This morning I woke up feeling like a giant spring had coiled up in my chest overnight. It grew tighter as the morning went on, making it hard to breathe and blocking my emotions while simultaneously making me want to lash out in cruelty and weep uncontrollably.
As I opened the site four people went walking on without admission stickers. Here is our conversation:
Me: Do you folks have your admisssion stickers?
Them: No.
Me: Well, there is an admission to be on site, so -
Them: We got here when it was closed.
Me: Well, that doesn't really matter. We're open now, so -
Them: That's okay. We're leaving.
Me: Well fuck you too then.
In all honesty, I muttered that last sentence to myself while I walked away. But I did say it.
I spent the whole day avoiding as many people as possible and harshly judging the rest of them, except the few who won their way into my good graces by being exceptional tourists and interesting people. The father of the little annoying boy who couldn't shut up while I talked was not one of those people. Neither was the father of the other annoying little boy on my other tour. It was a rough day.
When I realized I was PMSing it all clicked together in a way that almost made me cry. It was so nice to have an explanation for why I suddenly, thoroughly, deeply hated everyone around me.
Hormones. Gotta love 'em.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
School's Out, For Ever!
I'm done school! I passed my Oral Exam and am now a Guild Member!
How cool is that? I've wanted to be a member of a guild since I was 9 and now I am.
Sweet.
How cool is that? I've wanted to be a member of a guild since I was 9 and now I am.
Sweet.
Sorry...
...for not posting. The internet at my house is not very reliable anymore and after I'm done work I'm too lazy to walk to the office to post. Not a good excuse but there it is.
I've been working as a tour guide at a historic site. I'm at the point where I want to make stuff up on the tour - "And here we have a cart that the dwarves would ride in on their way to transform the coal in the mine into licorice candy, which we still sell today in the gift shop." or "These pigeons are the souls of miners who didn't fill their quota and were then trapped in this form until they could pick up the rest of their unloaded coal with their teensy beaks. Wave to the tormented miners, everybody! They taste like chicken!" - stuff like that.
But I don't. People tend to get upset if they don't feel they're getting their $7.00 worth. At least, the ones who pay do. Today I had two men whom I labled "The Stickerless Goons" because they tagged onto the end of my tour and then, when I caught them without proof of admission, looked all pleased with themselves for not paying. And did they go pay after the tour, like I told them to? No. Of course not.
At least no one cried on my tour. S. made two children cry by telling them a ghost story. One of our co-workers did the same thing a few days ago. What is with children in this day and age? Brats and whiners and cry-babies all. And no dogs shat (yes, shat, it's a word) on the train when I drove it. And there was no little girl sticking her hand up at every opportunity to ask "Can this be over now?" (starting two minutes in. I kid you not.), this time.
I know it takes all kinds but sometimes - I just want to bash some heads.
I've been working as a tour guide at a historic site. I'm at the point where I want to make stuff up on the tour - "And here we have a cart that the dwarves would ride in on their way to transform the coal in the mine into licorice candy, which we still sell today in the gift shop." or "These pigeons are the souls of miners who didn't fill their quota and were then trapped in this form until they could pick up the rest of their unloaded coal with their teensy beaks. Wave to the tormented miners, everybody! They taste like chicken!" - stuff like that.
But I don't. People tend to get upset if they don't feel they're getting their $7.00 worth. At least, the ones who pay do. Today I had two men whom I labled "The Stickerless Goons" because they tagged onto the end of my tour and then, when I caught them without proof of admission, looked all pleased with themselves for not paying. And did they go pay after the tour, like I told them to? No. Of course not.
At least no one cried on my tour. S. made two children cry by telling them a ghost story. One of our co-workers did the same thing a few days ago. What is with children in this day and age? Brats and whiners and cry-babies all. And no dogs shat (yes, shat, it's a word) on the train when I drove it. And there was no little girl sticking her hand up at every opportunity to ask "Can this be over now?" (starting two minutes in. I kid you not.), this time.
I know it takes all kinds but sometimes - I just want to bash some heads.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Storm Season
We've been getting some amazing storms here lately.
