see how they run

I’m writing to tell you I’m not unhappy. If that’s been a misconception. She nodded grimly when I said I’d been feeling lonely. I don’t know who can sit with me these days, on the kind of benches I sit on. She winced apologetically, “It’s hard when you’re so unhappy.” I was surprised to hear this assessment. I corrected her. I’m not unhappy. I am happy most days. I am just also very sad. I think there’s a difference in being unhappy vs. being both happy and sad at once. I noticed, in that same conversation, how I tend to talk about what makes me so sad. I often outstretch my arm, just off, as though the genocide is in the room with us. Like, hey no sudden movements—the climate crisis, it’s right over there.

It’s been one of the grander discoveries of my life that it seems most people have some kind of brain mode that can numb the sad away. I wasn’t born with that toggle. While we’re watching TV, Puhg will sometimes even reach his paw toward my head and make a “click” sound, like he’s trying to turn it all off for me. But he knows, as I do, there is nothing on Earth that can silence the beehive in there. For the love, I could be on a beach chair in Tahiti and still be consumed by my hatred of capitalism. I say “I could be” as though this example isn’t just an anecdote from three summers ago.

Living unnumbed used to be slightly easier because I prayed about the horrors, which offered me the illusion of control. But now I see prayer as an oppressive tool. Not all the time (gray areas abound)…but in instances of inequality and injustice. In instances when it’s a frilly little sugar pill to make people feel better about their lack of action. In instances when it makes us feel better about what is unnatural to just “feel better” about.

As of late I would describe myself as “haunted all the time.” It’s not so bad. I’ve always liked ghost stories. I remember not minding when Haley Joel sees the hung corpse in The Sixth Sense. I used to think I’d turn off the Darkness if I could, god knows I've tried. Recently I wonder if it’s part of the package. I can go sicko mode for hours over school shooting data. I click through pictures of children’s rooms, their little coffins. I read through their parents’ crashed out Twitter feeds. I listen to the 911 calls. At the festive party of course I randomly sit next to the woman whose third grader has recently died, and to be honest it was the best seat in house. I watch looping videos of the floods at that summer camp or ICE raids or interviews with sexual assault survivors. I let rage flow through me, as it has the right to do. This world inspires rage in me, and I won’t pretend it doesn’t. But the only time I think I am actually truly unhappy is when I feel I can’t be myself. And being myself includes speaking my truth. I simply cannot pretend disturbing things aren’t happening when they are. It’s not who I am. It makes me want to die to pretend. So that’s probably where the confusion comes from: I need to express the sadness to be authentic to be happy. This paradox probably explains why, historically, when I am most myself, that is when most people run away.

Some really nice things have happened lately. In mini August alone. Started STRONG with a last minute ticket to see Lady Gaga, one of the top five concerts of my life! Maybe I’ll write a postlet about it. Last Monday went to the basement wine bar to see Bunhead’s set with SW. Laughed in the mood lighting at two girls doing musical prop comedy. Puhg and I saw Weapons in a nearly sold-out theatre. It was an incredibly rowdy room, we were all screaming and laughing and cutting up—such fun. My sweetie has already inflicted two heinous scares on me, inspired by the film. He hit the lights and lunged at me, then a couple days later, he sprinted at me from behind when I thought I was home alone. I wrote something a bunch of people seemed to enjoy. The gal who runs the local shop and I went to lunch so she could tell me about her real life. So our seven year “friendship” is more than “And how are you today? Good?” Sat down at the hip lunch spot with Big Comedian's exec and he kicked it off right away: “How does it feel to be the coolest kid in Hollywood?” I nearly spit my water out, told him I’m not. He was SURE I was being modest. If only he knew! Can you be cool if you’re actually just a sea cucumber who responds to emails efficiently? I wrote a ton of PSAs for a local immigrant collective. I called the White House about Gaza. I got to be in a mini writer’s room for a brand new musical show, and it filled my cup full. Caught a matinee of a Mary Kate & Ashley classic at The Academy Museum. Wrote at the knoll, listened to Knox at the pool. Went on my friend’s podcast and we all laughed until we cried and then they paid me $100. The monthly gab was useful. I walked around the hills for two hours chattering with Snake, pool following. Taylor Swift is releasing her 12th studio album sooner than I thought she would.

you you you broke my rose-colored glasses  / so go play in traffic

The Backstreet Boys: September 5, 2013

"I'll be the one to hold you, and make sure that you'll be alright."

