Theatre of Cruelty

Kath & a sunset, September 2017

I read an article yesterday about how by 2030 every other summer will be hotter than the last. By 2050, every summer a record high. Puhg and I have poke wraps and tacos before going to see In the Next Room at the theatre in our neighborhood. There are actually eight theatres in our immediate neighborhood, nine if you include the concert venue. We counted on the walk home. It was not too cold to enjoy the evening. It is November.

The air in the dive made our shirts smell like fries. "I wonder what will happen when it is is obviously the end of days," I say. Right now I am confident it is, although I do agree humans are resilient. But what if quicker than we think it's over over? Or maybe just over for everyone not in Michigan. On Thanksgiving we played Pandemic and since we were about to win, Puhg's turn was pointless. He chose to fly to Tokyo and then Buenos Ares instead of curing London. "Is that what people will really do?" I asked him, later, over the aforementioned grub.

We reasoned it might be. A year is actually a long time to die out. If we suddenly have three days we could exhaust all our resources getting to family and hugging. I've thought of last years before--but only about my last year. I would write because there would be more world left behind. With a mass exodus perhaps I would just scout for heroin.

I'm confused about people who are still choosing to make children, but I guess I am more of an alarmist than most (although like a true alarmist I do not feel like one). I'm grateful for the life I have lived and find it more difficult to worry about my future. Sometimes I forget and act like a regular person from 1980. I weigh the pros and cons of moving or investing in a new mattress...but I don't plan for ten years from now anymore. I think that part of me is gone forever. It disappeared when I wasn't looking, when I was reading the news.

In the meantime I try my best to make and teach, but more this year than any other year, I am concerned less with the lessons and more with "can you learn?" and "was I as kind as I could be?" For example, what if a student is going to get a 68% in theatre history? Should I give him a C anyway? In the apocalypse maybe no one will ask him about Antoin Artaud's contributions to the surrealist era of modern theatre.

There's a joy still in me. An eagerness to learn. I am going on an exciting trip, I am taking a class beginning in January, I'd like to finish this book I'm reading. I'm about to do two shows tonight, and I look forward to them. And I wonder if this is actually the best/ most authentic I've ever felt. There may be nothing at the end of the rainbow, but the rainbow is quite nice.

Losing My Mind at a Third Grader

I had to halt after school improv class on Friday. My brain imploded, and I literally put out my hands like tiny stop signs to give an internally steaming (hopefully externally only rigid) lecturelet (mini lecture).

We were doing an ensemble monologue. Someone would stand in the middle of the circle and give a monologue. After a line of two I would pause the student and ask, "Okay, who has an idea about what might come next?" And then all the 9-year-old hands shoot up. Usually, honestly, they're already up--no matter how many times I explain, "When you raise your hand before the person has even finished their sentence, how can you possibly have an idea for what you will say next?"

People wax saccharine about the purity of children, the darling, the unconditional love. In improv, the most experienced teachers gospelize "Play like a child!"But every week I do see children improvise, and, man, they are selfish little pufferfish. Some things that are normal in the classroom: students who talk endlessly when others are on stage, students who refuse to play games they "don't like" despite never having heard of them before, students who refuse to have a three-line scene with the physically disabled student, students who refuse to stand near the hilarious and brave autistic kiddo, students who are disappointed literally every time I do not call on them, students who kick each other. I teach twelve children. Two are the exception to these behaviors. The others openly show disgust for even the suggestions of their peers. This is not all children. This is one class of third graders in Evanston. Still. We discuss respect every week, we have "positive" rules ("hands to yourself" vs. "no hitting"), I congratulate good behavior, I ask politely, I ask sternly. I try to proctor ensemble exercises. They won't.

