I stretch forward, straightening my arms and legs out away from me. Pulling the muscles of my back tight around my ribs. My shoulders thrill at rolling forward after the long hours spent on my back in repose.
I try to catch the remnants of my dreams now fluttering away with the stiffness in my limbs. There were many, vibrant, colorful, but vague now in the gray light of my bedroom. One with three travelers - inexplicably catholic. A hidden fugitive pope, his Arman and Mo. I try to figure out why I've named them such, all I can recall is a joke in my dream "What are your names?" "Larry, Curly and Mo."
My travelers were fighting through a hotel in Southern Utah. I remember the place. I had been there. Where we had rested after horseback riding. Sore and exhausted we had snuck in like fugitives from the canyon and luxuriated in overstuffed leather chairs. I took in the wildlife stuffed along the walls sadly. It seemed evil to take such beauty and movement and harden it for all eternity. And my travelers were fighting that evil. Some evil, they were running toward the devil, now I remember.
I didn't stay dreaming long enough to see them through. I remember I was going to feed them country fare. The stuff my Dad used to put in front of us. Grits swimming in butter. Biscuits and gravy, chunky from impatience. Baked beans with fatback. Bacon dripping long after sitting on the paper. Food I don't eat anymore since my Dad looked at my 15 year old self critically and said "You're not going to be tall, don't let yourself grow sideways." I thought him a devil back then too. But now I live in a fear of growing stout like him. In life as in my dream I'm sure the devil won.
When I make a move to leave bed my cat stretches out like me. Her long legs straight in front of her, her back curved, her fur flat and shiny. She puts out a paw, tamping down the blanket in an effort to keep me in bed. I know all she really wants is for me to keep warming her spot. The sun is shinning through the windows and curtains, bright and promising. I can almost picture the green grass pushing towards it. The idea of going out as I am, in skivvies and bare feet, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun and the growing earth.
Finally padding to the window all I see is dying. The trees, devoid of their colorful leaves, criss- cross their limbs every which way. They don't sway and trill at the blowing of the wind now. There arms look mean, sharp. They reach out and tangle with one another, making it impossible to see where one tree ends and the next begins. Instead of letting the light through their canopy softly as before they fight to hide the bright azure of the sky. I can see it fighting hopelessly to push through the brown and decay.
I think of my dream travelers. How I left them to fight the devil alone, knowing the devil would win. How I left them hungry and with no weapons beyond my horrid jokes. Looking out on the world today I only see decay and death. I think of harvest, of empty fields and unfruited trees. I think of frosts and withered flowers. Of waste and then of wick. The promise of hidden green is impossible to me. The earth is decaying.
In a dead world it's hard not to see the devil winning.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Friday, November 09, 2007
Untitled
I woke up and my heart was beating. It was a bad dream but I couldn't remember what it was about. As I stared out at the dark of my room my cat made soft noises. She was having a bad dream too, mewling and whimpering in her sleep. I scratched her ears until she rolled over against my side, hugging my hand to her stomach. I lay perfectly still...afraid to go to sleep.
---
It was time to go so I scratched his back till he rolled over and I could kiss him. I kissed him quick, before he could cough again. He called me sweetie. He calls me sweetie, kiddo, cutie. All those names you can't stand until the right person calls you them. I couldn't answer, I just kissed him again and he coughed this time. Then he snored. He snores more now, steady and low.
---
I remember when we stayed with his father, before we were married. We slept on the floor. We had couch cushions under us, but I kept sliding between them and would end up sleeping on the hard concrete, waking up to the dust bunnies. We were smushed in a twin sleeping bag of green felt. His dad slept on the couch above us. We could hear him. My boyfriend gathered me up in his arms, placing his mouth to my ear and said "My Daddy snores like a walrus."
I giggled.
---
Driving to work and my car had a snowflake on the dashboard. It was warning me there would be ice. In my head I thought "snowflake!" which is what I say when I'm cold now. Outside it was sunny, but the grass was covered in powered sugar frost. It was pretty, the bright green touched with angel white. I wondered if this was rime.
---
When I was a teenager I did a play and told a story about rime. How Jack Frost would paint the windows with art of ice. In the play I was raped. I lay on the hard concrete floor and the boy slapped me over and over while I screamed. My father saw the show and sat in the front row. The whole scene he leaned over the boy closer and closer. Then I said my line and the scene was over.
---
I'm watching the rime on the grass, on the trees. I'm passing the fire station and all the trucks are out of the garage with their lights on. All the men are standing around in front of them, stamping there feet and rubbing their hands for the cold. They all wear short-sleeved shirts. On the side of the road is a pumpkin that has been dashed against the ground. It's broken and split. It's face is pressed into the asphalt. Later, driving home, it will be just a streak of orange across the street.
---
He calls me cutie and sweetie and honey and kiddo. Sometimes, when he's really sweet, he calls me pumpkin.
---
It was time to go so I scratched his back till he rolled over and I could kiss him. I kissed him quick, before he could cough again. He called me sweetie. He calls me sweetie, kiddo, cutie. All those names you can't stand until the right person calls you them. I couldn't answer, I just kissed him again and he coughed this time. Then he snored. He snores more now, steady and low.
---
I remember when we stayed with his father, before we were married. We slept on the floor. We had couch cushions under us, but I kept sliding between them and would end up sleeping on the hard concrete, waking up to the dust bunnies. We were smushed in a twin sleeping bag of green felt. His dad slept on the couch above us. We could hear him. My boyfriend gathered me up in his arms, placing his mouth to my ear and said "My Daddy snores like a walrus."
I giggled.
---
Driving to work and my car had a snowflake on the dashboard. It was warning me there would be ice. In my head I thought "snowflake!" which is what I say when I'm cold now. Outside it was sunny, but the grass was covered in powered sugar frost. It was pretty, the bright green touched with angel white. I wondered if this was rime.
---
When I was a teenager I did a play and told a story about rime. How Jack Frost would paint the windows with art of ice. In the play I was raped. I lay on the hard concrete floor and the boy slapped me over and over while I screamed. My father saw the show and sat in the front row. The whole scene he leaned over the boy closer and closer. Then I said my line and the scene was over.
---
I'm watching the rime on the grass, on the trees. I'm passing the fire station and all the trucks are out of the garage with their lights on. All the men are standing around in front of them, stamping there feet and rubbing their hands for the cold. They all wear short-sleeved shirts. On the side of the road is a pumpkin that has been dashed against the ground. It's broken and split. It's face is pressed into the asphalt. Later, driving home, it will be just a streak of orange across the street.
---
He calls me cutie and sweetie and honey and kiddo. Sometimes, when he's really sweet, he calls me pumpkin.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Blech
My husband was looking at a bowl full of tap water, destined for the fish bowl, and cocking his head from side to side.
"I think it's oil." He said.
Sure enough the water that has been coming out of our well had that rainbow-ish slick of oil mixed in it.
This house is my first experience with well water. Previously I used to think of wells as quaint holes, with a little brick walls around them, giving off buckets full of cool, crisp, fresh water. The kind of water you think about when you are really thirsty. The kind of water that tastes sweet and fills not just your tummy, but your veins, with life. Now I know, wells are a pain in the butt. They leak, they create swamps in your backyard and the water tastes vaguely of fish and mold.
