Those You've Known

My doorbell rang at 10 PM on Saturday. No one rings my doorbell. They text "Here" or they clomp in through the garage. I took a deep breath, prepared to see this person, but when I opened the door I was not prepared to see this person. These are the times I understand embraces. I could not stand on my own in a moment of such affection. It was this person who was the person who nearly gave my first roommate a heart attack by busting into our freshman dorm room with a bullhorn. This person who once sat quietly with me in a second story pension in Kyoto and spoke calmly about death and fear. Scents of blossoms and fish rode the fall breeze in through the window. This person is the same person who has held me when I have cried and once made me laugh so hard I threw up. That person was this person, and this person was here in this whole new world part of my life. "You can't take it with you," they say, but I have my doubts.

This song is apropos and incidentally so beautiful I am almost moved to tears listening to it lately:

Now they'll walk on my arm through the distant night,

and I won't let them stray from my heart.

Through the wind, through the dark, through the winter light--

I will read all their dreams to the stars.

I Will Miss You!

This morning on PostSecret there is a picture of coffee cups. The sender wrote, "What I would give for one more cup with you."

Oh, it is so true. What we exchange for quality time with people we love, and if we no longer could, THEN what we would exchange.

I would probably go into a year's worth of debt--ten years, twenty--to have another hour with you if that were no longer an option. Do you know what I mean? I'd scrape slugs off the sidewalk with a spatula. I'd smile and nod to consumers. I'd fold a trillion towels. I would if it meant a mocha, advice, affection, a genuine touch.

Strangers sharing the beginnings of a journey.

(I salute you!)

(God be with you!)

(I will miss you!)

In the darkness of the dawn--journey on.

Still Missing Muffy Very Much :(

First night of the trip. I was immensely sleepy.

A text exchange I screen-shotted for some reason at some point:

For besties, we have a surprisingly scarce texting relationship. Makes the ones we do send treasures.

And there's no one who knows and there's nowhere to go.

There's no one to see who can see to my soul.

Office Hours

Playwright professor today: "Well, you're a bubbling young optimist."
After I said, "Well, obviously there are multiple sides to every issue. If there were one clear right side, we would all just do it."
And he laughed, but not sincerely.
And he shook his head.
And I felt huge in his office chair, in his office. Not like my BUTT was too big, not like that. Like, "Oh. All my pieces are chipping off of me at a rate of a million chips per second? And this tiny angular boxy space is going to be, like, wrecked with chips? Like, soon? Like, I need to get out?"

I filled up my water bottle in the hallway. A long highway with all white doors. All closed. All belonging to professers. Not really. Belonging to a university. The one behind me had flyers for theatre business workshops, and there was this picture. A little drawing of a glass of water. It was labeled "water" and "air" and the text said, "It's technically always half full."

Spring Awakening

Saw Spring Awakening Friday night. I've had the soundtrack for years, but had never seen it staged. While I love much of it: the concept, the rockin' 90s jamz (Duncan Shiek what UP), there are some things I knew I wouldn't love about it. Mainly, MAINLY have been trying to avoid the line, "Oh, I'm gonna bruise you/Oh, I'm gonna be your bruise" since I first heard it in my earbuds on a Christmas road trip 2008. Woof. But, Ru was in a local production, so I went. Extremely satisfying. (And he was phenomenal. It's very exciting to see one of my artistic friends really making it.)

Thoughts Inspired By the Production:

-In modern times, people must understand their bodies, their urges--sometimes the two in conjunction, sometimes not. Either way, understanding leads to health. Physical and communal.
-Dancing is underrated. I am someone who does not think watching dancing is interesting. But, every time I see great choreography, I am quite pleased. If I as a "theatre person" attach this stigma to dance, consider the layman.
-I applaud Sater and Shiek for exploding out things that we all want to see. Things that are so obvious we didn't even know we all wanted to see! A poppy bunch of adolescents throwing up middle fingers to teachers? Yup. We all want to see that on such a base level no one knew to ask for it.
-I raise my eyebrows at Sater and Shiek for ultra-simplifying the relationship between children and adults in this show. If the point is that we must listen to one another, presenting a completely one-sided argument that adults are unfair and kids are the wise torch-carrier of the future is counter-productive. That's how generations end up feeling superior to the next in the first place.
-No one should want to be seen as unhealthy. And yet, some people do.
-If you play a snappy curtain call song, even if the audience was just subjected to an abortion-caused death, they leave bobbing their heads and smiling. Humans are horrifyingly simple to control.
-I don't care how much game gets talked about the non-linear narrative. Not having an ending to subplots is unacceptable.
-Overall, I've always been a huge fan of this model of theatre. Taking lasting source material and adapting it to current times in a unique and fresh way while maintaining some of the original oak. It's the perfect balance between respecting what has come before and respecting the need for progress in culture.
-We must go on to create a better world.

We walked into the night. Breezy and warm. It's been spring for months in the desert. But, it's official now.

The stars too, they tell of spring returning.

