Middling

It's Thanksgiving, and although I'm not with family or friends on this day, I am cuddled up in a blanket with three dogs snuggling close, the Punch Brothers playing softly, and a little fireplace space heater flickering in the corner. I am content.

This term has been absolutely insane, but I have had so many good experiences I would not change it in any way. I still have lots to do before finals (directing projects next week, groundplan and model for "The Tempest" design, Econ paper, play, and moving) but I think I can make it. I just have to actually sit down and do it.

I am particularly excited for my directing project, "Rope." I have a wonderful cast and crew who have worked tremendously hard in the very short time we had available to create what is a solid production. We still have work to do before tech (Monday!) but we're all taking a well-deserved break this weekend after some really wonderful rehearsals this past week. And the deeper we go into the script the more I love it. As it's a period piece written in 1929, part of the work we've been doing is to try and find ways to make it relevant to our world today. The play is, I believe, about apathy and disillusionment, and finding a sense of morality one character thought he had lost. We find this very prevalent today, as our generation has a tendency to worry about things like fashion and fame rather than the troubled state our world is in. We spoke about the Occupy Wall Street movement as an improv exercise before rehearsal on Tuesday and tried to connect it to our play, which with the recent violence and police abuse has become impossible to ignore. I have been reading a lot about the Occupy events recently and I am interested in doing theatre that deals with that issue and eminent revolution in the future, so I am trying to integrate my feelings into what we're doing right now (which is essentially a play about the 1% and how their situation and views on society lead to a motiveless murder). I wish we had a lot more time to work on this production, to explore and learn more, but as it is I am comfortable with where we are and I think it will be a good show.

After this term things will be slowing down considerably, which will allow me to read more, relax more, discover what I want more. The event of graduating and becoming a real adult is looming ever closer, and as exciting as that is, it's also terrifying. We'll see what happens. It will be exhilarating and intimidating.

How to be grown up
Always a Lost Boy inside
Grittiness of sand

Comforter

I know it's been a while since I posted, and I apologize. School started and things have been pretty crazy for the past couple of weeks. And it's only going to get crazier.

It's rather bizarre being back in school. It's strange to always be surrounded by people. Fun, but strange. I'm not popular but I'm well-liked, and it's led to me occupying a fairly queer place in the theatre department. First of all, I'm the assistant director for our Black Box show "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead." The play is vulgar and cruel and hilarious and heavy, but it ends with a measure of hope and is popular among the students. This assignment means I'm in a leadership position that people recognize and respect (Kyle, the director, has been very good about involving me in the actual rehearsal process, which I find refreshing). I'm also in the Intermediate Directing class, which consists of a 30-minute cut of a play presented at the end of the term. These projects are a big deal within the department, and we work with the Acting II class so we both gain valuable experience working with peers. This has the same effect as being an assistant director. That, and having been a den mom last year (with almost all my den babies still within the department), has created a role of "mom" within the department for me. At least, that's what it feels like. People stop me in the halls to get hugs, people pull me aside to talk about difficulties, people look to me for comfort and encouragement. I almost always have a positive outlook and am constantly telling everyone to calm down and let it work itself out. I don't mind, not at all. In fact, I rather enjoy it. However, it makes me terribly lonely. Who do I go to when I have problems? Who will put their arms around me and tell me it's going to be all right? Who will lift me when I'm down? I have friends in the department and out, but I want that one person who will always be there for me.

No worries. I'm just feeling a bit down today. I'm tired. I feel old.