A few days ago the lights flickered while I was typing so I turned off the computer and went outside. The clouds were rolling - literally rolling - over, covering a blue, blue sky with grey and dove-purple and green and orange. Tornado clouds, but they were moving so fast the funnels got ripped apart before they could get started. I kept exclaiming, "Look! They're so beautiful!" while S. tried to text his roommate on his new cell phone, and then tried to get the camera part to work so he could take pictures. He is a cell phone person now, everything he's ever hated, but I think it's funny and he does need a phone. Anyway, as I exclaimed and he took photos, I looked up and saw the petals of flowers falling from an orange sky, backlit and beautiful. As they landed they turned into rain drops and soaked me.
It was worth it.
A few days ago the lights flickered while I was typing so I turned off the computer and went outside. The clouds were rolling - literally rolling - over, covering a blue, blue sky with grey and dove-purple and green and orange. Tornado clouds, but they were moving so fast the funnels got ripped apart before they could get started. I kept exclaiming, "Look! They're so beautiful!" while S. tried to text his roommate on his new cell phone, and then tried to get the camera part to work so he could take pictures. He is a cell phone person now, everything he's ever hated, but I think it's funny and he does need a phone. Anyway, as I exclaimed and he took photos, I looked up and saw the petals of flowers falling from an orange sky, backlit and beautiful. As they landed they turned into rain drops and soaked me.
It was worth it.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Damn Internet
It is only working sporadically. Hence the lack of posts.
Yesterday a lady on my tour took a photo of an orb with a face in it. It gave me shivers.
Today nothing interesting happened - just like King Louie XIV, 'rien' is today's blog note.
What happened in your lives today?
Yesterday a lady on my tour took a photo of an orb with a face in it. It gave me shivers.
Today nothing interesting happened - just like King Louie XIV, 'rien' is today's blog note.
What happened in your lives today?
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Train, Train Go Away
The hail hits the roof of the tipple as if on a mission to destroy it. “This give you an idea of how loud it would have been up here,” I shout over the noise, barely heard by the two people who have paid for the tour. Normally I would say a lot more but the noise is too difficult to compete with, the yelling tearing my voice. I should learn to project better, I think as I glance out the window to the ground 45 feet below where the train is rolling away through the dense mist of falling water and ice.
The train is rolling away.
I feel the instant need to stop it, to run down and stop it before it rolls off the end of the tracks and ruins itself, but there’s no way I can get down there – it’ll take me at least 8 minutes to get to the tracks and by then the train will be a heap of twisted muddy metal. As resignation slides over my body like icing over a cake, I notice the person huddled on the drivers seat, squished as small as possible as if he can fit in the space between the raindrops. His sweater is soaked through, making it the same colour as the train. I almost laugh with relief but instead pressed my hand to my heart – poor S., he’ll be soaked through for the rest of the day. Why isn’t he wearing a coat? But I don’t have time to wonder. The two people are looking at me expectantly and the hail has stopped. Time to talk again.
S. is sitting next to a heat vent when I walk into the interpreter’s building after the tour. His shoes are dark with water, resting on the floor beneath his feet. Just looking at his socks I can remember the feeling of wet clothes peeling off my body some summer long ago and I scrunch my nose. Ick. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m soaked,” he replies.
As I touch his shoulder I realize it’s not just a phrase – he’s living that memory of gritty cold wet clothes against his skin. “You’re going to get sick,” I say. “I’ll take your next tour.”
He refuses my offer and instead makes me go get his spare shoes from the trunk of his car. It’s still raining outside, and I hunch your shoulders against the drops. Why do people do this, I wonder. Hunching your shoulders doesn’t get you less wet. But I continue to the car, get his little rubber shoes and come back. He doesn’t change his socks before thrusting his feet into the shoes. He doesn’t have socks here to change into.
“Where’s your coat?” I ask.
“At home,” he says. “I didn’t bring it.”
“I’m taking your tour.” I really don’t want to. I want to sit and eat my lunch and read my book, but there’s no way he can go out again into that weather. If he gets pneumonia I’ll never get rid of the guilt.
He pulls someone’s rain coat off the wall and ignores me, heading out into the rain. I hesitate at the doorway, as if he’ll suddenly change his mind and come back although I know that isn’t true. He’s too stubborn. I should have been more forceful, I should have suppressed my hunger for food, my hunger for words, for warmth, pushed it down out of sight. It probably showed and that’s why he didn’t let me do his job. But as I sit and open my book I feel a guilty happiness that it isn’t me out in the wet and cold.
The train is rolling away.