Dream 4.21

I was somewhere with Bisque, somewhere outside and somewhere work-y. Somewhere...not serious, but I had responsibilities. Like summer camp, but it wasn't summer camp. There was a huge cubby system with all these drawers. Drawers and drawers and drawers and everyone's things were inside them we were told. I suddenly had to go. I was in charge of something or doing some project, yes, but the drawers! Someone had to stay behind and watch all the drawers. Bisque volunteered kindly, and I was off.

And then there is a segment of the dream I do not remember, I was busy, but I do know I was aware, pretty pretty aware the whole time that people were approaching Bisque and telling him lies about me. But I wasn't there and there was nothing I could do. When we reconvened, he was acting strange and distant, like I was a stranger. And we opened all the drawers...but they were empty.

We were told, for the event, we needed to cross the street to a parking lot. I started walking, holding his hand. But he remembered something somewhere and said he'd meet up with me over there. We unclasped hands and I watched him go. I had a feeling he was gone for good. But maybe not. I'd just have to see. And then I woke up.

We had just been talking about dreams with Cobra the previous night. She was tipsy and recounting one of hers. She had prefaced with "It was so mysterious," but her tale of misplacing something was simple boiled down: "You feel you're looking for something," we said. She exclaimed (in good spirits), "It's more complicated than that!" because everyone wants to believe our minds are jungles when probably, we're more like potted plants.

'Til Next Time

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."--A.A. Milne

Interesting Dirtbags

Two weeks ago I was happily gabbing with Bug at work about, I dunno, macaroons or Lindy West or I DUNNO when a coworker who doesn't usually stop by the reception desk paused gravely in front of us and asked, "Did you hear about what happened?"

It's an off-setting question, but what was really off-setting is that this coworker wore a frown but was holding onto this, like, excitement. And she nodded her head slowly and told us about some kid in Texas who attacked his classmates with a box-cutter that day. "Oh," we said, "oh." And that was kinda all there was to say. I mean, great. Thanks for that? Coworker stood nodding a few more moments, added something like, "Just goes to show..." And then it was semi-evident to me, she didn't actually know what went to show where, but she had thrown out some introductory phrase, so she wrapped it up with, "...gotta be aware of your surroundings." And she shuffled away. And me and Bug, we nodded seriously because we're not monsters nor idiots and that's what you're supposed to do when a kid from Texas goes berserk with a packaging accouterment.

WHY DID THIS HAVE TO HAPPEN? WHY WAS IT SO IMPORTANT WE HAD TO BE TOLD? WHAT DID THAT ACCOMPLISH?

These are the things I asked Muffy today in the Arizona sun while we walked around my campus sipping Jamba Juice. Incidentally, Muffy is next to me watching me type this blog. She had some answers:

"Let me sum it up really quick--Don't write any of this. One is--[she notices me transcribing] This isn't gonna make any sense [laughter]. Okay drama. Um, what was the other thing? No. Okay, don't...[she gets frustrated with me typing her words, but I do not stop]. So, um, wait what was the other thing? Drama and, oh yeah! Power! They want importance, significance. They want to be somebody significant to the other person. You mentioned they wanted to be remembered with that event. Like, in connection to that event. Oh yeah, and then the last thing is that some people feel boring and they get excited when there's something exciting to share because they want to be seen as exciting."

That said, we went on to discuss how being boring and thinking others are boring is not only boring,  it's perpetuating tragedy! Because the more we get jazzed to discuss misfortune, the more troubled folk idealize that attention, and we totally play into it because it's not boring.

Solutions:

A. Recognize that the most exciting things are not tragedy. The most exciting thing is Love. That is not boring. We do not have to wait to be intrigued by disaster.

B. Work toward seeing others as interesting. Let go of the misconception that we ourselves or others are boring. "Imagine if you approached every person and treated them as if they're interesting. I bet people wouldn't end up...doing those things. If you're getting that sort of love..."

C. Continue attempting to find tactful ways to divert conversations surrounding tragedy. Not that it's always unproductive. "Sometimes it is productive, like with the gun control [post Sandy Hook], but the conversation should be productive or it should just stop."

Muffy sippin' Jamba

She doesn't know who I am and

she doesn't give a damn about me.

'Cause I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby.

Scared of Heights

"My stomach," Muffy said.
I felt my eyes pushing forward out of my skull.
The canyon was bigger than I expected.
The height.
My stomach lurched a little too.
Er--not my stomach. My...
lungs. Yes, the air--
yes, something about it.
Uh, er, there were--
too--
many feelings.

I felt more than I expected.
This is a place my father was when he was a boy.
This is a place that is one of seven.
This is a place I have now been with my college roommate,
my best friend, my Canyon Sister.
That is what we kept yelling in the car
that we drove
for hours
without any music
because we were talking
so much.
Bigger than I expected.

But everything looks perfect from far away.

Come down now, but we'll stay.

Sigur Ros (3.12.13)

Bisque took me to see the Icelandic sensation Sigur Ros. I don't know very much about SR. My first introduction was my junior year of college watching a music video that featured mentally handicapped people dancing to their music. First impressions, y'know?