A Study in Haiku

Unrequited love
As sure as the waxing moon
Solace in chocolate

Swift

She blinked
and a thousand words sifted through her eyelashes
The windows to her soul
were actually barred
Letting only the occasional sheet of feeling
slip between the rods in a shielded palm

Her lips remained locked
the current of emotion would go no further
than the dam of sticks made of her misgiving
Hers was a quiet love
the gentle swish of the washing machine
His a surge
devouring and uplifting

A cotton string was all
that tied her to another
Finding comfort in warm and tousled bedding
But inside
a chimney swift
tapped on the glass
of the window to her soul

9/11/11

It’s hard to believe it has been a decade since the September 11th tragedy. The whole thing has always been a little bit unreal for me, even watching videos and hearing first-hand accounts. Since the events on 9/11/01 many many things have happened, but everyone still remembers. It’s interesting to read and hear about where everyone was during the 9/11 attacks ten years ago: how they heard about it, where they were, who they lost. I remember exactly where I was. I was at home, getting ready to go to another typical day of middle school. I walked into the hallway with my backpack on, all set to walk out the door and to the bus stop down the street. I stopped in the doorway of the living room, where the television was on and my family was sitting and watching videos of the Twin Towers burning. I joined them, barely comprehending the magnitude of the tragedy, kneeling on the carpet with my backpack on.

The next few days were similarly surreal. At school we always watched a college-run news show called Channel One, and one day they did a story about Fremont and the large Afghan population there. It crossed my mind the story was about hate crimes directed at Middle Eastern-born Americans, but all I really thought was, “Hey! That’s where I grew up!” They filmed an interview by the fruit stand right outside our old apartment complex.

It took me years to fully understand the depth of the events that occurred on September 11th, 2001, and they are still just beyond my grasp. It wasn’t until I stood staring down into the rubble of Ground Zero and listening to a woman tell a story about her son, known only as “the man with the red bandanna,” a volunteer fireman who saved lives before losing his own, that I felt the chasm of sorrow associated with that day. It wasn’t until I stood looking at the countless memorials on display in the St. Paul chapel that I truly understood how many people lost their lives, how many people were deeply and personally affected by the catastrophe. Living in relative safety on the other side of the country, I never knew what it meant to have the World Trade Center fall.

Sometimes I think in terms of before and after. I see a movie set in New York and there are the Twin Towers, blazing in the sunlight, and I think, “This was before 9/11.” I read a book about Middle Easterners getting held up at the airport and I think, “This is because of 9/11.” National security before and after. The wars in the Middle East before and after. Friendships before and after. Families before and after. I didn’t personally know anyone who lost her life or even who lost someone dear to them, and my life didn’t really change before to after. But every year I hold a silent personal vigil: in the dedicated moment of silence at the Embassy, in a white flower with whispered well-wishings dropped into the river, in communion with the full moon.

As magnificent as the scope of tragedy that day held and in the years of aftermath, I can only believe in the goodness and resistance of the human soul. I am amazed at the tributes of art, music, novels, architecture, and film dedicated to those who lost their lives. People will find hope and strength and rise above wretchedness. They will stand together, bound by links that withstand time and tribulation. As my mother taught me, all people are inherently good, and I will believe till the day I die that when the day ends, people will do the right thing. People will come together and help each other. People will lift each other’s heads and hands and help each other live. People will find quiet strength in the community of the human spirit. People don’t wish harm on others. Even in the wake of tragedy, even in the crisis of financial ruin, even on the brink of destruction, people just want to live. Even in the supposed triumph of the killing of Osama Bin Laden, it’s still just another death. All we want is a quiet place to be still and listen and learn and love. We must and will rise above death and sorrow to create a stronger, more beautiful world. A world that has the resilience and trust that has been shown by countless individuals in the past ten years.

In the clear morning air
Smoke and dust and human souls
Rose above the shining Towers into the sky
Pillars of strength and internationalism
Brought down by impact
Metal on metal

Years later
Foundations rise
Hands build
Differences unite
Hope where once lay terror
And tears

In the wake of tragedy
A new light
Strength from sorrow
Faith through fear
Courage from calamity
A reviving city
Not a broken one

O brave new world, that has such people in it

In Time

Sorry it's been a while since I wrote last. After coming back from California I almost immediately started a house/dog-sitting job and I have been adjusting to the new schedule. I sleep at the house in Talent, get up, take care of the dog, go to work, come back, take care of the dog, hang around, take care of the dog, and then come back to Ashland for a bit to hang out with Stanley Copernicus before I go back to take care of the dog and go to bed. It's not very much work, but it's a pretty inflexible schedule and I'm still getting used to it. However, it's kind of fun and I've gotten used to showering outside and having dance parties to the music channels on cable. Only two more weeks and I'll be back to living at my own place (I've started to think of Talent as "home" now, which is kind of weird).