The fish and mold I could deal with...the oil was another thing altogether. I invested in bottles upon bottles of water.
Today I was looking for just such a bottle. Our fridge was sadly lacking in chilled bottles of water and for some reason my line of new bottles had dissapeared. I realized I'd recently mopped the floor and could not remember where I had moved them too. But I knew we had more. We always have more. My fear of ingesting whatever else happens to live in my well causes me to forever stock bottles of water. I'm sure there is a small dragon laying eggs in my stomach right now. I am putting my faith in hydrocloric acid.
Off to the garage I went, me and my hatching dragon baby, and sure enough there was another bottle of water. It was nestled sweetly in a stack of winter tires, like a little baby bird. It would have made neat, semi-politcal art had I paint a face on it and wrapped in a baby blanket. Instead I hauled it in the kitchen and poured myself a tall glass of clean, pure, un-oiled water.
And took a sip.
Blech!! Ick! Ach! Blllllaaaaaahhhhh.
I dragged my tongue along my teeth, trying to get rid of the taste and figure out what was so familiar about it. What was that flavor? It reminded me of racing days spent watching cars spin around cones and leave sticky black marks. It reminded me of hours spent waiting for my car to be serviced. It had the vague feeling of that weekend my husband and I spent driving car after car after car and visiting dealership after dealership.
Then I figured it out.
"I think it's tire" I said.
Ewwww.
"I think it's oil." He said.
Sure enough the water that has been coming out of our well had that rainbow-ish slick of oil mixed in it.
This house is my first experience with well water. Previously I used to think of wells as quaint holes, with a little brick walls around them, giving off buckets full of cool, crisp, fresh water. The kind of water you think about when you are really thirsty. The kind of water that tastes sweet and fills not just your tummy, but your veins, with life. Now I know, wells are a pain in the butt. They leak, they create swamps in your backyard and the water tastes vaguely of fish and mold.
The fish and mold I could deal with...the oil was another thing altogether. I invested in bottles upon bottles of water.
Today I was looking for just such a bottle. Our fridge was sadly lacking in chilled bottles of water and for some reason my line of new bottles had dissapeared. I realized I'd recently mopped the floor and could not remember where I had moved them too. But I knew we had more. We always have more. My fear of ingesting whatever else happens to live in my well causes me to forever stock bottles of water. I'm sure there is a small dragon laying eggs in my stomach right now. I am putting my faith in hydrocloric acid.
Off to the garage I went, me and my hatching dragon baby, and sure enough there was another bottle of water. It was nestled sweetly in a stack of winter tires, like a little baby bird. It would have made neat, semi-politcal art had I paint a face on it and wrapped in a baby blanket. Instead I hauled it in the kitchen and poured myself a tall glass of clean, pure, un-oiled water.
And took a sip.
Blech!! Ick! Ach! Blllllaaaaaahhhhh.
I dragged my tongue along my teeth, trying to get rid of the taste and figure out what was so familiar about it. What was that flavor? It reminded me of racing days spent watching cars spin around cones and leave sticky black marks. It reminded me of hours spent waiting for my car to be serviced. It had the vague feeling of that weekend my husband and I spent driving car after car after car and visiting dealership after dealership.
Then I figured it out.
"I think it's tire" I said.
Ewwww.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Almost a Ghost Story
Part I
It was late summer. The little cherry colored sports car was made for that weather. With the top down the hot evening turned delightfully cool. The air was infused with the thick taste of cut-grass and night-blossoms. You could barely hear the buzz of the crickets and cicadas over the roar of the little miata’s engine.
Our little car zipped along cobblestoned streets, escaping the sleepy little town where our bed and breakfast was, headed for more lonely, more twisting roads. He was itching to drive, the car was itching to go and I was itching for an adventure. He took a turn northward and the faster we went the more I felt as though we were free. Delving into the back roads of the Pennsylvania countryside, leaving behind the sweet Dutch farmhouses and their cheery neighbors. As suppertime came and went and the sun started to fall dangerously low the roads got lonelier. It was just the two of us. Our conversation, started so chipper and easy - the kind of jabber that comes from being snuggled close in an unknown land – turned low and dark with the sky. We teased about horror movies, ghost stories: witches that haunt the forests, madmen who prowl for vengeance, dark houses that lure unsuspecting couples to their doom. And just as we started to giggle at our jests a building rose up out of the overgrowth of trees and bushes.
It was huge. Many stories tall, with wings that stretched wide either direction. At the top were turrets and gables, and each step down showed balconies and long hallways. And hundreds of hundreds of windows, all dark, all lonely, all threatening. It was an old resort, the chipping paint sadly showing how happy and chipper a place it used to be. The eaves of the windows looked naked without lace curtains. The lawn, overgrown and weedy, looked out of place without happy couple picnicking, happy children playing badmitton in white dresses and short pants. The big french doors to the lobby looked out of place without bellhops and butlers.
If this had been a movie we would have seen a figure in one of those old, dirty windows. A quick flash of a face or the brush of a skirt moving from room to room. If this had been a movie we would have seen lights flash on, beckoning us forward.
Instead a man in jeans jumped out of his work truck, stomping up the lonely stairway to the doors and turning on a construction light. Here too, the movie would have turned. The man would have seen us, come up to us sitting in our little convertible and warned us to move on. Not to ask questions, not stop here after dark. Instead we sat outside the gates and watched the old building in peace.
Driving on we talked about it. How a place like that ought to be haunted, ought to have a story. A grand old building still standing in the wild forests of Pennsylvania should have a history. It should have drama to match its weathered red trim and darken white walls. It should have a life. Motoring on in our little car we chattered about its size, how it’s such a surprise to find it amongst this little tiny road. We chattered so much we didn’t realize the sun was gone now and the road was narrower. We didn’t notice that the trees, which before lent a pleasing feel to the country, now leaned over us ominously making the dark summer night darker, more covered in shadows.
And we were startled to find on either side of us two small houses in disrepair. Unlike the large hotel the windows of these buildings were gone. Everything was dark, ominous. The walls leaned into weeds. The earth grew up around the houses as if it was trying to pull them down, swallow them whole. The wood was rotted, falling apart, the roof was sliding down slowly. The empty eyes of windowpanes were pitch, one could feel the hand of a witch reach out and grab you. Pluck you right in, never to return. Here there was no need of horror movie tricks. We were scared.
“Drive.” I whispered. I didn’t have too…he was already turning around.
To be continued…
It was late summer. The little cherry colored sports car was made for that weather. With the top down the hot evening turned delightfully cool. The air was infused with the thick taste of cut-grass and night-blossoms. You could barely hear the buzz of the crickets and cicadas over the roar of the little miata’s engine.
Our little car zipped along cobblestoned streets, escaping the sleepy little town where our bed and breakfast was, headed for more lonely, more twisting roads. He was itching to drive, the car was itching to go and I was itching for an adventure. He took a turn northward and the faster we went the more I felt as though we were free. Delving into the back roads of the Pennsylvania countryside, leaving behind the sweet Dutch farmhouses and their cheery neighbors. As suppertime came and went and the sun started to fall dangerously low the roads got lonelier. It was just the two of us. Our conversation, started so chipper and easy - the kind of jabber that comes from being snuggled close in an unknown land – turned low and dark with the sky. We teased about horror movies, ghost stories: witches that haunt the forests, madmen who prowl for vengeance, dark houses that lure unsuspecting couples to their doom. And just as we started to giggle at our jests a building rose up out of the overgrowth of trees and bushes.