I pump myself up before class hoping that despite the climate of the room, perhaps the lessons of teamwork, listening, and self-awareness are being internalized? Maybe specks? So, we're doing this monologue thing. B, one of the most challenging students I have ever had, is playing. He waffles between playing and not playing. He likes to sit behind the teacher's desk (not allowed), roll in her chair (not allowed), and make fun of other people's lines (not allowed) when he is not the star of a scene. The new rule is that anyone is allowed to sit, but then they're not allowed to participate until the current game is over. B usually starts sitting, then screams, "I wanna play!" and whines when he is not allowed to jump in a scene immediately. He was playing this monologue game. A girl volunteered to start. When I asked for a new volunteer, every single hand (as usual) went up. Then I chose another girl to continue. He screeched, interrupting the piece. "THAT'S TWO GIRLS IN A ROW." So I said, "STOP." I asked, "B, how many boys in the class are there?" He answered four. "Yes, and how many girls in the class are there?" Eight. I said, "Right, so in this class, girls will always be performing twice as much as boys. If boys performed the same amount as girls, that would be extremely unfair. Why should we go boy-girl anyway?" He shrugged.

I know the answer is probably that in his homeroom class his teacher calls on students boy-girl (which is disgusting and ridiculous). I don't think I snapped. I think I maintained cool, despite having to restart the activity. I know this child is merely a reflection of glass shards from the world we've given him. I'm just so tired of women being marked as to when they can and can't do things. My tolerance is waning.

Alice in Ship Land: Cruise Five/Adventures

-I’m learning to look nice more than one night a month. I have to look nice. There is a dress code after 5 PM. And I have time. Every commute is a five-minute walk. I never cook. I guess I have a moment for lip gloss.

-Last week was a dessert explosion. I chose to cut back this week by trying not eat after 10 PM and cutting out all desserts. I feel so accomplished. You do not know the siren song of the soft serve bar.

-Who’s got two thumbs and won the Rummy match Monday night?

-An ocean swim hole in the back of a bar in Cozumel. I had the quesadillas. The side of guac divine. I kept trying to journal but watching snorkelers.

-It feels good to have a to-do list for the internet. There’s no slack for goofin’.

-It’s easy in a small pod to feel like harmony is so key it may mean you bend in the wind. But as I was reflecting on one day I realized I ate up garbage someone else fed me. Ensemble is king, but you are always yourself. I have to leave this ship as myself.

-Bran muffins are my food of the week. Two bran muffins every day keep the cheese constipation away. #ShipDiet

-Is there anything better than getting home early, snuggling into your roommate’s bed, chugging a Pelegrino, and watching the illegally downloaded American Crime Story episode your boyfriend sent to you?

-One of the dancers ran into me while I waiting by the Personnel Office. She asked what I was up to, and I said I would be spending the day writing. “What are you writing?” she asked. “Oh, a lot of things,” I said. “So that’s why they call you Smart Alice,” she replied. My second week a bartender told he he always saw me working in the library and nicknamed me Smart Alice. Apparently it has spread. I hang out by the evening lounge singer on Wednesday, and when I get up to leave my boss says “Goodnight, Smart Alice.”

-One morning I am writing and see two girls come out of their cabins, turn the corner and see the ocean. They throw their hands up and scream in glee. Oh yeah. I forgot how majestic our house is.

-Wednesday afternoon I’m on the promenade deck and see a family waiting for a dinner they wish they were eating. And then snip snap, suddenly the parents are full-on cursing each other out in public. Mom stomps off. Dad waits. Follows. The two preteens sit silently next to each other for twenty minutes. No one returns, so they finally leave. #SpringBreak

-And then we tried to go to the waterpark in Costa Maya for MB’s birthday. We asked the tram driver three times if we were going to the waterpark. He said “yes, yes, yes.” Twenty minutes later we’re dropped off in the middle of town. We ask around, “Waterpark?” “No,” everyone says. And the tram doesn’t go back to port either. Huh. Okay. Okay. We could go to the beach, but I am ill-prepared. I specifically brought nothing but a towel and sunglasses. We go on a hunt for iced coffee and somehow get beach chairs right on literally the most beautiful beach I have ever seen. We swim. I put seaweed in my hair like a ribbon. We try cartwheels. We couldn’t have planned this day if we had tried. For her birthday, MB wants a massage. Little ladies come up to us in an endless stream asking to give them. We find three little beds far down the stretch, away from music, surrounded by ocean. Three one hour massages for $60. We get a lunch rec, and I eat way too many nachos. Number of coconuts I’ve drunk from rises to four. We have to take a cab back, but whatever whatever whatever.

