sell it. She lied and said her assistant had made a mistake, and someone else had claimed it. She was losing money, but she didn't care. Bill Evans' Undercurrent  always played in the background. She never got sick of it. She loved the album cover with the woman floating in the sea with one delicate leg bent, mid-kick, creasing the silk of her dress. She imagined she was kissing someone at the surface, as her face was above water and her arms were reaching behind her as being struck by love. Last month she began to fear her dreams of motherhood. She felt old, defeated, and wondered if she needed to let them go. She didn’t know if she would ever find someone who dared to be with her again. She saw it like this, a dare, a dangerous act. She had lost 3 children already. She learned not to name them after the first two. They never grew as far as to stretch her belly, but they were alive, important, and every relationship died along with them. She never regretted saying goodbye to Ted, or Dan, or Neil; when she knew it was time to leave, she did it gracefully. She concluded that it was the men who made it impossible. They were not right for her, and that’s what killed her children. After that she began to pray for the first time in her life. She began to see God everywhere; signs from the universe, premonitions. They were clear, and striking. And that night Dream Gypsy came on the moment she saw him. He was the slowest person in the room. His black curls covered his face like a curtain and he was underdressed for the occasion. Memories flooded back to her of their childhood. She felt instant care and affection for him and wondered if he was what she was being led to. Perhaps he could be the courageous father for her unborn child. There was only one way to find out. She announced that the gallery was closing, waited for the others to reach the door and rushed across the room “David?!” She blurted out.