thankful 4 the owl

Was on the balcony, ruminating. The marathon was over, so I finally let it happen. I'd been repressing, hm, everything since I don't know when. In some ways September 9th, the closed reading. I felt accomplished already once we'd finished, I walked around the block alone, and I started gathering the binders. But then MS had to walk across the circle and grab my wrist. She had to say, "I think you'd make a great ____." She said it winkingly--but also a little brave.

But so many other things happened from then until now. A wedding bus with the bride's parents and little else. Visiting the marshmallow, taking her to The Cheesecake Factory and Walgreens. The Deal. The Rep. The Last Breakfast. Lady Gaga. Karaoke with the gals.

Certainly, certainly, though, I've repressed It All since rehearsals began in The Space. November 10th. That was after weeks of rewrites and wandering around Michaels for props and buying the chime block from Guitar Center and commissioning the wands. Anyway, the point being, I'm aware I simply banished any bodily need for a week straight. And then what happened is I slowly slogged through the adrenaline from performing and eventually, suddenly, my entire body collapsed. This happened to be at Hearst Castle.

Luckily after an emergency Diet Pepsi and bag of salt and vinegar chips, I was able to continue on the mini vacation with gusto! And I was able to take in days of inn poolshine and fresh avocado toast and Sunset Boulevard ballads as the ocean blasted past. And then there was Sabrina Carpenter! Which required me to be a little lavender jumping bean. And then there was a brunch with my high school friend and Paranormal Activity downtown. Monday there were zooms and emails and a commercial deadline and a director meeting (feedback about the show). And THEN, at long last, there was the final thing on my calendar: a 6 AM zoom with the UK PR company Tuesday.

The meeting was very important and hinged pretty much entirely on me landing the pitch, which I did, despite having lost five pounds to stress. And what happened next! What happened next is I closed my computer and slept nearly all day! Shuffled out 4-5:15 and then had to lay down again.

But at around 10 I was on the balcony, ruminating. And then I heard someone else ruminating. An owl! With a very specific hoot. Hoo hoo h-h-hoo hoo hoo. The owl squawked it, so I mirrored back. A little later we repeated the song. I texted Puhg, "There's an owl hooting out here." So he came outside too.

For a long time there was silence. And then I saw the beauty take flight! It was kind of funny. Nothing swooping or majestic at all. Big white belly and thick feathers flopping branch to branch. Puhg missed it, so he stood looking into the dark a long while. Then he went inside, returning with the big black flashlight. "Let me see..." he said.

Puhg carefully aimed a beam at a branch and--! The owl! Was sitting right there! Big round eyes gazing directing into the light! We gasped. Very beautiful, very cute. "Hello!" we said! The owl blinked. We were waving and laughing. I got the sense the owl thought we were goofs. "Hello! You look very nice!" We called out. Owl could have flown away and didn't, which is why I think we may be friends. Puhg and I laughed and embraced and all the trees saw.

That's Showbiz

My most successful actor acquaintance in Chicago has always believed in me. I'm not totally sure why, but there are some people you barely know who just like ya. Sad was my first friend I saw on a TV show. She was in at all the big theatres--not constantly, but all of them--and she of all people was always championing me. I tried to become friends with her, and she wasn't interested. One fall I knew she was at a theatre near my office every day, but she never accepted a lunch no matter how many times I asked. But when we'd cross paths you'd never know she ignored those texts--always gushing. She set me up with an audition from her agent. She gave me a play by play of every moment of the future fifteen minute appointment. She described the agent's hair and how she tossed it, what she'd say to me, when she'd follow up with an offer. Sad met me for coffee (with ease when it came to furthering my career) and went over my monologue line by line. I've never seen someone so confident, the glimmer rubbed off on me.

I lost some weight before the audition, got a sub for my classes, printed a dozen headshots, and I went to a weird part of Lincoln Park mid-morning. I was nervous about getting there on time, so I showed up too early and sat in a Nordstrom Rack for a long time.

