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.

This Is Our Youth, Steppenwolf 2014

Yesterday night I treated myself to a date at Steppenwolf theatre. I had snagged a student rush ticket at box office open. I had a big tomato for dinner. I walked the dimming Chicago streets in my white lace flats. This Is Our Youth was good.

Here are some things I experienced and thought about:
-I chose to walk up the four flights to the Upstairs Alley space instead of taking the elevator. I saw posters from previous blockbusters. Historic. Legacy is important.
-Michael Cera basically played the same person he always does. So, not like a fat impressive feat, but he was really really good. And that's nice. If film/TV people have to be shoed onto Broadway, at least they're good.
-The play was enjoyable and interesting. It was also a very typical American drama. It affected me, but not in a way that is particularly new to me.
-The play was written in 1996, set in 1982, and completely applicable in 2014. I applaud the playwright for making something timeless. Besides the convention of the landline telephone, these kids could be having the same conversations today.
-In the talkback a woman commented she didn't think the 80s vibe came through. Yeah, there was a record player, but the verbiage and dress and feeeeel weren't that of her youth. I would have to agree...but it was written in '96, so no one can accuse the playwright of making it too current.
-In the talkback some people discussed the characters as real people, others described the play as art, a high school girl in the front row squirmed and said "like" every other word. Usually she might seem like a stupid too-young culture-attempting child--but we had just seen high schoolers for two hours stumble their "likes" and still maintain importance, heart. Tonight, the theatre sort of belonged to this teen more than anyone else.
-There were a few other criticisms of the play. In fact, I would say half of the comments bent negative. Wow. This play is friggin going to Broadway and schmucks off the street are still badmouthing it half-heartedly. You're just not gonna please everyone. This was important to experience as a playwright.
-Live theatre IS special. There were two times the entire audience gasped. It felt so good, so magnetic, so...able to grasp in my hands. I will never forget those two moments. One was more surprise, and one came from our collective gut.
-At the very beginning of the talkback a woman raised her hand and said, "We didn't get it. Four women, all educated adults, we didn't get it." The moderator opened it up to the audience and a couple people sort of said what they got out of the play. I got something out of the play. Maybe not something I learned, but the play helped me solidified something I have thought before. But I wouldn't say that's what the play meant in general. I wanted to explain, "Sometimes the playwright doesn't give you a clear message, but then it's your duty to take home the themes and live your life differently because of how you interpreted them." But that would have sounded oh so pretentious. And then I was just really grateful for my literature education. How terrible to think there is a right way to experience a play.
-It was a three-person cast. All v good. In the talkback everyone kept referring to the one female character as "the girl." This is partially the audience's fault for remembering the two male names and not having the courtesy to remember JESSICA. But. Also. The first, like 40 minutes of the play involves the two guys talking about the cute girl, the cute girl Jessica, etc. So, she is just a girl. And then when she's literally the only appearing girl in the world of the play, she's just "the girl." Perhaps you might argue this is part of the atheistic of a play with two main young male protagonists--Jessica IS just "the girl." Ya know? Anyhoo, why not sidestep the whole thing and just write more than one woman or make her more important? I mean, yeah, I get it. I'm not gonna be the woman in the talkback insisting there be a woman in the one-man show about a man and his grandfather (true story of something I experienced once)--just something to consider.

My Personal Interpretation of the Play's Thesis:
-Do not offer things you do not want to give to make other people happy. You are not making them happy. You are not making you happy. Keep the cap.

Ideas from Clybourne Park

When I read Clybourne Park last year I didn't really like it. I got its merit, but I was like, "Meh." To be fair, I read half, and I was in a bonbon coma trying to read 30 plays in a day for a Production Committee meeting. I was still excited to see it, and oooooooh my God, ohmygod you guuuuuys (yes, that is a Legally Blonde the Musical reference) did it blast my expectations away. Last theatre I saw that I loved this much was on Broadway (Faith Healer).