It was huge. Many stories tall, with wings that stretched wide either direction. At the top were turrets and gables, and each step down showed balconies and long hallways. And hundreds of hundreds of windows, all dark, all lonely, all threatening. It was an old resort, the chipping paint sadly showing how happy and chipper a place it used to be. The eaves of the windows looked naked without lace curtains. The lawn, overgrown and weedy, looked out of place without happy couple picnicking, happy children playing badmitton in white dresses and short pants. The big french doors to the lobby looked out of place without bellhops and butlers.
If this had been a movie we would have seen a figure in one of those old, dirty windows. A quick flash of a face or the brush of a skirt moving from room to room. If this had been a movie we would have seen lights flash on, beckoning us forward.
Instead a man in jeans jumped out of his work truck, stomping up the lonely stairway to the doors and turning on a construction light. Here too, the movie would have turned. The man would have seen us, come up to us sitting in our little convertible and warned us to move on. Not to ask questions, not stop here after dark. Instead we sat outside the gates and watched the old building in peace.
Driving on we talked about it. How a place like that ought to be haunted, ought to have a story. A grand old building still standing in the wild forests of Pennsylvania should have a history. It should have drama to match its weathered red trim and darken white walls. It should have a life. Motoring on in our little car we chattered about its size, how it’s such a surprise to find it amongst this little tiny road. We chattered so much we didn’t realize the sun was gone now and the road was narrower. We didn’t notice that the trees, which before lent a pleasing feel to the country, now leaned over us ominously making the dark summer night darker, more covered in shadows.
And we were startled to find on either side of us two small houses in disrepair. Unlike the large hotel the windows of these buildings were gone. Everything was dark, ominous. The walls leaned into weeds. The earth grew up around the houses as if it was trying to pull them down, swallow them whole. The wood was rotted, falling apart, the roof was sliding down slowly. The empty eyes of windowpanes were pitch, one could feel the hand of a witch reach out and grab you. Pluck you right in, never to return. Here there was no need of horror movie tricks. We were scared.
“Drive.” I whispered. I didn’t have too…he was already turning around.
To be continued…
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Shocker
"So they're all trying to be sexy for this guy with the camera, but they're drunk so they're not doing a good job. So they start showing off 'the shocker' and they are so not doing it right."
Being a naturally quiet and shy person I often find myself sitting in the middle of conversations that have a story-like quality to them. Occasionally I get something out of it. As my current storyteller went on about instructing girls on the proper "shocker" technique, and the importance of the thumb, I cocked my head.
"You look confused." A helpful musician chimes in.
"Yes" I say "I've never heard of "the shocker".
Apparently, I am very funny. Everyone has a good laugh.
"No, really. I have no idea what it is."
Being naturally quiet and shy I often find myself in situations where people think I am innocent and sweet. Unfortunately, innocent is a barrier when surrounded by men who all know what "the shocker" is, but do not want to tell me. Or, as one protested, did not know how to tell me.
They tell me to ask my husband.
Now I have to know.
Eventually, after a long stream of cryptic jokes, mostly at my expense, some at the expense of the apparently all important thumb, one rogue felt brave enough to educate me. But we had to hide behind a set of pumpkins to do it.
"So...you get that this has to do with...er...some...er...form of physical...er...exercise. Of the, you know, the sexual nature."
"Okay." I try to look knowing and experienced.
"So, here are two fingers...you know where these go right?"
I blink for a moment. I realize that people may think I'm rather sweet and innocent, because I am. Already I'm a little shy. But I play it off.
"Yes, I can guess where those go."
"And you can figure out where this goes...right?" He says, showing his pinky with the two fingers and helpfully twisting his hand into a position just so.
"Yes, I can figure that out." And I can, but my mind is having trouble bending around it. On either side of my head is a pumpkin, the rogue is whispering conspiratorially, and the rest of the men have gathered around, all scrutinizing my face as I think. I speak before I think.
"So, in that case, what is the thumb for..." I pause, the rogue has extended his thumb and helpfully re twisted his hand for me.
"Ooooooh!" I got it.
"Don't worry." The helpful musician says "Your face only turned four shades of red."
Really...I'm shocked.
Being a naturally quiet and shy person I often find myself sitting in the middle of conversations that have a story-like quality to them. Occasionally I get something out of it. As my current storyteller went on about instructing girls on the proper "shocker" technique, and the importance of the thumb, I cocked my head.
"You look confused." A helpful musician chimes in.
"Yes" I say "I've never heard of "the shocker".
Apparently, I am very funny. Everyone has a good laugh.
"No, really. I have no idea what it is."
Being naturally quiet and shy I often find myself in situations where people think I am innocent and sweet. Unfortunately, innocent is a barrier when surrounded by men who all know what "the shocker" is, but do not want to tell me. Or, as one protested, did not know how to tell me.
They tell me to ask my husband.
Now I have to know.
Eventually, after a long stream of cryptic jokes, mostly at my expense, some at the expense of the apparently all important thumb, one rogue felt brave enough to educate me. But we had to hide behind a set of pumpkins to do it.
"So...you get that this has to do with...er...some...er...form of physical...er...exercise. Of the, you know, the sexual nature."
"Okay." I try to look knowing and experienced.
"So, here are two fingers...you know where these go right?"
I blink for a moment. I realize that people may think I'm rather sweet and innocent, because I am. Already I'm a little shy. But I play it off.
"Yes, I can guess where those go."
"And you can figure out where this goes...right?" He says, showing his pinky with the two fingers and helpfully twisting his hand into a position just so.
"Yes, I can figure that out." And I can, but my mind is having trouble bending around it. On either side of my head is a pumpkin, the rogue is whispering conspiratorially, and the rest of the men have gathered around, all scrutinizing my face as I think. I speak before I think.
"So, in that case, what is the thumb for..." I pause, the rogue has extended his thumb and helpfully re twisted his hand for me.
"Ooooooh!" I got it.
"Don't worry." The helpful musician says "Your face only turned four shades of red."
Really...I'm shocked.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Cellphone Blues
Crossing the cobblestoned street of the cultural center of Baltimore. To our backs rises the Meyerhoff. To our front the Lyric. All around us are gray parking garages and red brick rowhouses. A mixture of old and new. A mixture of the modern and the historic.
And the people too. Behind me are couples dressed to the nines. Suits, dresses, heels. Ready for a night at the opera. Okay, maybe just a Loreena McKennitt Concert. But it's at an opera house. In front of me, jaywalking over two streets and in front of a rushing ambulance a man in a polo shirt and khakis.
Oh no, excuse me. A golf shirt. Not a polo shirt. A golf shirt.
Behind me the couples hold hands and giggle at the oppressively long "Don't Walk" light, in front of my golf-shirt-guy talks to himself.
Oh no, excuse me. He's talking to his blue tooth headset.
I wonder what he does, golf-shirt-guy, that he requires his headset to be on at 8PM at an opera house. I wonder if he knows his ear is blinking blue. I wonder if he realizes he looks a little crazy crossing the street in front of a rushing ambulance, talking to himself. If he wasn't wearing a golf-shirt I'd be expecting him to ask me for some spare change.