It's obvious from the way I'm telling this story, I did not sign with Sad's agent. I never even met Sad's agent. I showed up and nothing was the way Sad described. She couldn't have known of course. But it still shook me. The agent wasn't there and not explained for. The two young assistants (?) called me in (late), took one headshot (and looked with distain at the rest of the stack), and lead to to a small room where I wasn't sure if I was supposed to sit or stand. They were wearing jeans and t-shirts and I was wearing dress pants and a blouse. One of them said, "Okay so...who are you?" I said, "Yeah! I moved here two and a half years ago. I do comedy--just got back from touring with S___ C___ and doing a musical show. I do improv at i_ too." Girl said, "Okay. Go ahead." I did my monologue, fairly well I think, but she only gave a pinched smile. Then she said, "Okay...um...read this." The other girl, who hadn't spoken, handed me a slip of paper with ad copy on it about macaroni and cheese. The first girl said, "Read that then deliver it to camera." There was a little camcorder nearby. As looked over through the lines, she talked to her associate. "S___ C__, you know who they just cast in their new show? [Name of an improviser who was TWICE very rude to me]! She's so funny. We need to get her in here." I read the copy into the camcorder poorly. The first girl didn't acknowledge I did it. She simply responded, "Okay sing 16 bars." I felt a wave of panic rise in me but nodded, "Sure." She said, "You said you did a musical show, right?" My brain had nothing prepared, so I started singing the first song I thought of--a song that I myself wrote. I didn't know if I sang more or less than 16 bars. The girl looked over at her pal with "woof" eyes, said, "You'll hear from us," and did not look up as I left.

I walked back out into the cold day. It had been ten minutes that felt like a million. I'd already had a little plan of where I'd go to get a celebration treat. But I felt to punched in the face I just sat down, right on the curb, and ate the diet protein bar in my purse. Four days later the company emailed to say they unfortunately could not represent me.

I never told Sad but she found out herself, which also made me feel weird. What was said? By who? She texted me we could do another round of monologue work next season and try again. We never did. And yet, I really didn't miss anything.

Happy Is What Happens

Yesterday I sat in the big fancy conference room with my coffee mug filled with the last of my Starbucks birthday card Macchiato and signed my name to contracts to literally work my dream job. And then, we rehearsed. Dreams come true are curious creatures. Is this the dream? The closer it gets in the first place, the less glowing it seems until for lunch you are eating a cold piece of avocado toast and highlighting haphazardly.

But I DO still feel full of something--zip or zest--that tightens around me. This was day two of rehearsal. I woke up early to run lines on the gym elliptical. I ate a spinach bowl. I answer emails furiously on the train. I laugh a lot. I think a lot. I try a lot. I wonder a lot. Everything you get you once wanted very much, and that is strange.

There's a kind of a sort of cost--

There's a couple of things get lost.

18 MONTHS IN THE WINDY JUNGLE THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF

The hardest part of this whole artist lifestyle I'm trying to live is not the pay, is not the rejection, is not the constant creativity. For me, the hardest part is the scheduling. It's not just about finding opportunities, it's knowing that once you accept them, you've shut out three other things. It's realizing you can't take any random weekend trip you want. It's RSVPing "no" to weddings and seeming flakey when someone asks you a simple question like "Can we get dinner?" It's having your planner open for literal hours penciling in which dates the show should be vs. when rehearsals for that other thing will be vs. when should you reschedule that one appointment to keep yourself open for that potential audition...and all of that is minimum two months away in the first place. AND every person who is working with you on everything and every person who is your friend are all doing the exact same hair-pulling planner-scribbling stuff.

And yet, this is the dream. Maybe its the part of the dream no one told us about and we couldn't possibly have guessed, but this is it. I was stressed about this project I have coming up in February and pitifully slouched on the couch. Bisque said, "I dunno why you're not happier when you just got CONTRACTED TO WRITE YOUR OWN SHOW AT THE S______ C____." And I was like, "OH YEAH THE DREAM I FORGOT FOR A SECOND THAT I AM LIVING IT." Tomorrow I am going to wake up and think, "Ohmygosh. How incredibly wonderful I have so much to do today."

Whiplash

-Whiplash was a perfect movie.
-The acting was spot-on, flawless, in hindsight looked hard but at the time so effortless and woven into the whole experience.
-I was captivated.
-I was scared and uncomfortable.
-I was concerned several times of sell-out story structure only to be surprised beyond my hopes for originality and meaning.
-We fail into what we're good at. We fight into what we're good at. These are both blessings.
-Playing the drums is way harder than I thought.
-Character development is not always king. Content. There's something to be said for content.

Leaving the Last Frontier

So. The final conference gala is in two hours. I've been here for exactly one week. My jaunt up north has cost seven days of my life and a couple thou from the grad and theatre schools' budget. What am I taking home? (A partial list):

-What are we ever taking home--a nice consideration.

-Transactions. Give the characters something to do. Move the stage.

-"Why is this a play?" is a good question.

-It's not hard to make it serious. Make it enjoyable.