Pop stars are the saints of this century, and BSB is Jesus. I'm not trying to be funny. Those boys worked their buns off last night. They seriously danced (in miraculous sync) for two solid hours. While singing. While singing five part harmony. And while sometimes wearing those stupid fedoras from 1995 that I'm positive they tried to talk their costume designers out of.

Shellz and Meep witnessed three hours of my fan-girling.

This was an event. This was big. Larger than Life. And I've really got to hand it to them. I suppose I could say I shelled out a lot of scrilla ($70) to scream at Brian Littrel from my very mediocre seat, so I deserve to want things. These men have made their living off of me after all. But, truly, what I expected of these guys, what everyone expected, was not what they wanted to do if they truly had it their way. I want it that way. I wanted them to sing every hit, nothing from their new albums, dance just like they did in 1999, and generally be charming, and thank me for, you know, just standing there. And for the most part, that's just what they did. How could you not despise "We've Got It Goin' On" after singing it for literally 20 years? And, yet, it was their first single. They do the body rolls, the exaggerated "AhHhH!" Their cross to bear.

The PR work for this concert was phenomenal. This was not just a comeback tour. The dudes have all learned instruments--stating they're not "just a boy band" anymore. And we're like, uh. Yeah you are. They were good to us! They would do a huge laser-light shooting, ground-stomping hit and then explain a little about the success of their new album. (I mean, it got to Billboard Top Ten...their 8th consecutive record to do so. Only two other musical acts can brag that in the world.) They'd give a sentence about what the song means to them (so we can try to care) and say which guy wrote it (they wrote this whole new album themselves, and, frankly, it shows). But, the audience still would sit down, literally be checking e-mails, go to the bar. If we had it our way, they would just perform Millennium in full and never progress. Our saints aren't supposed to change. That's the point. They're saints. We change, and they ground us. And when AJ and Kevin talk about being dads? We're like, "Uh uh. No way. You're not a dad. You stick to that chair routine from 'As Long As You Love Me.'" Which, by the way, was done extremely well--the backdrop looked just like the original music video, all those metal fans and bluewhite waves.

"Jam on 'cos Backstreet's got it." 

The truth is I will always love BSB. Incidentally, I actually don't know who they are, where they're from, or what they did...but I still love them. And as long as I (collective I) do, they'll still be poppin' out from backstage in that unified "Alright!" and doing the exact same typewriter arm movements I mimicked off MTV when I was in fifth grade. I mean, it was hilarious to me that I was there...and then I'd look around and realize...there are literally thousands of people here, arms raised in worship, chanting, taking pictures, feverishly trying to document the moments. We have come to collect something we think is ours. We clap at the alter, and the saints perform the same garbage city to city year after year lest we lose our faith.

They sang it on their first album, and they couldn't have known how true it would be:
As long as there'll be music, we'll be comin' back again!

Muver's Day

December 2012.

"I remember my mother's prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life."--Abraham Lincoln

Five Times

Hill: I wonder if at Muslim schools they have special prayer times.
Me: Is it by time, or is it just pray 'five times a day and you're good.'
Hill: Isn't it by sun something? I know I'd be a Muslim who'd be like, 'It's 9:45?! Shit!'
Me: [mimics kneeling to pray five times fast]

I looked it up today. It is based on sun stuff. So the prayer times change. Woof. To be a Mus. It's hard enough for me to remember one obscure meeting in my day, let alone five new by-the-minute times to roll out the God mat. Annoying. But then I remembered, if it's what brings peace, perhaps it should be difficult to remember. Like when you order fries unsalted so they must be made fresh. There is no option for auto-pilot when we are forced out of habit. If something isn't easy and we still do it, it is truly a priority. Maybe therefore or maybe because. Either way. If one abides by the structure, I can't imagine she would be able to shove her spiritual priorities to the bottom of her backpack...down there with the half-cracked sticks of gum and paper clips. She would be a Muslim who studies/works/lives instead of a student/worker/liver first and a Muslim second. Or third. Or nineteenth. With this in mind, it's crazy the 'lims only pray five times a day.