And thus it begins. Before I even set foot into the semi-modern-but-made-to-look-old opera house I've caught a case of the cellphone blues. Blues because the cellphones burn bright blue in the dimmed light of the auditorium. All around me are signs posted. "Turn them off!" they scream. "Turn them off at the door" "Turn them off in the lobby." "Turn them off in the bathroom" Turn them off, turn them off, turn them off. Even the nice ushers, dressed up in there black tuxes with crooked bow ties admonish us.
"You need to turn that off" one says to the girl sitting next to me.
"It is off," She says, looking up from her screen "I'm just texting."
I think we need a new definition of off.
A man sitting below me defines off as hiding the phone under his program as he mumbles. He looks awkward tenting himself with a piece of paper, held over his face. I can't help but stare at him talking on his phone furtively in the same way I used to hide under my covers with a blanket and read past my bedtime. It's a weird correlation to make, especially since he must be in his 50's and I was 7.
When he turns it off he makes eye contact with me for an uncomfortably long time. I feel the need to whisper "You are soooo busted". Instead he winks at me.
The girl stops texting. The man stops talking. The lights go out. And in the crowd below the eerie glow of blue cellphone screens pop up amongst the dark forms. Like faeries, flitting about, impishly pointing to each offender and saying "Here they are! The naughty ones are here and here and here."
There is a weird pause in the darkness, a new pause. Once an audience could be safe in the dark, knowing that instantly the stage would light up and we'd be transported. Now we wait, as ushers run around and help to extinguish the remaining phones...as the first musician waits patiently for our full attention...we wait...a mix of the old anticipation and the modern attention limbo.
The show hasn't even started and we all have a case of the cell-phone blue
And the people too. Behind me are couples dressed to the nines. Suits, dresses, heels. Ready for a night at the opera. Okay, maybe just a Loreena McKennitt Concert. But it's at an opera house. In front of me, jaywalking over two streets and in front of a rushing ambulance a man in a polo shirt and khakis.
Oh no, excuse me. A golf shirt. Not a polo shirt. A golf shirt.
Behind me the couples hold hands and giggle at the oppressively long "Don't Walk" light, in front of my golf-shirt-guy talks to himself.
Oh no, excuse me. He's talking to his blue tooth headset.
I wonder what he does, golf-shirt-guy, that he requires his headset to be on at 8PM at an opera house. I wonder if he knows his ear is blinking blue. I wonder if he realizes he looks a little crazy crossing the street in front of a rushing ambulance, talking to himself. If he wasn't wearing a golf-shirt I'd be expecting him to ask me for some spare change.
And thus it begins. Before I even set foot into the semi-modern-but-made-to-look-old opera house I've caught a case of the cellphone blues. Blues because the cellphones burn bright blue in the dimmed light of the auditorium. All around me are signs posted. "Turn them off!" they scream. "Turn them off at the door" "Turn them off in the lobby." "Turn them off in the bathroom" Turn them off, turn them off, turn them off. Even the nice ushers, dressed up in there black tuxes with crooked bow ties admonish us.
"You need to turn that off" one says to the girl sitting next to me.
"It is off," She says, looking up from her screen "I'm just texting."
I think we need a new definition of off.
A man sitting below me defines off as hiding the phone under his program as he mumbles. He looks awkward tenting himself with a piece of paper, held over his face. I can't help but stare at him talking on his phone furtively in the same way I used to hide under my covers with a blanket and read past my bedtime. It's a weird correlation to make, especially since he must be in his 50's and I was 7.
When he turns it off he makes eye contact with me for an uncomfortably long time. I feel the need to whisper "You are soooo busted". Instead he winks at me.
The girl stops texting. The man stops talking. The lights go out. And in the crowd below the eerie glow of blue cellphone screens pop up amongst the dark forms. Like faeries, flitting about, impishly pointing to each offender and saying "Here they are! The naughty ones are here and here and here."
There is a weird pause in the darkness, a new pause. Once an audience could be safe in the dark, knowing that instantly the stage would light up and we'd be transported. Now we wait, as ushers run around and help to extinguish the remaining phones...as the first musician waits patiently for our full attention...we wait...a mix of the old anticipation and the modern attention limbo.
The show hasn't even started and we all have a case of the cell-phone blue
Friday, October 19, 2007
So maybe I'm a little tired
My cat and I are having a spat.
She seems to think my spot on the bed is her spot on the bed.
She also seems to think my glass of water conveniently placed on my bedside table is her glass of water conveniently placed on my bedside table.
She also has the crazy idea that my stomach was made specifically for her pillowing pleasure.
Kitty has no sense of "personal space."
Our spat came to a head the other day as I was wrapping up some emails in the office.
Kitty: meow!
Katy: What?!
Kitty: MEow!
Katy: What!
Kitty: MEEEEOOOWWW!
Katy: What? What? What?! What do you want?! Whatwhatwhat!
Kitty: Meow?
And just before I tear my hair out of my head -
Husband: Um, don't let the cat stress you out.
Okay, so maybe I'm a little tired.
She seems to think my spot on the bed is her spot on the bed.
She also seems to think my glass of water conveniently placed on my bedside table is her glass of water conveniently placed on my bedside table.
She also has the crazy idea that my stomach was made specifically for her pillowing pleasure.
Kitty has no sense of "personal space."
Our spat came to a head the other day as I was wrapping up some emails in the office.
Kitty: meow!
Katy: What?!
Kitty: MEow!
Katy: What!
Kitty: MEEEEOOOWWW!
Katy: What? What? What?! What do you want?! Whatwhatwhat!
Kitty: Meow?
And just before I tear my hair out of my head -
Husband: Um, don't let the cat stress you out.
Okay, so maybe I'm a little tired.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Twisted
It was a week of punishments. My hiking boots had seen the slot canyons of Zion. Trekked up the vertical trail of the upper pools. I had scrambled down into caves, over rocks, down into the canyon floor, to the top of the grand staircase. Driving over 700 miles across Utah, Arizona and Nevada was a mere drop in the bucket. Stones and cliffs could not stop me.
No, I am mountain goat! Hear me...bleet.
I had hiked all week. Explored every inch of the natural wonders of Utah and finally I reached the end of the trek. The final leg. The North Rim of the Grand Canyon was a mere five feet away. Just beyond the path was the great expanse of that world wonder. Just a few steps away, nothing compared to miles I had racked up in the days previously.
And I stepped.
And I tripped.
And my ankle twisted.
I had made it the entire trip with not a single blemish. I was healthy, happy. No sunburn, no blisters, no injuries. Not even a single bite from a mosquito. Heck, I hadn't even broken a nail! And now, now as I limped over to the edge of the Grand Canyon I realized I'd just been done in by an uneven sidewalk under a gazebo.
Now that's twisted.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Playing Dumb
I read an article a few years back in the NYT by a journalist who lived for a few months in a flat with Paris Hilton and her cousin. This was back before Paris became the red carpet party queen and apparently she was a rather clever, charming young woman. It wasn't until Paris saw the promise in the "blonde bombshell" market that she started to shorten her words and play down her apparent savvy choice of books. She got a stylish haircut, some great clothes and soon
became the girl we all love to pretend we don't know anything about.