-We know the end: we die. So, what's so important in the middle?

-I don't care enough about playwriting maybe.

-I don't care enough about having fun maybe.

-Get personal.

-A stupid idea, written well, is often better than a new idea.

-I can eat a lot of Cap'n Crunch if there is a Sex and the City marathon.

-You can judgit or you can lovit.

-React as if nothing is personal. It actually never is.

-If you don't want to be concerned, don't be concerned on behalf of someone else.

-Pretty much everything can be overanalyzed by some loser as a metaphor about gender in society. And that is me. I am that loser.

-Music.

-It might be beautiful objectively, but it's still okay if you don't like it.

-You also don't have to have a reason to have your taste.

-Or to be you. (Barf, but, y'know?)

-Audiences need some built-in discussion time. I believe this, but I'm not sure how it can happen.

-I need to perform periodically to keep myself unblocked.

-Feel guilty or don't about shutting down when you need to shut down?

-Say the real thing.

Proud to Be an American

Drones closed last weekend, and while I was relieved because I started to drown by the end of the process, it's typical to feel slightly sad when a show is over.

The cast after opening night.

Our curtain call music was "Proud to Be an American"--a song I've always despised. It takes me back to middle school when it played incessantly on the radio post-9/11. Even at that age I was skeptical of it's message. I have a vivid memory of hanging around a Poms competition and that song blasting through this giant gymnasium and all these people singing and clapping, and all I could wonder is "Why is being terrorized something to be proud of?"

I'm not anti-America. I'm really not. I love my country f'real, but the song is hokey and a bit unwarranted. Drones was about military ethics and, in my interpretation of the play, how screwed up they are. Our director chose that song kinda ironically, and I loved bowing to it.

So, while ten years ago a super emotional song did nothing for me even though it was linked to horrible tragedy, now, I will always feel nostalgic when I hear "Proud to Be an American" because it will transport me back to the black box in Arizona, waiting for my cue lines with Simba next to me making faces and scrolling through Instagram.

And I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free.

And I won't forget the men who died, and gave that right to me.

Major Life Update Two (of Two)

Did something I haven't done in years. I auditioned for a straight play. I read this play (Drones) last fall because I was on the Theatre Production Committee, and I fell in love immediately.

Auditioning felt like something I needed to do, but I was actually pretty scared. Not of being cut. I am swamped this semester, and it would really be pushing it to be in a show. Plus, it's not personal to be cut from a hundred person audition for a play with six parts. No, I was scared of simply...looking stupid. A fellow MFA (director) was in the audition room, and all my confidence drained right through the floor when I walked inside. I haven't been seen as an actor since college. Was I the idiot with no training waltzing oblivious to how not an actor I was?

I did alright, and the next night I got a call-back. Nice. I held my own, that's all I could want. Didn't look like a dope. Check.

Saturday I showed up at the call-back with five other MFA actors before undergrads dropped in on the scene. And I had a blast. Doing those scenes with different partners and getting direction and having A SCRIPT that I DIDN'T HAVE TO WRITE. Man, it was just fun. At this point, I'm like, "Wow. I've gotten more than I bargained for in this process, and I'm grateful."

Flash forward to yesterday when I walk into the theatre on my way to writing workshop, and, bam. Cast list up, and I'm on it. Holla holla, y'all. I'm doin' a play.

Remember the End

There's this concept in acting that actors are supposed to avoid at ALL COSTS called "endgaming," meaning thinking about the end of the scene or play before it happens. Acting is being in the moment--otherwise you're not playing a hopeful character who meets an unfortunate end, you're playing someone who seems to know her unfortunate end...and it will drag the whole show down.

I was told as an undergrad in acting classes that endgaming is best avoided in life as well. Like, just Be. Just enjoy what's around you. This is a popular societal concept for actors and non--the power of now and all that jazzercise.

But, sometimes, I think it's wise to remember the end.

Example: My dad was driving me to the airport a few days ago. We had left just enough time when, uh oh, as we pulled away from home the tire light went on. A leak! A pang of nervy shocked through me. We went to get air, and the car lurched over a curb. The tire just went flat, I thought. Mild panic. But, then I remembered the end. Catching flights always seems like a huge THING that has this power to ruin your life, but, actually, what would happen? I would just go to the airport the next day and catch another flight. Maybe pay a fee. I can deal with that. It'd really be okay. Then, I thought, "Yeah, but what if I had had class?" Then, I would have emailed the professor. It would have been okay. IT WILL BASICALLY ALWAYS BE OKAY. Just breathe, analyze why you're getting so bent out of shape, and recognize it will work out, be okay--maybe better.


