Nausea, Potatoes, Love

Wednesday night I went out with Blue Eyes and Boulder to our usual post-class haunt. I had had a headache at the end of class and knew I needed to eat. Pretty much as soon as I dismounted from my bike and walked up to their misted table, I wanted to vom. I needed food, and I needed it now. Extreme nausea extremely fast. I tried to be a decent human being but my cement mixing stomach was screaming, and I had to go sit in the bathroom for ten minutes because it was cool and I could avoid conversation (which was great conversation, but it made me open my mouth, which brought me closer to throwing up out of it).

The waitress did something I love waitresses to do--bring out appetizers (if that's all you order) with other people's food and not their salad. BUT NOT TONIGHT, LADY. I NEED THOSE POTATO SKINS IN MY BODY. I know it's silly in hindsight, but I did think I was going to implode, so I lost all sense of social grace and put my head on the table. I held my temple. I stripped my mask of "I'm okay" and let my peers see what was happening: my painful death. I whined a little. Blue Eyes looked concerned, and it's probably the first time I've ever seen what he's like as a father. "Oh no! This tomato is on my fork, but it's headed to your mouth!" Boulder airplaned a bite of salad to me. I scowled. I wanted a friendly potato--not an acidic demon plant. He did not act offended. He understood.

Finally my food came. I stripped the skins of their cheese and painfully ate one. My boys kept chipper but watchful of me, the island across the table whimpering as I chewed up two skins and boxed the rest. Blue Eyes paid for my meal, and Boulder offered to drive me. I said that wasn't necessary. He said he'd walk my bike back to my condo. I genuinely was feeling a little better, so I rode back alone. So grateful. I was supposed to go out with Pinto at 8. I cancelled via text like a jerk, but he responded, "Should I bring some soup and a cheesy DVD?"

I guess, what I mean is, people are really good, and we are cared for.

Also, that's how I ended up going to bed at 9 PM and thus waking up at 4 AM on Thursday.

One Nation, Of Individuals (with Liberty and Justice for All)

This semester my Dramatic Writing Workshop is reading Anne Bogart's A Director Prepares. Yesterday we discussed her essay on Memory, which is largely about Americans' lack of memory (recognition) of the shoulders we're standing on when it comes to theatre. A classmate noted that visual artists learn to copy before they can create. They're constantly making art, turning around, revisiting Picasso, Degas, Rembrandt, then mimicking for a while, then facing forward again and marching on.

Playwrights don't much do this. We think it's important to know the basics, but no one holds you to it. The sentiment appears to be "There's too much"--which is kind of true--we definitely don't have as succinct a canon as art history (or maybe I'm just telling myself that because I still haven't read, say, Raisin in the Sun). Not only are we forgiving about neglecting our past, we are absolutely unforgiving when it comes to dragging it along with us. It is not good to be impersonating another writer. If possible, our work should be nothing like anyone's ever seen before. Not only is this basically impossible, if it were possible, approaching the goal of sheer uniqueness in this way is like just deciding to take a running jump off a roof and say we will be the first human to fly. We need to walk before we can run--and absolutely before we can soar.

Why are we this way? Why do we want to be so new? Why can't we stand to repeat classics, to learn from what has come before us? Bogart says it's a matter of not recognizing and using our own culture because American culture is so jumbled and illusive. You can't pin it. Are we religious? Yes and no. Are we helpful? Yes and no. Are we obnoxious? Yes and no. We're not even unanimously rich or talented or polite or impolite. We have almost no common literary background. We have no ritual. I can get behind this theory of not using our culture because we don't have one, but I think a more likely reason we don't go back and reflect what has come before us is because part of our culture...actually probably the only consistent part of our culture is being individual. We were founded because of persecution, we like to protest and riot and be free, and thus...write new new works.

Desert morning. April 2012.

Just some stuff I'm thinking about at 4 AM...which is another story.

The world shines as I cross the Macon County Line.

Quotes from Ru

"Alice, I guess my question is why aren't we watching 'Clueless' and eating Oreos?"

Yosh, Shellz & Cheeze, Ru. May 2012.

"Omg I don't wanna talk about [only having on semester of school left]. I'm taking the whole "I'm just so over school and I'm ready to get out there and perform" approach. While secretly shoveling ice cream into my mouth to cope with the hysteria."

Best Sandwich Ever

Slab of mozzarella, laced with leaves.

Ciabatta as good--no--better

than the ones Kay's dad brought home from the bakery in Monterey.

We ate them on the couch while watching 12 Angry Men.

Buttery. Flakey. Thick.

I didn't think I could taste bread so good

and yesterday revisited that disbelief.

Hill said, "I will take you to the best sandwich ever,"

and it was not even a lie. Not even a little bit.

The semi-circle was hand-sized, comfortable,

and although the stories my friend told me were not pleasant,

there is something pleasant about it--

holding that cradle of tomato over brown butcher paper.

Life might be unfair, but it is just--

because we are walking justice.

Our positivity is the criminal system,

and if you refuse to be locked up,

you can't be.

Let them try.

You might bite down so hard your braces brackets break,

but still,

let them try.

In the end,

you might be at a picnic table

filling up on a champion lunch

and spinning your straw

in fresh whipped cream.

Summer: The Ghost

So many things happen so fast.

Kath & Me in our little wooded home and office. June 2012.

There was this book I read and loved--
the story of a ship,
who sailed around the world and found
that nothing else exists
beyond its own two sails
and wooden shell 
and what is held within.
All else is sure to pass.
We clutch and grasp
and debate what's truly permanent,
but when the wind starts to shift
there's no argument.

I sing and drink and sleep on floors
and try hard not to be annoyed
by all these people worrying about me,
so when I'm suffering through some awful drive
you occasionally cross my mind.
It's my hidden hope that you are still among them.
Well, are you?

No Other Day!

Woke up to a text from Heart who reminded me "Today is August 23, 2012! There will be no other day quite like it."
There's something about the first day of school. Something good.

This is surreal. I flew in yesterday--met by a giant bear hug from Boulder and a dinner invite. I sit at his counter getting the gossip and watching him chop peppers for his eggplant parmesan, which is my favorite.

It's effortless to punch in my garage code, second nature to climb the stairs and drop my bags in the bedroom on the left. "I have grown," I decide, so I shove my bed into the opposite corner.

I bike to campus like I've done it hundreds of times. Because I have. Curly is on the corner of Mill & University. We embrace like we've done it two times because we have and his shoulder hits my jugular as I say, "It's good to see you" so I sound like a drunk chipmunk.

I TA. I see many a familiar face. I TA. I regress to 14 as Hill and I write summer Q & A on the backs of syllabi while the professor lectures during Sex & Violence. Class is out early, and I decide I'd like a smoothie. I run into Blue Eyes! Who hasn't eaten all day but can be persuaded to make a meal of froyo with me. I wonder what we look like--the chicadee with first day braid and the grey-haired family man, discussing Mormon youth over pomegranate non-ice cream.

First day of Senior Year 2005 with SVC & Hunny. So long ago!

So this is happening. Year two, here we go.

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