-Early calltime on Belize day, but I have an important errand. Last week I saw a necklace I liked at a local woman’s stand. I told her I would buy it if it were longer. She says she would have done it while I had walked to the water if I had told her. I say I am crew and I’ll be back. This week I rushed past all the self-made tour guides and hair braiders to the card table. She was there. I didn’t have to say anything. She picked out a necklace from a box stashed away. It’s perfect. And then it’s back onboard. I read the book Dizz has recommended me from my iPad, so the tender trip isn’t even that bad.

-The family friendly show is a nightmare. I love most of the sweet children watching with wonder, but three boys sit in the very front and scream at us the whole time. We run offstage and I ask, “Where are their parents?” Tail snaps, “WHERE ARE THEIR MANNERS.”

-The adult show is a dream! The audience gives me and MB “Romeo and Juliet” as a suggestion of relationship. She plays him like a bro, and I am a vocal fry’d nightmare. She says, “If I live to be fifteen, we’re gonna get married.” I ask, “What could possibly happen to us before we’re fifteen?”

Understood

Just finished reading The Shame of the Nation today, which is a book about the US education system's lack of truly integrated schools. A common theme in the book is that change kind of happens from the bottom, but historically, these poor ("let's face it: black" according to the author Kozol) schools don't get much no matter how bad it gets. Students are taught "I am the change." But ultimately, huge education reform happens on congressional levels. The charter schools grow, stricter rules get shoved onto the most struggling of children. They are not getting the elementary education I got in my (let's face it: white) suburb.

This is always the complaint. Why are all these people speaking for others they don't fully understand? It is an archaic system on a slow road to change. Sure. That's fine. And I'm not blaming congresspeople (let's face it: men) for not truly understanding poverty. Just like I don't blame myself. I can blame someone for not being aware, but to truly, truly understand is a different story. I would have to work very hard to understand. I have learned a lot from this 300 page book, but I am not in those little shoes.

What would it be like if in our culture you could only speak to things you truly understood or directly applied to you? On one hand, this is impossible if you believe in community. We are a web after all. On the other hand, how sweet would it be if it was extremely rude to speak about abortion unless you were currently pregnant? No sharing an opinion on a film unless you've seen the whole thing. Shut up about another country unless you live there?

I'm not suggesting this. I think we should consider other viewpoints. I think we need to. Just a daydream of sorts on this fine Friday afternoon.

Boys Think They're Funny

Dance often has precedence over Drama in stage usage in the camp Great House on the account of only one sound system. This doesn’t bother me because I like the unenclosed sky of the deck. And. Really. I’m a summer camp counselor behind all the “Mhmm yeeees, I am a resident playwright of children’s theatre.” What, am I going to demand a diamond-encrusted director’s chair and a tech booth? We’ve got, like, some light switches.

However, girls’ Drama starts just as boys’ breakfast ends, so during warm-ups and the beginnings of our rehearsals, an ant line of boys passes us. The campers are actually well-behaved, but seriously every other counselor, not realizing that every other counselor does it, kind of pops into the class—either mimicking what we’re doing or shouting little “To be or not to be!”s at us. Sometimes falling down and saying, “Well, that was dramatic.” A har har har. The girls obviously get a little flustered because warm-ups aren’t exactly confidence-boosters. We’re often making weird noises or stretching or something.

I am very interested in the fact that none of these counselors realize that A) it’s still not funny the fifth time in the week they interrupt and B) half their kind practices this behavior.

On picture night the girls in their navy skirts and white tees bunched in cabins to take charming little photos for their parents to stalk on the camp website. As I waited for my chicklets to be called I watched as every single male counselor left the dining hall, crept up behind the cabin currently posing, made a stupid face, was shooed by the photographer, and laughed themselves out of the shot.

I wasn’t able to see my boys’ improv class perform last week. They had their showcase during girls’ dinner. I asked them how it went. “Amazing,” they said. Amazing. One, particularly adorable and willing to learn, said, “Oh man, Alice! We played Emotional Rollercoaster and we were mad, and then we got ‘blissful’ and I just changed my voice, and everyone cracked up! Including us on stage! We couldn’t finish the scene! It was the funniest thing ever.” I nod. Mhmm.