Me and Pops on the Pacific. Last month.

My Heart

In other news, I am cleaning and organizing and packing up my possessions. I come across funny things like this fill-in-the-blanks heart from a doodle/activity book I had when I was 11. The instructions say to write in what takes up space in your heart:



Please note that in my 6th grade heart--

1. "The Simpsons" are almost twice as big as "religion."
2. But "The Simpsons" match "Britney Spears" in importance.
3. "Pork" is bigger than all three.
4. The "Rainforest Cafe" is comparable to my interest in "singing."
5. At least I had the decency to give "Mom" and "Dad" equal, biggish spaces.*
6. Nevermind "Acting" got the biggest space.

*My sister does not have her own space, but neither do any of my friends. I am guessing I went with the lump "Best Friends" to free up the spaces for the other important stuff like "Eloise" and "Boling."

The way that you feel could never be real,
I want you to know I finished the deal.

Alice in Chains

Yesterday at about 2 PM where was I? Oh, just chained to a bed in in a basement of a house I had never been to before alone with a middle-aged man I had never met before filming me.

Somewhere in Wisconsin, my aunt just got nervous reading that.

Here's what happened:

On Friday night I got a call from my improv producer asking if I would be able to help with a project he was working on for the 48-Hour Film Festival. I said, yes, I was free for a few hours yesterday afternoon, and I could help. He told me the premise of the dark comedy: a lonely girl keeps a broom as a friend. Okay, I thought.

So, then, an hour later (they're still writing the script) he explains I'm being held captive--hence the loneliness. Hmm. Okay.

So, then I show up to the location on Sunday. My producer isn't there--just a fellow actor I know and the director (who I don't know). I read the final script and am like, "Oh. Oh I see. So there's a scene where the guy who has kidnapped me backhands me. Hmm." Ad then we go down to the basement to see the set--a really really creepy room with a chain.

Oh. So, I'm also going to be chained up. Hm.

And we shoot a little, and then the other actor announces he will be doing a lunch run while I shoot solo scenes. And I'm like, "Cool. Naw I don't want any Subway." And then he leaves...and I realize what is happening in my life. Which brings me back to the beginning of this blog post.

Of course, everything was fine. The director was very nice, and we shot everything in a timely manner, and I left. But if anything HAD happened...man, would I have looked like an idiot.

Officer: So how did this guy kidnap you into this basement?
Me: Oh, no, I drove myself.
Officer: But how did he get you in chains?
Me: I put them on?
Officer: ...But at what point did you get worried when he brought out a video camera?
Me: I...didn't?
(Officer smacks his forehead.)

Now, to quell anyone else's fears, as soon as I realized that I was in a sketchy situation, I did make a plan of escape mentally, and I knew where the handcuff key was. But, yeah, life is weird. In other news, go see the film I was in at the Tivoli in the Loop this Tuesday night!

Changing My Ways

In high school, this guy gave me this compliment:

"Alice, you are a bag of talent."

One of the best, least-attractive, weird compliments ever, right? And he went on to explain he meant he just didn't get how I could be so diverse in my characters (from crippled sad sack to glamourous movie star--Glass Menagerie to Singin' in the Rain). And I went on to explain to him, "They're all me." There's only been one time where I honestly felt very different from the character I was playing. And that's when I was Mama in Chicago. When I was 15. And had braces.

Other than that one train wreck, I have felt close to the rest of my imagined gang. The fizzle of Lina, the sincerity of Laura, the dependency of Rosemary, the awkwardness of Ruth. But, here's the prob, Bob: I really do become them subconsciously. And, I know this is very bad for a person. Stanislavsky may disagree, but Chekhov would tsk tsk.

Lina made me cliquey.
Laura depressed me.
Rosemary made me hate men.
Ruth made me ugly.

It CAN work to a person's advantage. Being Dorothy in The Wiz filled me with wonder day in and out! But, such an effect is rare.

Marcy is making me incredibly bratty. ESPECIALLY during rehearsals. I have never been so annoyed getting notes as I am mid-Marcy. Dear LORD. I feel my eyes rolling and think, "STOP THAT." But, it's too late. The obnoxious middle-schooler in me is already out.

This is a habit I am trying to change thanks to the Chekhov seminar I am auditing. I will let you know how it goes. Because I am just waiting for the day I get cast as a serial killer, and suddenly, all of my friends with dogs are in for a horrifying surprise.