Truly, I would describe the concert better as an experience. It stimulated all my senses--fog, a giant television screen with images and some itunes visualizer-esque film, tiny lightbulbs foresting the stage glowing and dimming in unison, and, of course, the incredibly instrumental lead vocals.

Photo by Bisque

I say instrumental because the vocals are what make the music the music. I mean, there was a symphony on that stage, which was lovely and all, but MAN, this guy (Jonsi Birgisson) sounds like his own instrument. So clear, so pure, so (for lack of a better word) pretty.

It was a big theatre, and it was filled filled, and that is saying something because you can't really sing along to SR. The lyrics (if not in Icelandic) are in a made up language mash that encourages the listener to interpret her own meanings. As someone who loves lyrics, this Hopelandic (the language) thing is not my jam. I own one SR album, and I use it as, like, studying music. If I'm bumping tunes, I want to be singing. Objectively, this is a fantastic concept, and I can see SR going down in the post-modern history books as a champion of Fish's Reader Response.

In terms of the lyricness live, I have to say it felt interesting to not be able to sing along at a concert. I've done it before when I just haven't know the words, but it was particularly strange to look around and see no one singing. There was a wild man in the middle of the theatre waving all his limbs around in a semi-religious tongue-speaking experience. So, maybe we just weren't doing it right.

It has been a busy week, and if there is a concert to see at the end of a busy week, it's SR. Bisque and I were basically lounging standing up. The pit provided room for a little dancing at a couple appropriate times, but was mostly filled with couples puddled on each other swaying. Every long day should end as such?

My favorite part of the whole evening was a song (and I couldn't tell you which, because even if I knew the album and track the titles are all, y'know, "HarvaheimmIceland" or whatevah) that was cool, slightly dark, mellow. The TV projected black and white waves crashing against the camera. There was something off-setting, uncanny about the imagery to me, but something attractive as well. In the moment I remember thinking to be grateful for the moment. I couldn't understand it, but there's nothing we can ever do about that.

Re-Thin

When my mother makes gingerbread cookies,
that dough is stretched so thin.
Partially because it's the one dough
I don't keep hacking gobs of. Partially
because no one likes a fat ginger kid.
Too tough. The front teeth sting.
The dough is stretched so thin.
I watch her--my mother--
work that rolling pin over and over,
she shoves her heft into the countertop.
I try to do it myself, but I can never get it like she can--
even though I'm supposed to be the spry one.
(Jillian Michaels, you know?)
Stretched so thin.
(I'm feeling stretched so thin,
which isn't new.
But I do it to fill all the spaces with love.
Real-ace love: chewy and substantial.
Fill all the spaces.)
You cut out a little boy, and you paint him over
with the milk brush, and you stick him
cinnamon drop buttons.
He's on the rack with his brothers. You pray
you won't burn anything.
Ever.
If you can help it. (Maybe even if you can't.)
The once-flat sheet is mangled with holes.
She smashes it
into a lump. Re-throw, re-roll, re-thin.
Re-start.

Stuck to You Like Glue, Baby

My dear dear dear friend Kath has been staying with me since Saturday. It's been such a wonderful visit full of poolside sunshine, root beer, and joooookez. If this were my high school Deadjournal, I would have a giant list of things that made us laugh that no one else would care about. So, instead, a couple of the best ideas:

-See the person you want to see!

-We (and others) do things for good and bad reasons, but give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

-It's okay to support friends but not okay to have projects.

-The most important thing is Trying to Be Good. You might hem and haw, but, like, if you look down at your feet and you're on a path of Trying to Be Good, you're doin' alright.

-Be happy. You won't regret being happy.

She like tannin', I like stayin' in.
She like romancin', I like rollin' with friends.
She said I'm caged in, I think her conscious is.
She watchin' that oxygen, I'm watchin' ESPN.

Texts from Dizz

ME: Meanwhile, I'm making Easter S'mores.
        (Insert photo of a Peep with a Cadberry mini egg on it's face.)
DIZZ: That looks so disgusting.
DIZZ: None of that is real food.
ME: Says the girl who used to eat dry cocoa powder by the cup.
DIZZ: #judging #judgingsomeoneforjudgingisstilljudging

Dizz and her husband. December.

And if the whole world's singing your songs,
and all of your paintings have been hung,
just remember what was yours is everyone's from now on.

From Inside the Hive (Some Things That Are Good to Remember)

I cannot take every opportunity I am given.
Comfort is not guaranteed. It is a bonus.
I can't make people know I love them.
The hard questions are soil.
There must be time allotted for stillness.
Being judgmental of someone for being judgmental still counts as being judgmental.
There is no competition. We will all die.

Smithfield, VA. 2012.

A Photo I Wish I Had

Ro and I sitting on my front porch at night. A basket between us. Cartoon chicks on the edges. Pink handle. She's smoking a cigarette. I'm nibbling at a tiny coated peanut butter egg.

(Insert.)

Take No Prisoners

"Nothing

can be taken

from a person

who wishes to acquire nothing

but the simple joy

of knowing where they stand

and why."

-Andrew McMahon