I had some strange dreams last night. There are two things I distinctly remember. One is Liz and I singing "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" to Mom while we were all seated in an auditorium, and some woman telling us to be quiet (she said something specific but I can't remember what it is now). The other part involved a giant gorilla (not unlike King Kong) called The Front Runner, and he was kind of like John the Baptist except instead of preparing us for the coming of Jesus he was a representative of the party of vampires that was soon to take over the Earth. Go figure.

I've a mixed mind when I think about the coming school year. On the one hand I'm involved in a lot of projects that will prove both interesting and challenging. On the other hand I'm involved in a lot of projects that will prove both interesting and challenging. I'm afraid I won't be able to put my full attention to everything and that my work will suffer. I'm not a complete perfectionist but I like to do my best wherever I can. We'll see how it goes. I'm wondering if Scene Design is offered in the Winter then I can postpone that for a semester and only take three classes. That will definitely lighten the work load. And after Fall I only need a few more classes to graduate. Yippee! I'm still waiting to hear back from OSF about the dramaturgy internship. Cross your fingers!

I wish I could write more, but I'm off to read "Jurassic Park" to my friend Jenna!

Shalom!

Blackberry Picking

There is something magical about the first blackberry picking expedition of the season. You step out of your front door into the rush of traffic and the flicker of lights and fifteen minutes later you are walking quietly along an abandoned railroad, feeling the caress of the late sun on your cheek. The season is early and only a few berries have begun to swell and gleam in the golden light. It is like a treasure hunt, your eyes darting back and forth to find the rare burst of blue-black amidst the sea of green and pink. You relish the simple sounds of the evening. The slither of water through the weeds and bamboo. The crackle of conversation between the crickets and the birds. The whisper and clatter of the trees as the wind turns their leaves into gentle castanets. Even the cars on the distant highway have a rhythm and melody of their own. You walk along the railroad track, keeping a keen eye on the bushes to the left. There are no ripe berries, and the ground is too steep. You turn around, focusing on the other side of the track. A berry here, a berry there, dropped into the plastic bag with a satisfying plop. And then, there it is. The first clump of ripe berries, clinging with plump self-satisfaction to the prickly branches. You step carefully but eagerly and thrust your hands into the bushes, heedless of waiting thorns or spiders, to pluck the fat berries from their perches. These are moments of joy: the rush of fulfillment when you have to tug a little too hard for the stubborn berry to come free, or the burst of childlike satisfaction when a too-ripe globe crumbles at the slightest touch and you have to greedily lick the burgundy juice from your fingers. And soon the bottom of your bag is covered as you break free every last ripe blackberry from the flowering plants, avoiding the temptation to eat as many as you pick. You step back, satisfied, knowing that in a few short weeks those berries left behind will swell and darken and be ready for your next expedition.

And then you walk home, crunching through the gravel and gripping your plastic bag, admiring the sinking sun and darkening sky as you slowly reenter civilization. The berries are washed in cool water, dried and re-bagged, and placed carefully, reverently, into the freezer. You shut the freezer door with a quiet pride, knowing that in no time at all you will be sharing your rich bounty with dear family, savoring the taste and smell of a town and state you have grown to love. As you eat every last bite and lick your spoon clean, you are reminded of the melodious evenings of blackberry picking that has brought this delight. And then once again, in a year or so, you will embark on the first blackberry picking expedition of the season, eager to share the lovely memories of an evening in the late sunlight.