It All Fades

The other night on the train a teenager was telling his friends casually he was an only child but his mom miscarried twice before he came around. They hung on the loops hanging above and chewed gum.

When I was in 1st grade? 2nd? a girl in my town died unexpectedly of an aneurysm. It was sad but beyond my grasp. It was within my grasp in high school. The family with the late daughter moved from their home, and my wild friend Knoze's family moved in. She had the girl's old room. Complete with bathroom, where the child died. We would often take turns pretending to have brain aneurysms on the toilet and laugh and laugh.

I'm watching this garbage documentary about JonBenet Ramsey while I write lesson plans. I think of "Jon Beignet Ramsey." I imagine a pastry with a curly blonde wig.

Tragedy in Drama

Just! Had! A! Veggie! Ranch! Burrito! With! Shine! (An grad school peer of mine who's in the city for a conference!) I dunno. I liked him in school, but I loved seeing his face. I'm missing AZ fiercely in this nineteen degree ice hole.

It occurred to me for a moment that he should read my new play. But then I  remembered he's in school and a full time teacher. He doesn't have time for that. I thought about offering to read his stuff, but I know I can't. I'm a writer, which means I write and have a full time career. Major art trap. All the talented muses I've ever met are too busy to quietly read each other's work. I bless those sweethearts who do.

All Stories Are Valid, Part One: Genius Resting

Spent most of yesterday feeling "So it goes" about Robin Williams. I, like every oxygen-breathing human on this earth, respected and loved him greatly. How many people can say they were given an okay doofy family comedy script about a cross-dressing old woman/dad and made it a beloved cultural artifact? The genie, the "stole my line" line. But it is what it is. Then last night I was just scrolling through Twitter and seeing how many people are deeply affected by this loss. I don't entirely feel allowed to really care about celebrity death because it's not like I have a personal connection with these people. And, yet, a sadness did lay its dark weight on my chest as I scrolled through all the tiny tweeted stories of a great man.

Bisque and I were driving into the bits of city sparkle. I mentioned how I wished it weren't physically possible to commit suicide without a letter. I am aware that a lot of the time (especially in these national headlines) there might be letters, but they are private. Bisque's response was, "I have trouble demanding something from someone who is in so much pain." That's why he's a better person than I am.

I just can't imagine why you wouldn't at least leave some questions answered, some clues for prevention in the future. Maybe some nasty, ugly viewpoints that people could digest and refute for themselves. People don't want to be remembered that way, okay. But what do they care? They will be dead. Yes, it's a different legacy than expected, but I just don't think there's anything but good from honesty.

No one would dismiss the man's greatness from his scared, sick confessions. It would give us something solid to build on. People say, "Don't glamorize suicide," but then what do we do? We gloss over the crusty parts of the human condition, cut to montages of the person at best, and how is that not glamour? Do not leave. Speak.

Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe diem.

Interesting Dirtbags

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

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

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

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

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

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

Solutions:

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

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

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

Muffy sippin' Jamba

She doesn't know who I am and

she doesn't give a damn about me.

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

Never Forget

Today Andrew McMahon announced that he will no longer be performing with Jack's Mannequin. This has seriously saddened me. I mean, yeah, I've seen him in concert six times, but I always thought I'd make it to fifteen. Ten at LEAST.

I have hope he will still perform in some capacity in the future...but it won't be the same. Just like how he would only play one SoCo song in the early says of JM...will all my favorites be pushed to the wayside? Will he even make any more music? He might not.

Most of the time, I believe things should die. Things are just things, and they are not meant to be forever. Friendships grow and change and dry. Fashions come in and go out. We get too old for camp. We get too serious to sleep-in. We get too relaxed to mince words.

But I always hoped that Andrew's music-making would outlive me.

Admittedly, his last album was my least favorite of them all. And, admittedly, I'm not the same gushing girl when he posts a blog on his website. I see his Instagram, and I'm like, "Yeah. Typical." I used to be in love with his hippy dip persona when I was a junior in college. Probably because that's the age when HE got popular, and, you know, I think he stayed there. And I didn't.

But, I still thought...I don't know. I still thought something.

Uptown Theatre in Kansas City. 2010 SoCo Reunion Tour.

Would it be in poor taste that this is the biggest tragedy that's ever happened on September 11th? Yes, I guess so. I won't say that.

You spin around me like a dream,
we played out on this movie screen,
and I said, "Did you know I miss you?"

EDIT: Coincidentally, I just saw this post went up at 11:11...

To a Long and Healthy Life

It occurs to me that people in Shakespeare's time did not live half as long as we do today. Yet, while watching Romeo and Juliet, I am sure both audiences felt rustled by the wheat fields of tiny hatreds they harvested in their hearts, felt crestfallen seeing that last poisonous kiss.

It doesn't matter the girl only had another, what, fifteen years anyway? Tragedy, tragedy--it's arbitrary and universal, no? Every age seems just too young and just too old. Goldylocks to infinity.


MARRIED. MUFF & JAMBA. Love in October 2010.

I have just started The House of the Spirits by Isabelle Allende for my dramaturgy class. I like it okay so far. I read this today:

"I was about twenty-five then, but I felt as if I had only a little life ahead of me to build my future and attain the position that I wanted." Which...is how I felt starting school, but I've been since calmed 1. By my creative fix coming in through improv and comedy. And, 2. Because there is no perfect life, creation, success, or, even, attempt.

SIDE: I know my closing lyrics today are ultra-cheeseball, but the song is quite beautiful and featured in Baz Luhrmann's R + J.

Pride can stand a thousand trials.
The strong will never fall,
but watching stars without you--
my soul cries.
Heaving heart is full of pain--
oh, oh, the aching.
'Cause I'm kissing you, oh.
I am kissing you.