I feel the instant need to stop it, to run down and stop it before it rolls off the end of the tracks and ruins itself, but there’s no way I can get down there – it’ll take me at least 8 minutes to get to the tracks and by then the train will be a heap of twisted muddy metal. As resignation slides over my body like icing over a cake, I notice the person huddled on the drivers seat, squished as small as possible as if he can fit in the space between the raindrops. His sweater is soaked through, making it the same colour as the train. I almost laugh with relief but instead pressed my hand to my heart – poor S., he’ll be soaked through for the rest of the day. Why isn’t he wearing a coat? But I don’t have time to wonder. The two people are looking at me expectantly and the hail has stopped. Time to talk again.
S. is sitting next to a heat vent when I walk into the interpreter’s building after the tour. His shoes are dark with water, resting on the floor beneath his feet. Just looking at his socks I can remember the feeling of wet clothes peeling off my body some summer long ago and I scrunch my nose. Ick. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m soaked,” he replies.
As I touch his shoulder I realize it’s not just a phrase – he’s living that memory of gritty cold wet clothes against his skin. “You’re going to get sick,” I say. “I’ll take your next tour.”
He refuses my offer and instead makes me go get his spare shoes from the trunk of his car. It’s still raining outside, and I hunch your shoulders against the drops. Why do people do this, I wonder. Hunching your shoulders doesn’t get you less wet. But I continue to the car, get his little rubber shoes and come back. He doesn’t change his socks before thrusting his feet into the shoes. He doesn’t have socks here to change into.
“Where’s your coat?” I ask.
“At home,” he says. “I didn’t bring it.”
“I’m taking your tour.” I really don’t want to. I want to sit and eat my lunch and read my book, but there’s no way he can go out again into that weather. If he gets pneumonia I’ll never get rid of the guilt.
He pulls someone’s rain coat off the wall and ignores me, heading out into the rain. I hesitate at the doorway, as if he’ll suddenly change his mind and come back although I know that isn’t true. He’s too stubborn. I should have been more forceful, I should have suppressed my hunger for food, my hunger for words, for warmth, pushed it down out of sight. It probably showed and that’s why he didn’t let me do his job. But as I sit and open my book I feel a guilty happiness that it isn’t me out in the wet and cold.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Simulated Cleaning
I should be cleaning the house.
I really don't feel like it.
So instead I've avoided. I've gone outside, spent too much time online, and chatted with my dad in multiple emails. He's going to a workshop where they practice on a simulated patient (he's a nurse) that they can kill and revive. I've also planned to make a pizza.
Which means cleaning the kitchen.
Yesterday I played Rock Band...it's a fun game. Too bad I don't know more of the songs.
If only I could play a simulated house cleaning game that made cleaning fun...
I really don't feel like it.
So instead I've avoided. I've gone outside, spent too much time online, and chatted with my dad in multiple emails. He's going to a workshop where they practice on a simulated patient (he's a nurse) that they can kill and revive. I've also planned to make a pizza.
Which means cleaning the kitchen.
Yesterday I played Rock Band...it's a fun game. Too bad I don't know more of the songs.
If only I could play a simulated house cleaning game that made cleaning fun...
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Jacob
We start the long arduous hike into the hills. We aren’t even 80 steps up when Jacob tries to push past me.
“You have to follow me, remember?” I say, gently guiding him behind me.
He whines but steps in line. I stop to interpret the layers in the rock we are climbing and Jacob darts past me. “You have to go behind me!” I repeat. More whining but he obeys.
We climb some more. He pushes ahead. I repeat the rules, he whines, and each time gets in line with more and more reluctance until he’s really not listening to me anymore. His teacher makes an effort to get him to go to the back of the line where both the teacher and the chaperone are (which, might I add, is not helping me one bit). When we get to the plateau, the kids run every which way and very little, if any, of what I’m trying to teach them about rocks is getting through. It’s a garboil if ever I saw one.
By the end of the hike I’ve decided that I don’t like 3rd graders.
As we arrive back at the gift shop, his teacher turns to me and says, "ADHD The Movie: Starring Jacob" as way of explanation and, I think, apology. It makes sense of Jacob's behaviour and I wish I'd known that at the beginning of the hike. Maybe I could have used Jacob's energy instead of fighting it the whole time.
It's all a learning experience, I guess.
Even if all we learned by the time the tours were done was that all 6 of us tour guides don’t want kids anymore.
“You have to follow me, remember?” I say, gently guiding him behind me.
He whines but steps in line. I stop to interpret the layers in the rock we are climbing and Jacob darts past me. “You have to go behind me!” I repeat. More whining but he obeys.