When I start girl’s musical theatre class I ask, “Who has performed before,” and we hear about high school and jr. high productions of yore from each individual. One girl was the lead this year. “Oh yeah?” I ask, “How was that.” She says “I think it went well,” but she has the tiniest corner of her lip upturned so we know she thinks she was good. And we all hate her for it.

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.

What Grander Ambition Is There?

Reflection Hill. August 2012.

"Beloved children, the world has need of you, — and more as children than as men and women: it needs your innocence, unselfishness, faithful affection, uncontaminated lives. You need also to watch, and pray that you preserve these virtues unstained, and lose them not through contact with the world."--MBE

Ant Lion

Sunset, Fourth of July. I was on the beach with the little tots. Bonfire and what have you. "LOOK AT THE ANT LION," two girls ran up to me, one holding out her palm. She was holding an ugly bug with odd pinchers. "And ant lion because they bite the heads off ants!" I did not doubt it. "And look how it burrows!"

I faked a "Wooow," but then I watched and it was actually pretty cool. The bug sort of scooted its butt backwards into the sand. And then it was gone. They two chicadees dug it back up and re-watched its digging several times. Finally, they left it in a gnome home in the dune grass.

I'm not one to idolize children. I don't particularly enjoy the "Be like a child!" mantras because I think children are wholly more selfish and myopic than most humans. However, it is refreshing and wonderful to see the newness, to get amped about bugs, to make up names and insist their validity.

Camp Is Over

My (almost) five-week stint at summer camp has ended. I drove down the road past the barn, the farmhouse, past the sign with the horse head on it, past the small cemetery behind the chain-link fence. I drove away listening to "Sunshine" since it was on the Staff Summer Jams Mix I popped right in.

I am free from my sandy sheets, the nights of mice skimpering feet, the squeaky whines of chillins' from the porch. But also free of the lighthouse's soft siren, and the view of multi-green pines as I stand on the Great House deck, laughing so hard with Kath--big faces and no sound since the campers have been asleep for hours. Our Crocs squeaking as we come up from a late night dip.

This was a good day. I'm currently in Slou's family's rental unit. It feels divine to be inside. REAL inside. And to have a day of driving ahead of me. Music--not itty voices singing/screaming. A couple hours ago Slou and I went for ice cream. I bumped into a child getting ready for camp arrival tomorrow. Kid has a lot in store for her. But I'm a goner. They messed up my order and gave me a sugar cone for my two scoops. It was too flimsy to hold. I grabbed the ice cream with my bare palm and patted it down. The top scoop still popped off in the car and rolled around the mat. Slou laughed forever as I performed the melodrama of hate for my dessert.

Facemasks whilst doing paperwork with Kath! (Keeping sanity in 2012.)

Last night was the First Half Final Banquet. Our Exec Director asked anyone who's life was changed by camp to please stand. I was already standing, but I would have. I would have. The room was a giant shuffle. We all stood. It's an important thing this thing I have done.

Just tell me something new,
forget about the sunshine when its gone.

Day in the Life, June 2, 2012

Dear Grandchildren of the Future,

If you're reading this, consider me hog-tied! A. Because I can't imagine having kids! Let alone kids on kids! And B. Because if you've found this it means all the Internet's data wasn't destroyed in a huge terrorist attackor/and snafu.

Anyway, grandkids of the future, obviously you were looking for something in creeping through ol' Maw Maw's blog from her 20s. But, how can I give you advice or anything when you're probably teleporting or, the opposite, only ever sit perfectly still but communicate with others via an elaborate wifi in your retina?

I'll assume I'm dead by now--hopefully some kind of donut related death?--and you guys are just curious about what life was like for your cool ancestors! So let me tell you about my day. Just so you can get a feel for Grammy's life and times.