This semester (over in one sweet sweet week--thank all the Muslim prayers in the world) I have had a mantra. It is this: Your motive is love. I have written it on notecards, in my planner, in my phone notes. I  mumble it on my way to class. I state it in the bathroom mirror. And yet I can still forget. Am I dull to my own handwriting? Do I not take enough moments surrounding the sentiment to let it sink in? I could use some strict proclamation appointments. I want to be a lover first. All the other garbage second. Eighty-second. Whatever.

Tell Me What You Thought About

Today was a solstice day:

-Silent study before sunrise. Lamplit.
-A great ep of Modern Family fuels my workout (Haley + that loser).
-Methods of Teaching Theatre class includes improvisation exercises.
-No students during Office Hours so I grade in the sun.
-Gabbing with Boulder in the far corner of Screenwriting lecture.
-We are short-staffed at work, and I manage everything/one, which is a little hairy, but makes me feel empowered like a pebble might feel empowered. As I clock out, my boss says, "Super Woman" and I pose.
-Many a giggle in the TA office with Hill and Blink.
-Blink, fellow Ethics TA, is loopy and threatens to play the "Thong Song" as students stroll in.
-I get a text telling me to take a bathroom break during the screening portion of class. I walk outside to find Hill and Bisque who present me with a vegan milkshake. And I eat it all! And I am being paid to do this!
-Ethiopian date with Shellz. Big ideas, memories of Sid, lentils.
-Work date with Bug! But we soon realize, we would not work. We would just have Bug + Alice times, and while wonderful, we cannot do such things tonight. Not tonight when I'm trying to ask for thousands of dollars. (Scholarship apps are due tomorrow.) But, we reschedule. That's an important thing--to reschedule.

A certain Kate Moss quote is coming to mind.

Chicago Fire

It is hot.
IT IS SO HOT.
I know I live in Arizona now, but I SWEAR it is much. Worse. Here.

The Red Line was broiling. BROILING. I couldn't even get out my iPod I was so hot. I just slumped into the seat and melted, peeping all the unhappy people around me. WE ARE NOT MEANT TO LIVE THIS WAY! Before catching the bus, I bopped into Walgreens for nail polish remover, and the blast of AC was so icy I really did not want to leave. Cut to me marveling at the FROYO STATION. That's right. FROYO IN WALGREENS. And in the snack station little honey greek yogurt parfaits or organic hummus wraps. I whimpered, "If there is a God, He will lock all the doors from the inside out, and I will never leave this place. Everyone inside will form our own micro-community, and we shall repopulate as 'Greeners' for all infinity inside this one blissfully cold and swanky drugstore."

So, officially. There is no God. BLAZING BUS RIDE HOME.

Die, summer. Die in a fire!

News

Pre-Wedding Cake, October 2010

This week has been a hard week, and it's not over yet. I am falling apart with physical ailments--also bleeding. How does it all happen at once? My stomach is splotchy, the peel flakes fall onto everything. Crispy snow.

Two nights ago I stayed up very late. I stayed up very late because I had musical rehearsal until nine, and then I went to a longform jam at a seedy pizza bar until eleven, and then I stayed at said seedy place past midnight telling a very patient man about my current quandary: attempt to teach English in the land of seaweed wrapped rice paddies or attempt to be taught more English in the land of cacti and warm winters.

When I arrived home, everything was very still besides my throbbing feet. I wrapped them with socks and tightly-tied sneakers to pull the swelling (like Jay Sean) down, down, down, down, down. I threw a pillow on the ground and elevated the kickers to my bed. The floor was unkind, and I would sleep twenty minutes then wake then sleep then wake. I whined aloud to no one. "This is Gethsemane" I knew.

Today in the acting seminar I am auditing, we had to one by one enter the space in staccato and leave in legato. I walked carefully in one straight line across the theatre. I imagined graduate school at the Exit sign. I was scared and small--fingers jittered STACCATO STACCATO STACCATO. My eyes darted, jerked. Stopped. Then

one
final
JUT
of my forearms. Hands outstretched and
open
waiting for Peace to fall down from the canned lights.
Slowly,
I walked. Oh. So. Full.
In a grand swandive, my right arm swooped around my body and landed on my heart.
L E G A T O.
My legs carried me smoothly forward.