We climb some more. He pushes ahead. I repeat the rules, he whines, and each time gets in line with more and more reluctance until he’s really not listening to me anymore. His teacher makes an effort to get him to go to the back of the line where both the teacher and the chaperone are (which, might I add, is not helping me one bit). When we get to the plateau, the kids run every which way and very little, if any, of what I’m trying to teach them about rocks is getting through. It’s a garboil if ever I saw one.
By the end of the hike I’ve decided that I don’t like 3rd graders.
As we arrive back at the gift shop, his teacher turns to me and says, "ADHD The Movie: Starring Jacob" as way of explanation and, I think, apology. It makes sense of Jacob's behaviour and I wish I'd known that at the beginning of the hike. Maybe I could have used Jacob's energy instead of fighting it the whole time.
It's all a learning experience, I guess.
Even if all we learned by the time the tours were done was that all 6 of us tour guides don’t want kids anymore.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Where the Coal Train Loads
I'm working at the Coal Mine now, which means that I've spent the last four days reading miner stories and miner interviews and mining history, with a bunch of geology thrown in for good measure. I'm taking Geo Hikes up the hills next week which will be fun since I've never witnessed one of these hikes - I get to wing it. With Grade 3's. Hopefully it'll all work out.
I have an audition in Edmonton next Monday. I hope it goes well. It's for a touring company that tours Shakespeare into schools. I think I'd enjoy it...I like Shakespeare...but we'll see.
And that's the up-date for my life.
I have an audition in Edmonton next Monday. I hope it goes well. It's for a touring company that tours Shakespeare into schools. I think I'd enjoy it...I like Shakespeare...but we'll see.
And that's the up-date for my life.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Life in the Last Few Days
I auditioned for a film agent. T. and I left Craving rehearsal early and rushed over to the building, getting there fifteen minutes late. There were four people ahead of us when we got there – L. and three U of A grads who were most entertaining. They were so friendly and chatty that by the time the voice from the bottom of the stairs called me in for my audition I was relaxed and ready to have fun. I felt pretty good about the audition – until I heard back from the agency last night. They aren’t ready to put me on the roster, said the lady, which is fine. I don't think I'm really that interested in film. Her feedback is what I've been obsessing over.
On Emerge: I was subtle and understated which they really liked, since so many people were over the top and theatrical. (Great. I'm too subtle for theatre work.) However, I had a lot of emotion in my pieces, and they thought I did great. In the audition for them, though, I was too exact with the text. (So I have too many theatre habits to be a film actor. Damn. I’m too much of a theatre actor for film and too subtle to get any work in theatre.)
This was still eating at me when I woke up the next morning. One day I’ll learn to let go of these things. For now I still need to take the deep breaths and remind myself that I have something to offer, “even if I’m not quite sure yet what that is.”
Craving opened to a full house. Every time I looked out into the audience the bodies and blurred faces startled me. I haven’t played to real people for a while but it was nice. I heard laughter I recognized and saw faces I knew.
I’m trying to describe things in more sensory detail but I don’t have any memories of the senses last night – except the wonderful chocolate cupcake from Crave that the producer bought for us; the mass of caramel that stuck to my teeth after I ate the Rolo; the panic of chocolate-choking that happens when you inhale the vapour of chocolate melted in your mouth as I was trying to speak; the keen awareness of eyes as people were watching me ‘puke’ on stage; the gasp of the audience when I said I was 72 pounds. The smarting in my eyes, the swelling of my lungs, the anger in my chest as I rode the roller coaster through the show.
I hope it goes well right to the end of the run – only three more days, four more shows.
On Emerge: I was subtle and understated which they really liked, since so many people were over the top and theatrical. (Great. I'm too subtle for theatre work.) However, I had a lot of emotion in my pieces, and they thought I did great. In the audition for them, though, I was too exact with the text. (So I have too many theatre habits to be a film actor. Damn. I’m too much of a theatre actor for film and too subtle to get any work in theatre.)
This was still eating at me when I woke up the next morning. One day I’ll learn to let go of these things. For now I still need to take the deep breaths and remind myself that I have something to offer, “even if I’m not quite sure yet what that is.”
Craving opened to a full house. Every time I looked out into the audience the bodies and blurred faces startled me. I haven’t played to real people for a while but it was nice. I heard laughter I recognized and saw faces I knew.