There is something a little smart in playing dumb. Certainly Paris' persona is well crafted and that is no small feat in the media world today. I've yet to run into another piece about the heiress that was so favorable. The woman must have people running round the clock to make sure no one knows about the secret, smart girl who is running her own multi-million dollar business branded solely on herself.
I wonder how much time she spent in trying to find just the right amount of dumb that would keep people interested and not thoroughly disgusted. Where did the idea to dumb it down and bleach it up come from? And how difficult does she find it to be dumb? Does she plan her "off-the-cuff" quotes? Does she study old "dumb dora's" for inspiration? Does she sometimes slip and say things that show off her incredible insight into the business of Hollywood?
I wonder these things because I, like Paris, have played dumb from time to time. I used to be quite proud of my smarts. As a child growing quickly into a young woman I spent much more time attempting to impress the people around me with my intelligence than with my looks. I had it a little easier being the youngest child in a family full of people too smart for their own good. People expected me to be smart. And I didn't disappoint. First as the girl who always had the
answer and always had her hand in the air, then as the girl who always had to challenge ideas. I loved to debate. Even when I agreed with my opponent I enjoyed coming from a new angle and wrangling a topic to death. It served two purposes. It gave me a chance to stretch an under-utilized intelligence and it allowed me to find new avenues of knowledge.
But even though I was recognized as the "smart girl" it was always tainted with those small comments girls, smart or not, always hear. "How insightful for such a pretty girl." "You're very clever for someone so sweet." "Beauty and brains…don't see that every day." Of course when people say these things they mean them as compliments. But they damaged. I realized that often people saw me first as the pretty girl and that's what drew them to me. I could have been dumb as a post and gotten the same amount of attention. It was a strange thing to know I could bat my big brown eyes and win a debate without even touching my stored away arguments. But at the same time I couldn't keep anyone from looking at my brown eyes, batted or not. My
naturally shy disposition made me hate the attention more and more. And so like the girl who developed too fast I would hunch my shoulders and try to look as plain, and as a dumb, as possible.
So, slowly, like Paris, I started to play it up. Once I even dyed my hair blonde. That was one in a string of mistakes. The latest of which came last week when I realized I may have been playing my intelligence cards too close to my chest.
I am sure that Paris did not orchestrate her trip to jail. I doubt that in her grand scheme to win the dumb game she planned to get pulled over for driving on a suspended license. Perhaps Paris, this time like me, had played her smart cards too close. Perhaps there are disadvantages to playing dumb for too long.
Last week I was speaking with someone who I rather like talking to. In an effort to not be too presumptuous, or overbearing, I often pull out my dumb card in our quick conversations. I often will ask questions, sweetly, in order simply to hear his answer. Sometimes often when I actually know quite a bit about the subject. I often wait for him to explain things I already know. It's a shameless manipulation and I am sure he's well aware of it. He, unlike me, does not play dumb. Girls use this tactic everyday. I use it simply because I like hearing people talk and lately have been enjoying hearing stories float around me.
The conversation in question though had something to do with crocodiles. In an effort to be chipper and cheery I deferred calling the crocodiles killer move a "death roll", since death is neither chipper nor cheery. I think I referred to it as a puppy roll or something equally absurd.
"It's called a death roll." He responded. I'm sure he was trying to be helpful.
"Yes. I know what it's called." I snapped back. Less helpfully and probably with a little bit of a "well duh" thrown in for good measure. I'm smart, I didn't say I was mature.
"You know what it is?" He asked. You could almost smell his incredulousness. It seemed to me that I had caught him by surprise, not by my rude response, but by the fact that I knew something. Knew anything.
I was mad. My brain took his small little sentence and inflated it into something far more dire. How could he possibly think that I was so dumb as to not know something so basic? Hello, general knowledge question for $100, Alex. Perhaps if I had suddenly come out with the
mathematical formula for a water buffalo to escape a death roll I could have forgiven his surprise. But did he really think I was so stupid as to not remember a name? Did he think my head was all curls and no gray matter? I mean if I was that stupid how did I possible survive to the ripe old age of 25? For gods sakes, why even waste his breath trying to tutor such a moron. Why even take the time to instruct me on the term for a crocodile rolling over in the water. I
was obviously too stupid to be able to grasp such a complex concept.
What a freaking jerk!
Of course all that came in the first 5 seconds and I didn't mean any of it. The second 5 seconds was me angry at myself. (If truth be told so was the first five minutes...I am kind of a jerk.) How could I have played so dumb as to let it get to this point? Was I so afraid that he'd be frightened away by some form of knowledge that I allowed him to think me completely
trivia free? What had I done? What had we discussed previously? Had I ever let him know I was smart or did I play the humble card? How many times had I asserted my intelligence? How about my shyness? Obviously there was a big gap.
"I'm smarter than I let on." I said. "I play dumb a lot."
"Why would you do that?"
Good question. I've never felt more dumb.
became the girl we all love to pretend we don't know anything about.
There is something a little smart in playing dumb. Certainly Paris' persona is well crafted and that is no small feat in the media world today. I've yet to run into another piece about the heiress that was so favorable. The woman must have people running round the clock to make sure no one knows about the secret, smart girl who is running her own multi-million dollar business branded solely on herself.
I wonder how much time she spent in trying to find just the right amount of dumb that would keep people interested and not thoroughly disgusted. Where did the idea to dumb it down and bleach it up come from? And how difficult does she find it to be dumb? Does she plan her "off-the-cuff" quotes? Does she study old "dumb dora's" for inspiration? Does she sometimes slip and say things that show off her incredible insight into the business of Hollywood?
I wonder these things because I, like Paris, have played dumb from time to time. I used to be quite proud of my smarts. As a child growing quickly into a young woman I spent much more time attempting to impress the people around me with my intelligence than with my looks. I had it a little easier being the youngest child in a family full of people too smart for their own good. People expected me to be smart. And I didn't disappoint. First as the girl who always had the
answer and always had her hand in the air, then as the girl who always had to challenge ideas. I loved to debate. Even when I agreed with my opponent I enjoyed coming from a new angle and wrangling a topic to death. It served two purposes. It gave me a chance to stretch an under-utilized intelligence and it allowed me to find new avenues of knowledge.
But even though I was recognized as the "smart girl" it was always tainted with those small comments girls, smart or not, always hear. "How insightful for such a pretty girl." "You're very clever for someone so sweet." "Beauty and brains…don't see that every day." Of course when people say these things they mean them as compliments. But they damaged. I realized that often people saw me first as the pretty girl and that's what drew them to me. I could have been dumb as a post and gotten the same amount of attention. It was a strange thing to know I could bat my big brown eyes and win a debate without even touching my stored away arguments. But at the same time I couldn't keep anyone from looking at my brown eyes, batted or not. My
naturally shy disposition made me hate the attention more and more. And so like the girl who developed too fast I would hunch my shoulders and try to look as plain, and as a dumb, as possible.
So, slowly, like Paris, I started to play it up. Once I even dyed my hair blonde. That was one in a string of mistakes. The latest of which came last week when I realized I may have been playing my intelligence cards too close to my chest.
I am sure that Paris did not orchestrate her trip to jail. I doubt that in her grand scheme to win the dumb game she planned to get pulled over for driving on a suspended license. Perhaps Paris, this time like me, had played her smart cards too close. Perhaps there are disadvantages to playing dumb for too long.