When I was done, there was a faint clapping--an awkward "I shouldn't be clapping at a dumb exercise, but my hands made me clap" clapping. My hopes and fears were in that dumb exercise. My hopes and fears are West.

I will be attending graduate school in Arizona this fall.

Godspell

Tonight I saw one of the best pieces of theatre I have ever seen in my entire life. It was a modernized version of Godspell that took place in the slums.

Every actor and musician was fully committed, loving, sure, INSPIRED. I sat on the edge of my seat through all the regular "Day by Days" and "It's All for the Bests"! It was...funny and smart...raw and rich...and Jesus. The student playing Jesus Christ was sensational. I have never connected with the crucifixion. Ick. No thanks. But tonight? Tonight I was so moved by this boy's complete humility, amazing voice, and sincere movements that I found myself praying although I do know how the story always goes. Please don't do it Judas. Please.

My heart wretched as the train rumbled faster and faster. A huge light from stage right shot straight into the boy's eyes. Rumble rumble steam shooting. Jesus hit by a train while avoiding the police.

And then he came back for a bow which I gladly leapt up to clap for. He smiled with so much love! They sang one more round of gospel jam and danced away into the wings.

I want so badly to run into that actor. To say Thank You, You Have Given Me So Much. I Understand. But, also, I could not bear it. I cannot take the fact that he is probably twenty-one and sometimes makes rude remarks, and laughs at unfunny television, and has to warm up before hitting those gorgeous notes. Because then Jesus really will be dead.


Far beyond where the horizon lies
Where the horizon lies
And the land sinks into mellow blueness
Oh please, take me with you

Morbid Wishes

When I brought my sweet little baby hammy home last year I had everything! I bought food, the cage, some treats, some blocks, and, of course, shavings. Dur.

I was trying to be a skimpy shopper as usual, so I bought the young lady a huge honkin' bag of pine shavings. I figured it would last me the year. Wrong. The little bag I bought to use for the first couple weeks of Blanche's new life ended up lasting me the entire year. Thus, I still have the huge bag. I bit the bullet and opened it a couple weeks ago. I keep it--you have to realize this is a bag of shavings about two and a half feet tall and a foot wide--in a garbage bag so the pine doesn't fall all over the darn place.

Okay SO. The other day I was tying it up to bring to my dad's house (the seasonal hamster sitter who incidentally just discovered the garbage bag full of shavings in his living room and exclaimed "This isn't--No!" as I was typing this) and I thought, "Good God. What if Blanche dies? What the heck am I gunna do with a trillion pine shavings?!?!" So I got quiet and made a little deal with the universe. I said, "Universe, I will help out the environment by not buying these shavings in vain if you make sure Blanche lives until they're gone. Alright?"

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket. Never let it fade away.

Please

Tonight I prayed.

I have been praying very hard lately. I will say that. I have been hoping for happiness for myself and all the others I know transitioning in life. I guess that is really everyone. All the time.

I have been praying for the health of my family. For the crumple of terminal illness. For the light of Truth. For the overdoses to end, for the poor to feel clean, for the rich to feel safe, for SNL to be funny, for circuit three to end faster, for winter to walk slower. I have prayed.

I have prayed for sweethearts in Canada, for a writer in South America, for the several strip clubs in East St. Louis, for the few brunch places in the city, for postcards to be invincible, for a wedding to be successful, for musicians to make their best work yet, for the good books never to end and the wars to stop today.

Tonight I prayed for Hilary Swank. Insomnia tricked me into thinking Boys Don't Cry would put me to sleep. And, oh, I was so sad. I was so heartbroken. I was so pained. I prayed for those men who ruin everything. And as I saw the time run close to the end I prayed so very hard that once all the horrible things had happened, once it was all over, the credits would role and there would be no screens with words that told the future for those people. No, I prayed, please do not let this be based on a truth. Please.

It was.

I hadn't known.

ETC.

Heian Temple, Kyoto, September 2008

What I wouldn't give for a prayer tablet today.

I will miss you in the darkness of the dawn.
Journey on.