-Challenging someone's taste that is the biggest offense. If you're ignorant, you are the idiot. If you don't like someone's taste, you are insisting they are.
-It's unclear whether or not simply saying what you really really mean to say, what you really really are thinking in the smallest darkest most primal, disgusting, rude, hateful corner of your mind is what the world needs (hey, we're all thinking it) or if it is impossible to truly access and convey, so might as well leave it unsaid/buried.
-Things never stay buried. But, those graves may outlast you at least.
-There are many outcasts. Some because of ignorance, others because of awkward, some because of practicality. It is better to include them in the trash you're shoveling than shovel around. At one point a character yelled "F YOU" to the deaf girl who had been ignored all night. This was a kind of act of love.
-Music is so moving.
-Movement is so beautiful.
-The benefit of being on bottom is having the moral superiority of being there.
-The benefit of being on the top is having the superiority of being there.
-No matter where you are on the ladder, someone is above. Someone is below. Most of of the time we're probably side by side. (I realize I am white middle class, so that may be the most naive view, but sue me.)
-Saying a horrible thing that happened can be both a scare tactic and/or a considerate necessity.
-I honestly don't know if it's just best to keep living in polite lies because the terrible things that arise from honest rashness are so juicy, so chewable, so ALIVE. And we are all supposedly ALIVE, so what a splash of cold water?
-Everything was to the T literary from the choice of Neapolitan ice cream (racial divides) to the repetition of a few key phrases ("you can't live in a principle"). I avoid this in my own playwriting because it seems so OBVIOUS. Like, what am I, Tennessee Williams lame-o Pop-Tart-eating feminist predecessor? But, when it's on stage, it's not obvious. It's like, cool. Ya dig?

"Can we come out and say what we're actually trying to say instead of doing this elaborate little dance around it?"

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.

No Credit

This semester I am taking four classes, TAing two, and working part-time. Also, rehearsals for improv nationals. I was strongly invested in taking a Performing Childhood theory course with the Theatre for Youth PhDs, but I knew it was stupid to push myself just that much over the limit. I decided to audit.

So, this class is fascinating to me. And I want to get the most from this opportunity. So I'm doing all the work. It's not horrible, but it makes a difference to have a few extra hours of reading per week. To me it's worth it...I think. The other day I felt grumpy about my audit decision. "I'm doing all this for nothing."

But I'm already going to graduate with an overflow of course credit. 3 more credits won't help or hurt me. I mean, technically, if I got an A in this class my GPA would bump up...but it's not like my GPA for my DEGREE IN PLAYWRITING is going to get me places in this world. Furthermore, I might have gotten a B. And then I'd just be bitter.

It's strange to do things for no reason. We do it all the time, of course. I am sitting on my front porch because it is sunny. No one has mandated that. I read an article about feminism and the Oscars this morning. I just wanted to. Really all these classes are silly. But in the context of getting something for something, it feels strange not to. A good thing to learn though. A very good thing.

When Really It's Closer Than It Is Too Far

I KNOW I put myself here willingly, but I am miserable staring at this stupid script. And I KNOW what I am doing has no real stakes, but it does. It does. It does. If this doesn't then nothing does because this is actually something I care about and love (or at least that's what I thought at one point). I KNOW it's a made-up degree in making things up, but we made up our whole world. Every degree is made-up in making up! And every stupid degree has repercussions for the made-up careers we have! That make up our dumb careening existence!

...Okay, I can't tell if I'm arguing nihilism or the validity of the arts at this point. Whatever. MEANWHILE, there's a meat industry!

Woof. I'm listening to my "Middle Skewl" playlist today. DON'T JUDGE ME. "In Too Deep" indeed.

The faster we're falling, we're stopping and stalling.
We're running in circles again.
Just as things were lookin' up, you said it wasn't good enough,
but still we're tryin' one more time.

That Is How I Know You Go On

When I finally pulled the suction from around my eye hard enough to lift my goggle onto my forehead, I had swam a mile. I only had a minute to cool down before I had to hit the showers if I was going to make it to Theory on time. I rolled onto my back and propelled slowly towards the North wall, watching the morning clouds over the palm trees.

Tonight I saw Titanic in 3D. I was excited all day. This morning, twelve hours before I would be in the theatre, I packed my theatre loyalty cup in my backpack, so I could get a large lemonade for a dollar. Forget the haters, I love this movie. One hundred years ago today Titanic set sail on its maiden voyage. It was destiny to buy half-off Easter candy at CVS with these comedy boyz and walk through the glowing outdoor mall and land in seats and watch the love story that moved me when I was ten.