-Woke up and finished an opinion essay about tumblr & beauty for this journal I write for
-Made some acorn squash and ate it
-Read a nice article by Viola Hays
-Ran 6 miles
-Hassled my dad into cutting up a pineapple
-Showered and ate some of aforementioned pineapple with some peanuts (in 2012 it is a commonly held belief that you are supposed to consume protein after exercise--this always feels kind of heavy to me, so I am betting by the time you're reading this, that theory has been disproven...or, actually, you probably have been genetically modified to be naturally fit, so you don't even know what a work-out is let alone how to eat after one)
-Took my car for one final nostalgic cruise. My baby is sold, so I had a goodbye spin. I took her to Walgreens when I needed to buy some notebooks, and then I cruised about a mile in the June sun with the windows open. No music, just the hum of my 90s beaut. I started to think, "You know what? Driving can be nice." And that's when a bird flew right into the windshield. "I take it back," I thought.
-Wanting to have some adventure in my last joint production with Wanda (car name--Do you kids name inatimate objects? I assume so. Otherwise, wouldn't you feel weird referring to your robot maid as simply "Robot Maid"?), I passed a physic's office ("walk-ins welcome") and decided to get my palm read
-The psychic told me I have a long life ahead of me with no illness or accidents. Also that I don't open up to many people, I work hard for what I want, my "best" color is lavender, my best number is four, and I will get married and have a family. So, I guess that's good news for you guys, you yet-to-exist chillins'.
-Before I left the psychic told me I could ask one question--anything at all and it would be answered. I thought about it for longer than she was probably comfortable, especially since she was most likely thinking, "Don't burst a capillary thinking, kid, I'm a phony." I don't know a lot of things, but I honestly couldn't think of a question. So I asked something I knew the answer to already. It was still nice to hear someone reaffirm what I know. Even if you kiddos now drink seahorse blood out of juice boxes, I suppose I just came up with one piece of advice you can take with you--even in your space suit: There should probably be no question about your own life that you can't answer yourself.
-The joyride was over, and my dad and I went on a walk to grab a Redbox. I've wanted to see We Need to Talk about Kevin, and today was the day! I was very excited. We tried to stream the film last night on Apple TV, but the download would have taken two hours--this probably sounds hilarious to you. Buffering and loadtime for entertainment.
-We watched the movie, which is horribly brutal but very very well done. I enjoyed.
-Dinner time. We walked to a pizza place downtown. Your great-grandpa was a good dude.
-Once home, we built a small bonfire in the backyard and made s'mores, chatted about life in general, basked in the night sky, lit off some fireworks.

So, that's what life looks like when you're me. Keep on keepin' on, offspring!

Best,
Alice

Spike Lee on January 25th

Tonight I had the opportunity to hear Spike Lee talk at my school. He speech was nothing too new--but it was good stuff. His main messages:

1. It's not cool to be ignorant. I'm talking to you black guys who think you're so tough. Parent your children and go to school.
2. I got where I am today with a lot of support from certain family members. Among those were not my parents who wanted me to get a real job, but, thats parent's job--to help you get stable. Luckily, there are great teachers and grandmas who will encourage you to live your dreams.
3. You need to do what you want to do. Theres no worse existence than hating your job. "I don't drag myself out of bed, I fly out of bed like I was shot from a cannon."

Then, there was Q & A, which was mostly unproductive, but, what can you do?

My Favorite Thing:

A upper middle-age man got up to ask a question and before he could even get a sentence out, Spike was like, "Whoa you could do voiceovers!" Everyone laughed, because the man did have a very distinct, listenable voice. Then, Spike guided him through a trailer, asking the man to repeat after him things like, "Coming this summer to a theatre near you." The man totally played along, and everyone in the entire thousand person auditorium ate it UP. Then, he asked his question, which was about the theme of "Wake up" in Spike's films. This man was oozing happiness. Spike Lee just made him famous among strangers for five minutes.

My Least Favorite Thing:

A child got on a mic and asked, "You're an actor and a director...how do you do that? What do you need?" Spike answered, "Well, you need cameras, and people, and you have to do a lot--how old are you?"
"Nine."
"Well, you're starting at the right time."
Everyone applauded. Um. Okay. He's nine, not mentally challenged. That's a really dumb question for a nine-year old to ask actually. Think about yourself in 4th grade. Did you know you needed a camera for movies? Right. Little attention monger. Why do we clap for children being incredibly average. If the kid had explained a docu-drama he was making, yeah, I would have clapped. But for being alive and holding a microphone? No.

Awesome Thing:

Michelle and Barack's first date? Do the Right Thing.