Shine

Manta ray from Monterey

Last night the eight actors tried to work our scenes in the hotel conference room. It was occupied by another bunch with the same idea. We waited patiently in the hall. Then, we waited. Then, we waited and yelled "DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG ITS BEEN?" to each other--hoping the noise carried through walls

The others weren't budging. We scuffled into the exercise room. Three machines in a teeny space. We each took up spaces--Stripes stood on the treadmill. I sat in one foot of the elliptical, others were cross-legged against the mirror. We did our scenes indeed. Two at a time in near the door where there was just enough space for minor movement. And they were real!

We crouched and bumped our bodies into the stationary bike, but we were all there, really seeing it. I believed I was in a bar with some bratty women, on the edge of Central Park Lake, the fugitive's home, and even in my own scene--the airport terminal. My husband came home without his arm. My husband.

I miss it.
I miss it.
Oh, I miss that feeling of feeling.

While the Blossoms Still Cling to the Vine

Mini Muff Wedding Cake, 2009

I can't be contented with yesterday's glory.
I can't live on promises winter and spring.
Today is my moment and now is my story.
I'll laugh and I'll cry and I'll sing.

Here's One

This morning I saw that it was snowing, and my knee-jerk reaction was crawling back into bed and pressing fast forward. BUT I am a happy person now! Things are going well for me! I need to stop hating winter so very much. I promised last fall! I promised after falling in love with "Blood Bank."

And then it came to me, slow and spinning like the flakes outside, a good winter memory.

When I was a freshman in high school I played Gavroche in Les Miserables. It was the first time I sincerely got acting. I was all about that part. I died on a barricade and everything. My family was impressed with me. I had grown up and died in front of them. My grandmother could not believe it. To her I was still four. Her eyes were wide looking at me like No. No, that couldn't have been you.

She wasn't a stereotypical harsh grandmother, but she wasn't a cushy one either. She just didn't quite know me. I had never spent time alone with her, but a couple weeks later she called my dad and arranged a one-on-one visit for me. She had purchased tickets to a new musical, Seussical the Musical , and wanted to make an event of it. Just us. The actress and her grandmother.

My dad drove me downtown, and the three of us had lunch at Marshall Fields (EFF MACY'S!) Dad left us, and I just didn't know quite how to act or what to do. We looked at the furniture, the Christmas windows, the jewelry. We made our way to the theatre, and I was surprised by how much I feel in love with a show based on Dr. Seuss books. We ate chocolate mints throughout the performance. She was very interested in my opinion of the acting, the songs, the costumes. I told her, and in the dark we caught the train back to her house. She told me stories about the 1930s, and I stayed the night.

For Christmas she gave me a square glass ornament that read

November 1, 2002
Alice (Last Name)
A Star Is Born

It was not opening night, but the night she saw the show.

Oh the thinks you can think, think and wonder and dream, far and wide as you dare.

Livin' the Life

Yesterday started my professional acting career. The paid improv show I'm in opened last night, and because I'm not working for either of my other jobs, this weekend I am living the life of a pro. That sounds glamorous, but its just strange.

Wake up late. Work out extensively. Primp extensively. Eat one giant meal at 3 PM so you can have a good workout prior and a good open post. Drive to theatre alone. Warm-up, discuss setlist, find key with accompanist, open. Expend all your energy. Greet your audience. Eat a banana in an empty dressing room. Wish for sleep. Begin the late show. Expend all your back-up energy. Leave the theatre at midnight alone. Drive the long road home. Hit the pillow. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.


college junior year spring musical

Gilly had a headache last night. She was curled up minutes before our second open saying, "I just wanna go home." Although I was in perfect health, so did I. It was late. But performing gets to be like running--only difficult minutes before you go. Because during, you're distracted, and after, you feel great. Heck, during you feel great too.

I'm really not complainin' I realize its just a job, and I hate hearin' belly-achin' rockstars whine and sob. 'Cos I could be busin' tables. I could well be pumpin' gas, but I get paid much finer for playin' piano and kissin' ---

Da Doo Run Run

Something I like about improv is that you get really gross while doing it. You can't really help it. You're moving and sweating and your hair is sliding out of your ponytail and bobby pins are flying and your eye makeup smears.

Usually actors have a charm, beauty, or delicacy about them. They're far away on a stage with costumes and make-up...but I feel like there's only so much facade you can keep up in improv. You're just...out there. Pit stains the size of Lake Michigan. And, it's even worse for your fellow actors.