Last week I was speaking with someone who I rather like talking to. In an effort to not be too presumptuous, or overbearing, I often pull out my dumb card in our quick conversations. I often will ask questions, sweetly, in order simply to hear his answer. Sometimes often when I actually know quite a bit about the subject. I often wait for him to explain things I already know. It's a shameless manipulation and I am sure he's well aware of it. He, unlike me, does not play dumb. Girls use this tactic everyday. I use it simply because I like hearing people talk and lately have been enjoying hearing stories float around me.
The conversation in question though had something to do with crocodiles. In an effort to be chipper and cheery I deferred calling the crocodiles killer move a "death roll", since death is neither chipper nor cheery. I think I referred to it as a puppy roll or something equally absurd.
"It's called a death roll." He responded. I'm sure he was trying to be helpful.
"Yes. I know what it's called." I snapped back. Less helpfully and probably with a little bit of a "well duh" thrown in for good measure. I'm smart, I didn't say I was mature.
"You know what it is?" He asked. You could almost smell his incredulousness. It seemed to me that I had caught him by surprise, not by my rude response, but by the fact that I knew something. Knew anything.
I was mad. My brain took his small little sentence and inflated it into something far more dire. How could he possibly think that I was so dumb as to not know something so basic? Hello, general knowledge question for $100, Alex. Perhaps if I had suddenly come out with the
mathematical formula for a water buffalo to escape a death roll I could have forgiven his surprise. But did he really think I was so stupid as to not remember a name? Did he think my head was all curls and no gray matter? I mean if I was that stupid how did I possible survive to the ripe old age of 25? For gods sakes, why even waste his breath trying to tutor such a moron. Why even take the time to instruct me on the term for a crocodile rolling over in the water. I
was obviously too stupid to be able to grasp such a complex concept.
What a freaking jerk!
Of course all that came in the first 5 seconds and I didn't mean any of it. The second 5 seconds was me angry at myself. (If truth be told so was the first five minutes...I am kind of a jerk.) How could I have played so dumb as to let it get to this point? Was I so afraid that he'd be frightened away by some form of knowledge that I allowed him to think me completely
trivia free? What had I done? What had we discussed previously? Had I ever let him know I was smart or did I play the humble card? How many times had I asserted my intelligence? How about my shyness? Obviously there was a big gap.
"I'm smarter than I let on." I said. "I play dumb a lot."
"Why would you do that?"
Good question. I've never felt more dumb.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Nap
It is one of my favorite places to be. This state of drowsy unwakefulness. This precipice between real unconscious and conscious. It's where my body sinks, slipping into the comfortable curl that I learned in infant hood. It's safe here, my body is safe here. The sounds of life float past my ears, the mumble of the newscasters, the roar of a lawnmower.
In a little while I will slip into real nap mode. My cat curled inside my curl, purring till she can't purr anymore. Soon we'll both be oblivious to the world, unaware of what is happening around our head and in our heads. Victims to dreams that will be instantly forgotten. In a little while I'll fall away from my body, not to return till someone takes my ankle in his hand and shakes me back.
But now I am aware. And not. Now my mind is open to the world, taking in all the stimuli it can give. I can smell the earth drying in the sun. I can hear the trees rustling against the wind. My house settles into it's foundations. I settle with it. Here I receive all information without processing. Here, between wide-eyed and relaxed I am filled without prejudice or thought. Receiving and sending. I pour forth my thoughts, my ideas. They fly past my eyes in jets of light. Potential bubbling to the surface without restraint. I can feel my mind, taste it, hear it, see it. There is something in here. Without my instant editing, questioning. Without the filter of speech or self-consciousness I see there are things inside me. I am not empty.
And my heart beats to my minds rhythm. My mind mends to my hearts desires. There is the future the past and the present flashing past me. My body is limp and willing. It is my favorite places to be...everywhere and nowhere. Where it is all possible and only possible because it is impossible to realize.
That's why it's Never-never Land. My favorite places to be.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Anyone want my job?
Recently some one got sick in our office, in a bad way, and it was blocking a major path way. Normally that wouldn't mean much, but when you got forklifts filled with food that have to go places in a certain way you need the streets clear. As our Exec. Admin came over to charge me with building a new traffic pattern she held up her latex gloved hands dripping in god knows what and asked cheerily: “Anybody want my job?”
While everyone else balked and laughed I could hear my devil self urging me to answer. I had the wicked idea of squaring my eyes with hers and saying in all earnest seriousness: “Yes, yes I do want your job.”
Because the only thing worse than being her is being her under paid backup.
There is some confusion where I work as to what department I work for and what I actually am charged to do. There is also some confusion as to how my name is spelled. There's actually a lot of confusion as to how my name is spelled. I never knew how much drama four little letters could cause. Well...four little non-curse-like letters.
Regardless, for almost a year now I’ve been straddling between three (or more) departments. My official badge labels me Marketing. My official paycheck labels me Purchasing. My official title labels me Procurement and finally my unofficial name in the office labels me as “report girl”. This is partly my fault. When I see something that needs doing I simply go off and do it. I suppose one could call me a swing. Because I am not really assigned to anywhere specific I haven’t been “formally” trained in anything. Usually I’m thrown some sticky problem randomly and I puzzle it out myself until the solution presents itself. Never has anyone sat me down and showed me what I was working with or why I was doing it. Often I simply play a game of guess and check until I have discovered the secret.
That kind of attitude gets you noticed around departments that normally lock themselves away in some obscure corner. I have a feeling that this is the reason why when the higher-ups start looking for cover for vacations and leave my name comes to their lips. This is fine. I have no problem taking over for people who are about to go on their honeymoon. It’s the least I can do. The problem is though, people tend to leave our company for vacation and never come back. That leaves me not as the “cover” for a desk but as the actual desk itself. And my desk is getting very cluttered with a backlog of work.
Which is why I am now giddy with the idea of my own upcoming trip out-of-town.
Or I was until yesterday, when I began to scope out people to take over my basic responsibilities. I felt like I had suddenly morphed into Andrew Speaker. Though, instead of a deadly tuberculi cough I carried product expiration reports. And no one was interested. Once I found one person to cover me, they’d realize they had to use a program they’d never played with before and they’d beg off. When I found someone who wasn’t afraid of the programs they’d be afraid of the math involved in the calculations, and again I was stuck. If one liked the math, they’d be loath to work with DP. If they actually worked in DP they’d be loath to do anything for purchasing.
It’s not as though I was going to leave them blind. I have this recurring nightmare that someday I will wake up with full blown amnesia, forget my name, my age, who I am related too…yet I’ll still know how to drive and I’ll still be expected to knock out a tax category void report. (I never said it was a rational nightmare). Because of this fear I write out lengthy, detailed specific “how-to’s” for each and everything I do. They are mostly guides for me to get my bearings on bad days, but they come in handy when I am trying to show people how to do whatever it is that I do.
And I have come to learn that I am the only person that does what I do. At least here. Yesterday, as I went to my boss for the hundredth time pleading “How badly do you need this report?” I realized that I would never find someone to cover for me, nor were there enough people for me to spread out the love work. Yesterday I not only realized I’m the only one who does what I do, I’m doing what normally takes a team of four people. For the price of one.
So bring on the vomit and blood baby, I’ll take it!