Ideal

Well, I've made it through the worst of the theoretical analysis/write a new play/historicization storm. Sort of. I won't ACTUALLY be out of the storm until May 2014, but let's not think about that right now, okay?

In dramaturgy tonight we had a serious discussion about children's theatre being dumbed down in the United States. It's actually pretty gross. Nothing should ever be dumbed down. Ever. That's what I really really believe. Dumbing down or "being simple" are simply sneakier forms of lying. Lying is a distraction from Truth. Truth is equal to Love. Love alone is Life.

So, as you can tell, I have some strong opinions about stupid children's theatre. I scribbled this angrily in my notebook:

"Only write for your ideal audience."

I put down my pencil. It's really that simple. If you make children's plays, don't imagine the little squirmers and the little goobers, imagine the mini-Obamas and Mindy Kalings.* HECK, extending the concept, you shouldn't do anything for anyone but your imagined perfect audience!


Sometimes Clara is my imagined perfect audience.

You know a lot of girls be thinkin' my songs are about them.
This is not to get confused, this one's for you.

*Yeah, I went there. I put our president and my fave comedian on the same level.

Rituals: If I Must

No, I suppose I don't have much ritual to my name. What is constant when your family splits and reshuffles when you're fourteen? What can become ritual across state lines? When my fifteenth birthday was a surprise party, sixteenth alone in my father's apartment, seventeenth listening to Jonathan Larson when Clara and her brother crossed the moat to show up with a cactus.

My anti-roots please me. Truthfully. I can be a dandelion spore. Look!

I wrote a list of personal rituals today in Theatre History. We discussed the performance ritual of the Hopi people. My list was tiny and barely existed beyond 2004. It said, "Oldies, Groundhog Day, Tremblay's Candy Shop, Malcolm in the Middle, my grandmother's house near Gurnee, celery stuffed with sharp cheddar."

If I must bring children into this world, I will run with them each fall. I will eat with them each morning. I will enforce a strict policy about attending theatre each spring, Christmas pastries each December, and reflective birthdays. Stargirl is required reading. Diana Ross is figurative king. Quiet. Listen. That train is saying "Hello! Hello town!" If I must.

And, if I don't have to, I will be my own children. And I will fill myself with Hopi hopey.

Reflect

Sunset last Friday. The Slice.

I was alone
when I ran the five-mile loop through woods that the boy counselors do the last morning of Pre-Camp.
The dirt flew up in my face. It wasn't that hard.

The sunset appeared twice--
once in the sky,
once at my feet.
The same. It's not that hard.

We arrived at Sunday Night Cookout in matching t-shirts. Swarms of children flooded down the hill before we could peak it. They yelled our names and hugged us.

These are just a few memories of the past
week that will hold me steady this
next week as my sister and I make our way west,
I find a place to live,
she gets on a plane,
and I am alone.

Once in the sky.
Once at my feet.

Scariest Prank Ever Pulled on Alice

Part I

Saw an incredible play last night. It is called The Pillowman, and Lord, has it stuck with me. I think it will forever. I guess most things do though. Maybe every day forever. I won't talk about it. I did that enough last night. But, I WILL say there is an overarching theme about children who get mutilated. Children in general. There are many themes deepen than children, but on the surface there is a lot about kiddos. It was pretty effed up.

Part II

I come back into my room late. Halloween night. I see a cloth on my bed. Oh that's weird. What is that? My bed is made. What is that lump? I pull back the covers to find a small lifeless child. I start breathing heavily. I realize soon that it is one of the very creepy life-size paper mache child puppets from a theatre production a few years ago. I throw it in my laundry basket in the closet with a little shriek and slam the door. I call three people who might be to blame. They swear they didn't do it. I realize I need shorts from my closet. I take deep sighs and open the door. As I reach up I scream--

because there is a face looking at me from the top of my closet.
Look closer...

Imagine that staring you in the face when you're already scared out of your mind. I screamed and screamed and screamed--probably waking up my whole hall. I called Rex--the last person I could think of doing this to me. He said what I knew which was, "Alice, I was with you all day and all night." I am baffled. Whoever did this got me good. Rex came over. Once someone else was here, it was okay to laugh. I took these pictures, and Rex took the dolls away.