As a fourth grader I really got the "Live life to the fullest" message. I wrote, "Life is a gift.-Jack Dawson" on a small slip of paper, folded it, and tucked it into my shoe before school the next day. Tonight I liked the message of willingness. Jack could not have planned to die by iceberg. Cal could not buy his way to Rose's heart or escape from the sink. Leo said something like, "We never know what cards we will be dealt." How two years ago I had no steamy idea of my future, and, yet, I have one. I could not have willed that. It's just what happened. How one year ago, my mom was living in England, and poof poof poof, changes occur and she's in a small Illinois bungalow. How one-hundred years ago tonight people were celebrating like their lives meant something, and in four days, they were bubbles and fish food. But their lives do mean something, even if they never could have guessed their lives would mean me screeching Celine Dion into the night as I stand, arms wide open on the handicap ramp outside the theatre.



And Rose laid on her back, in pain from the suction of the propellors, gazing up at the night stars.

Near, far, wherever you are.
I believe that the heart will go on.

True Meaning of Christmas

This morning I was sitting in church, and I was thinking about The True Meaning of Christmas. I think Jesus was a real neat dude. I know, I know, there's a good chance you probably don't believe he existed, and my theory is I don't really care. I like the guy--fiction or non, and I think we could learn a lot from his* lessons.

But I really don't think Christmas means Jesus to me. A. He probably wasn't really born December 25th. B. We should think about being good people all year (what I think Jesus symbolizes--or should). I don't love Christmas. I really don't. I like the build-up--like the songs and color schemes, but I find it a lame, sluggish, stressful, consumerist holiday BAGGGGH. I KNOW I RUIN EVERYTHING. Still, if I celebrate it, it should mean something. And, I think it does, but I don't know what exactly. Maybe family, I think. Something about it. Something about good cheer. I do believe in that. Peace--yes, I think peace is part of it. Bill Murray's Scrooged, stars, cute depictions of manger scenes, cookies, cartoon trees, George Bailey. I'm very very blessed to have my family.

I was icky sick on the drive from Pookie's to my dad's, so they drove. I sat in the front seat while my dad drove ahead in my car. After a while my sister's phone rang--"Checking on the Pookie," he said. My sister rubbed my neck.

Yesterday night I got to my mom's apartment in the city. "Voila!" she said. I had forgotten I had sent her a recipe for pumpkin cheesecake I found online. SHE HAD MADE IT. A great surprise.


Baker's Square French Silk.

*Purposeful non-capitalization.

Nevermind I'll Find

I declined a game of Hanging with Friends, a word game, with Chelle because she kept losing.
She says she's bad at the game, but she keeps playing. I don't understand.

She pole-vaulted in high school, and I asked Why? We were having late lunch together on Thursday at the bar on the corner of Apache. Happy hour nachos. There is a world record for vaulting, and most high schoolers are never going to get it.

Chelle explained, No, it's about your PR. That's it.

But what have you done then? What have you done besides arbitrarily gotten better? Lord knows the ghetto production of Neil's Simon's Fools I was in as a high school sophomore was no Tony Winning Gem, but we created something unable to be duplicated.

I said Why even invite the other teams? Why not just do your individual events and call them, compare scores over the phone and declare winners?

Today Chelle asked Why not play a subpar game of Hanging with Friends? I said I could not rationalize it. She said I do not have to rationalize everything, and I countered, "I do."
"Would you die if you didn't?"
"I will die regardless."
"But would that be the cause of your death? Would you explode if you didn't rationalize whether or not to play a game with me?"
She was testing my "I do"--implied "HAVE to rationalize." The word game.
I said, "Avoiding explosion isn't my motive for living."

In fact, I do think I have to rationalize. I do. Because I think my motive for living is to live a rational life.

...But then I arrive at the reoccurring conclusion that life has no rationality. And so even to live as rationally as possible still means swirling through a vortex of Made Up. And then what? Pole vault anyway? Play the game your opponent will lose?

You know how the time flies.
Only yesterday was the time of our lives.
We were born and raised in a summer haze
bound by the surprise of our glory days.