Anyone want my job? (Seriously? For like a week…four days? Four hours? How about my lunch break….? You wouldn’t have to do any of the filing…)
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Quarter Century
That's right: 25.
I'm another year older and none the wiser.
But for the first time ever I'm okay with not having it all figured out and planned. I like not knowing where I'm going to be at 25.5, 26, 27. This limbo is feeling pretty good right now. I am getting used to confusion and fear.
I like this place...and will willingly waste my time in it.
I'm another year older and none the wiser.
But for the first time ever I'm okay with not having it all figured out and planned. I like not knowing where I'm going to be at 25.5, 26, 27. This limbo is feeling pretty good right now. I am getting used to confusion and fear.
I like this place...and will willingly waste my time in it.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Eggshells
I'm standing in my hallway. The first step feels just as before. My heel clicks down on the floor, that reassuring sound of a step. Then my foot descends and I can hear the small cracks and groans of shell breaking. The ball of my foot swivels, grinding the egg shells into the floor, turning them slowly to dust.
And gingerly I step again. The floor is covered with them, my home is filled with them. Eggshells. Delicate white homes long since abandoned. They lay there open, empty, sad and lonely. A path of sharp jags and smooth surfaces. My steps are timid amongst them. I try to fit my steps between them, tread carefully, be silent. Still, they groan under my shoe and crack. Dissolving under my soles, coloring the black with telltale white. They threaten to cut me, then shatter under me. They threaten to bar my way, and break under my need.
The sound is unbearable. Disturbing, disgusting. Each snap makes the skin stand up on my arms. My pulse races. I can hear each little wall crumble and fall, dying a second death. The once comforting home for a baby. The small precious gift. So lovingly warmed, so gently moved. Then so violently destroyed.
I wish I was weightless. Made of air so I could silently pass through my home, escape out the door. Instead every move closer is a move louder. The shells splice open to more jagged edges, more razor sharp obstacles. The tiny sounds of soft shell breaking apart may as well be thunder. Every word is a crack, every idea I voice, every breath I make is the sky opening up and splitting my little peace in two.
And still I'm walking, leaving a trail of fine white power in my wake.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Bad Phone
A girls' best friend is her mother.
A girl's worst enemy...yeah...it's her mother.
My mom and I can be really close. When we're together it's just non-stop jabber. Attached at the hip (and now, as she gets less and less “mobile” we're attached at the elbow) we fall into the comfortable give and take of our relationship. I'm lucky that, as the baby of a family much older than I, I got to be raised much like a single child. I had Mama all to myself for a good portion of my life. We got to be girlfriends as well as parent and child, and that makes us incredibly close.
Too close. While we feed off of each other's joy in being close to one another we also feed off each others depression. It's a genetic thing, I'm sure of it. Like my long legs and my proclivity towards the creative my mother handed me her nearly debilitating depression. She got it from her Mother, who in turn received it from my Great-Grandmother. I'm sure if I went back a few more generations I'd find more women carrying this little demon in their hearts.
And it is a demon. It eats at you. For no reason at all it will surface and you can feel its tiny toes and sharp claws pricking at you. It loves company...and a phone call with my Mother is another chance to connect with it's demon brethren. You can almost hear their voices taking over through our own conversations. My Mother's need to guilt me into going home is almost as strong and my need to keep the demons at bay. I can't let them take over, she can't let me let go.
“Hi...it's me!”
“Hi! How are you doing.”
“Oh I'm okay...can we talk?”
“I'm not okay.”
“What's wrong?”
“I'm sick.”
“You've been sick my whole life.”
“I'm dying.”
“You've been dying as long as I can remember.”
“It hurts.”
“I can't make it better Mama, I can't fix it.”
“I'll never see you again.”
“I hurt too.”
“You're not here.”
“Next summer...next Christmas.”
“It'll be too late.”
And it might be. I can remember years ago when my siblings were planning their weddings my Mother would lament “I need my Mom.” Then I would point out that she was the Mommy, and why did we need more Mommies. She'd shake her head and cry. Grandma wasn't gone, she just wasn't coming.
Apparently keeping each other at bay is also a genetic trait.
But now that I'm older and am facing big grown-up decisions I feel myself start to lament too. I need my Mom. I have things in my head and my heart that I don't think I can decide on without her. I'm not sure if I need her to disapproval so I can, as a teenager, go off and do exactly the opposite. Or if I need her blessing, her “I told you so.” But I know I need something and I can't imagine it coming from anyone but her.
Either to let lose my inner demon and allow havoc and chaos to run rampant, or to swallow it down and make a peace. All I know now is that I'm lost.
And I really need my Mommy.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Brush Up Your..Staging
It took me awhile to notice. For a good long time I figured we were just getting poorer. But now...has anyone noticed that theaters are getting smaller?
Really small.
And it's a problem.
It's not a problem for the audience. Black box theaters (usually called so because they are black and often shaped like boxes) make for amazing theater. There really isn't anything quite as engaging as watching King Lear so close you can feel his tears on your shoes. The kind of give and take you find in intimate theater is palpable. Audience and actor as one. Those black walls have a habit of keeping all the nuance and emotion in tight, you can't help but be engaged with each and every character.
So intimate theater is a good thing.
But it's also a problem...for actors.
There are a few “first rules” of stage presence. Everyone is more important than the one that was most important, but just like with any art form, you internalize them into your “golden rules” and keep them close to your heart.
Don't turn your back to the audience.
Project, Project, Project.
Always cheat. (Cheating meaning to angle yourself only slightly towards the person you are “talking to” on stage. It's probably best not to cheat at cards though...especially when playing with the riggers.)
Your script is your bible. Read it, love it. Lose it and die.
The rise of more intimate theater has made these little nuggets less important. (Except the script thing.) In a smaller theater you can play small and still make a huge impact. Ironically you probably make a larger impact than you would on a large stage with an audience at least 50 feet away from you. I can remember playing an extremely small theater (a converted flower shop) and having to re-train myself not to do a ¾ turn out towards the audience just to keep my face forward. I was flipping all over like a freaking ballerina till someone pointed out that the audience was literally two feet away from me and would be forgiving of a normal ¼ turn in the proper direction.
In other words...forget the rules and move naturally. Which I did, and apparently so did most other actors.
At a recent audition in a large outdoor, arena based theater I noticed a lot of very well-heeled actors making some very amateur mistakes. Perhaps I noticed these because I myself was panicked for days before the audition that I would forget them. I had no idea if I could project anymore. And if I could would I just sound like I was yelling my lines with no inflection or feeling? Would I turn into the actor I was when I was five and just beginning. That tiny kid who stood on those big stages and was told to “sell it to the man in Russia?” I was scared. Which made the fact that all these other actors were making the same mistakes seem that much more shocking. I literally felt like taking each and every one of them and turning their hips forward. “Look out! Look out!” I heard my theater instructor yell. “Cheat! Cheat! Don't let him upstage you!!!”
When I finally got on that stage it came flooding back. My body stood right where it needed to be and did just what it was supposed too. I felt those words bubble up from my stomach and boom out past the trees. That man in Russia spilled his tea. It was a testament to all those years and years of training and tears that I could easily slip into “big theater mode.” You just need to rely on your knowledge to get you through.
And I did. And I got through. And I got the part.