Sunday I practiced barefoot because I had a giant blister from that Thanksgiving run. Shoe turned to me in a pause from an exercise, pointed down, and whispered, "Aren't you cold." I told him I had a blister, did he want to see? He thought, then shrugged. I pulled my foot up sideways and revealed the huge chunk of healing skin. He scrunched his nose and nodded, "Yeah," he said.

Oh oh oh, yeah, my heart stood still.
Yeah, his name was Bill.
And when he walked me home.

Rad & Naked

Today I saw a production of Equus downtown. It was very well-done. I've managed to miss reading and seeing this classic piece for years. I'm glad I saw it today, as a 22-year-old and not when I first came across a reference of it when I was 14.

Of course, I have to talk about the full-frontal nudity. Because...that's just what you talk about when you see Equus. I sat in the front row knowing I was going to be in close quarters with some dude's junk. If you're gunna see it--might as well go full out. It was a small black box.

So, when it happened, when the young man and the young woman undressed, at first it was a little shock (Oh, this is THE part), but after literally 20 seconds you forgot. I assume most people go through the same rapid-fire questions

1. I wonder if she is over 21? I guess over 18 is legal.
2. I wonder how long they rehearsed this scene before getting naked.
3. I wonder if that hurts, the way he is on the bench right now. Slivers on his butt?
4. Did their parents come to this?
5. All things considered, I guess it--

and then you're back to paying attention. There's a lot goin' on, and really, big woop. You think, "Wow. She's naked. And we're all. Right. Here." But, THEN you're like, "Whatever! I was naked this morning and it was no thing. So over it." And then, over it. Toot.

After the show I stayed in the city to meet some galpals for dinner. I aimlessly walked the sidewalks of art fair happening and bumped into part of the cast just leaving in their pedestrian clothes. The nudies and one of the horse actors. We shot the breeze I complimented them (they were very good) and the girl recognized me from the one-act festival last week and complimented me and when the kid who was Alan asked me what school group I had been with I answered and he took a long drag of his cigarette before repeating and saying "Rad, rad."

Too Much...Little Too Much

There are some actors who can slip in and out of character, and it doesn't seem to affect them at all. Well, I wish I had that skill. Even when I go through a show and think "No...this time it really won't get to me." It does. It always gets under my skin, into my subconscious, and makes me a nutty buddy.

I've written about this before--how being a 1950s schoolteacher this fall made me distrust men. How being sad sack Laura Wingfield in Glass Menage made me self-pitying. How I definitely felt less beautiful as Ruth Sherwood. Well, Robin Hood is supposed to be a comedy. I'm supposed to be big time comic relief. I scream a bunch and hate the forest. No big.


Rex and I horsing around before rehearsal

Yesterday towards the end of our run-through during the full cast scene in Prince Jon's court I noticed there were more bugs than usual. Not like...swarms, but usually there is one fly on set. I could always count five or six. Bradley was breaking character to slap them down. An actor next to me was squashing these flying critters bigger than gnats, smaller than horseflies with his boots from his spot sitting on a stump.

And then he stood up to reveal the top of the stump...completely crawling with hundreds of buffalo gnats. Fat little bodies and big white wings squirming all over each other, pouring out of the wood and streaming down to the rest of the stage.

I screamed bloody murder. That...is not how I usually react to bugs. I like bugs alright--even many freshly hatched larva indoors. But, Lady Quigley is my brain now, and all I could do was shriek.

That's how I nearly fell,
trading clothes and ringing Pavlov's bell.

Priorities

Wonderful Town 2009

Take a close look at your options, and decide what you should do.

Since I was aware of the concept, I have always thought my priorities were pretty sturdy. I've always been somewhat intelligent, rational, grounded, etc. I know how to keep my "priorities straight." I know some people who surely went to college to learn how to deal with priorities. Some kids go into school not understanding how to manage time so they can do their work. How they should ration money. How do they balance the potential to be with a lover all the time and keep friends etc. etc.?

I think I had that stuff figured out pretty well. What I don't think I knew was how to prioritize my "good" priorities. For example, school is always a priority. Always, always, always...but this week it was too hard to focus on my classes and appreciate my opportunities at ACTF. School. Not a priority for a few days. And...that makes sense. My life is going to be far more determined by what happened at the conference than by what happened in the classes of American Lit I missed. So my grades suffer? So what?

Incidentally, a woman who saw me in semis offered me a spot as Lucy in You're a Good Man Charlie Brown in her summer stock company. So, there's that to think about. I kinda don't care what happens to my GPA.

You could make your own decisions or do what they tell you to.