But I realize that a lot of the other actors, far more experienced in work than I, probably did not train in a big theater at all. How many proscenium arches have you seen in college lately? When was the last time you saw a raked stage? Have you ever seen a raked stage?
Probably not.
And that's okay. Intimate theater is good. It's challenging and hard. It puts the strain on actors and audience alike. There's a lot of work to be done to keep your character real and tangible in a small theater.
But it just doesn't prepare you to learn stage technique. There is no point to those big gestures and large movements. And it's really to the detriment of actors. If you're not training these little tricks of the trade into your body now you'll waste a lot of time re-learning later.
And unfortunately, actors who waste time learning to cheat will cheat an audience out of a well-rehearsed play.
Monday, May 07, 2007
PEZ
For Easter I thought it would be cute to get the husband a PEZ Dispenser with a cute green racing helmet. I was lured by all those happy childhood memories of PEZ Dispensers in my stockings and baskets. Promising long happy hours (okay minutes) pulling pressed sugar goodness from out of Snoopy's mangled neck.
I love PEZ.
Or I thought I did. Perhaps my parents filled them all up before doling them out. Or perhaps my child-sized fingers simply had an easier time holding onto those tiny nuggets. Whatever it is, I find that now, when I have come to trust and rely on my excellent hand-eye coordination and digital motor skills, I cannot - for the life of me - fill the damn PEZ head.
Surely this was not some simple oversight of my memory. Surely my young mind was not so easily swayed by that delicious sugar powder to so quickly forget the fight involved in getting the candy into that little stapler-esque toy. I hate to admit that I may have simply forgotten all this pain just for that simple reward of a little piece of stale, substandard confection.
Because now, oh now, now the candy doesn't even make it in. I need to finish off at least a sleeve before I can find the patience to make those little purple dominoes sit right.
Oh PEZ, you've done me wrong.
I love PEZ.
Or I thought I did. Perhaps my parents filled them all up before doling them out. Or perhaps my child-sized fingers simply had an easier time holding onto those tiny nuggets. Whatever it is, I find that now, when I have come to trust and rely on my excellent hand-eye coordination and digital motor skills, I cannot - for the life of me - fill the damn PEZ head.
Surely this was not some simple oversight of my memory. Surely my young mind was not so easily swayed by that delicious sugar powder to so quickly forget the fight involved in getting the candy into that little stapler-esque toy. I hate to admit that I may have simply forgotten all this pain just for that simple reward of a little piece of stale, substandard confection.
Because now, oh now, now the candy doesn't even make it in. I need to finish off at least a sleeve before I can find the patience to make those little purple dominoes sit right.
Oh PEZ, you've done me wrong.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
How NOT to celebrate Admin Professionals Day
The first time a "Manager" who is a "Very Important Person" (it says so on his t-shirt) comes up and complains that his little report doesn't print right - it's cute.
It's cute that a man 20 years older than me who has been working in this business for over a decade can't figure out how to hit the landscape button in Excel. There is a bit of adorable in a big strong man needing a woman to come and click his buttons. It contains a sense of ironic, a sense of humanity. It's a little funny. It gives you a giggle.
The second time he does it, after a twenty minute tutorial of the print function in Microsoft applications, while I'm trying to finish reports for people who actually -are- important (and sign my paychecks), when he's waited two days so that I have already forgotten about his dorky, dinky little report and am in the throes of preparing inventory for an entire division while fielding 2 calls a minute from two bosses:
Not so freaking cute.
It's cute that a man 20 years older than me who has been working in this business for over a decade can't figure out how to hit the landscape button in Excel. There is a bit of adorable in a big strong man needing a woman to come and click his buttons. It contains a sense of ironic, a sense of humanity. It's a little funny. It gives you a giggle.
The second time he does it, after a twenty minute tutorial of the print function in Microsoft applications, while I'm trying to finish reports for people who actually -are- important (and sign my paychecks), when he's waited two days so that I have already forgotten about his dorky, dinky little report and am in the throes of preparing inventory for an entire division while fielding 2 calls a minute from two bosses:
Not so freaking cute.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
More than a color
My sister and I never really got along. With the age difference and me being the surprise (and I suspect - unwanted) baby we never connected well.
My earliest memories are being kicked out of our shared bedroom and spending most of my nights on the couch in the living room. I always did like sleeping on couches though...
But this weekend I was surprised by how much we have in common. Like:
"So I was hoping you could figure out how it works," she said to my brother, handing him a pretty spiffy new mp3 player.
"This is my new one" I said, pulling out the new shuffle I was recently surprised with.
"It's pink!"
"I know, I have everything in pink now. I just started it all of a sudden."
"Me too. I think I had this mental block and then just like that..."
And then just like that I realized:
Hey yeah, we really are sisters. And we like pink.
My earliest memories are being kicked out of our shared bedroom and spending most of my nights on the couch in the living room. I always did like sleeping on couches though...
But this weekend I was surprised by how much we have in common. Like:
"So I was hoping you could figure out how it works," she said to my brother, handing him a pretty spiffy new mp3 player.
"This is my new one" I said, pulling out the new shuffle I was recently surprised with.
"It's pink!"
"I know, I have everything in pink now. I just started it all of a sudden."
"Me too. I think I had this mental block and then just like that..."
And then just like that I realized:
Hey yeah, we really are sisters. And we like pink.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Blogs on Blogs
I haven't been very bloggy lately. Well if lately means an entire season. I'd like to say that it's actually the season that has sapped my bloggishness. Like a bear I prefer to snuggle down in my cave of blankets for the winter and nap. Or in my case watch really bad TV like “Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders: Boot Camp.”
Unfortunately, my laziness comes from more than just needing to see that blonde fall on her ass. I've noticed that blogging makes me more aware. I'm always alert, ready for that next post, the next thing to jabber on about. I was always like that, long before “web logs” came into being. But the blog kept me sharp. I was getting good at pulling long introspective ideas out of short encounters with the grocer.
And then I realized – I really didn't want to do that. Not because I don't want to think, or because I don't like being introspective, but because the grocer is an asshole.
Okay, he's not. I don't actually have a real “grocer” and I'm sure if I did he wouldn't be an asshole. Maybe a little weird, but not an asshole. No, what I've been noticing lately is that the world really does suck more than it doesn't. And it's filled with some really awful people.
I hate seeing that. I hate admitting it. Of course C., smart man that he is, has been drilling that idea into my head. And of course I already knew. I knew there were bad people out there. I knew there were sad people, and cruel people, and people who were so desperately trapped in their own heads that they trampled over everyone in their path. I knew that.
I just didn't want to know that. I've been trying really hard to keep myself from admitting it. I held onto my self-imposed naiveté so long and so hard that now I'd rather not think than admit it was all a ruse.
I live a charmed life. It really is the best life. Life does not get much better than the one I get to live. And even so – I want it bigger. I want my little patch of happy to stretch out farther, further, to more places, to more people. I don't want the bad parts, the bad people, to interfere with my rose-colored world.
And they are. So I'm feeling a little un-bloggish lately.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Signs...
...that you're being a tad over-emotional:
When you see this "commercial" and burst into tears.
Signs you're hormonally over-emotional:
When you think about this commercial after watching a re-run of X-files and burst into tears. Then of course when your man asks "What's wrong" you get mad because he just doesn't get it.
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