I’m trying to describe things in more sensory detail but I don’t have any memories of the senses last night – except the wonderful chocolate cupcake from Crave that the producer bought for us; the mass of caramel that stuck to my teeth after I ate the Rolo; the panic of chocolate-choking that happens when you inhale the vapour of chocolate melted in your mouth as I was trying to speak; the keen awareness of eyes as people were watching me ‘puke’ on stage; the gasp of the audience when I said I was 72 pounds. The smarting in my eyes, the swelling of my lungs, the anger in my chest as I rode the roller coaster through the show.
I hope it goes well right to the end of the run – only three more days, four more shows.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Snapshot
The porcupine looked up, his confused little face all bunched up against the bright lights of my car.
Car: Thunk.
Me: Oh no! Oh no!
T.: [starts moaning softly in the seat beside me]
A.: [begins laughing in the back seat]
Me: I've never killed an animal with my car before!
[We go back to look for the poor little thing but can find neither hide nor hair nor quill, so we conclude that since I only hit it with my bumper and I'd slowed down a lot, that I only gave it a small concussion and it went on it's way, hopefully wiser for the experience.]
Car: Thunk.
Me: Oh no! Oh no!
T.: [starts moaning softly in the seat beside me]
A.: [begins laughing in the back seat]
Me: I've never killed an animal with my car before!
[We go back to look for the poor little thing but can find neither hide nor hair nor quill, so we conclude that since I only hit it with my bumper and I'd slowed down a lot, that I only gave it a small concussion and it went on it's way, hopefully wiser for the experience.]
Saturday, May 10, 2008
A Little Freaked Out
Why?
Because I've been informed of 3 - count it, people, 3 - engagements in the last 10 days.
All among my peers.
I am joining the generation of people coupling up and settling down. I didn't think I was that old yet! I don't feel that old yet. Or mature. How - when - did this happen?
But it is spring, so I guess love is in the air. And with love, comes a lot of wedding bells.
Even if it does freak me out a little.
Because I've been informed of 3 - count it, people, 3 - engagements in the last 10 days.
All among my peers.
I am joining the generation of people coupling up and settling down. I didn't think I was that old yet! I don't feel that old yet. Or mature. How - when - did this happen?
But it is spring, so I guess love is in the air. And with love, comes a lot of wedding bells.
Even if it does freak me out a little.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Good Day
I'm trying Safari on my computer. The more I have to do with Macs and their software, the more I like them. I think when I have to replace this computer, I'll get a Mac.
Speaking of replacing things - I think I need to get a smaller car. Mine is still in good shape and runs really well - especially when you consider it has 293,000 kilometers on it - but with gas prices going the way they are, I just can't afford to drive it anymore. 22 mpg just doesn't cut it.
I just came from the second full run we've done of the show I'm in rehearsals for. We open in two weeks and I think we'll be ready. At the end we did press shots and we got to eat cream puffs. The show is about a girl with an eating disorder (played by me), which is why the cream puffs had relevance to the photo shoot. I like that we got to eat them for real when the photo is all about me distancing myself from food.
Right now S. is about to begin his last performance of the show he's in. I'm so proud of him. He's done really well. Of course I may be a bit biased - but he is a really talented actor and it makes my heart do a little dance to see him do what he loves to do, and do it so well.
It's spring here - the frogs are singing loudly, the ducks and geese are (probably) eating them with satisfaction, and I'm putting my roses outside for a few hours a day so they can get used to the breeze - and hopefully the bugs that have been slowly killing them will go away and find some hardier wild plant to infest.
Top that all off with a visit from L., and I'm having a pretty darn good day.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Innocent and Ignorant Are Not the Same Thing
I'm sitting at home, making a roast chicken dinner. This should calm me, but instead I'm sitting here obsessing over the fact that I may have just made a huge fool of myself on this blog.
I've since edited the offending post, but originally in my "Emerging" post I mentioned some people by name, as well as some of my musings or observations of them. I wasn't meaning any of that to be rude or disrespectful, but it also never occurred to me that when I mention people by name, my blog is only a Google-click away.
I feel like such a fool. Nothing that I wrote was a particular secret - I chatted about all of what I wrote with my friends at one point or another, and I knew that most of them could read it anyway - but upon reflection I see how what I wrote could be seen as insulting or just plain rude.
That's the worst of it for me. I have just put myself out there (semi-anonymously) as this completely rude person when I really didn't mean it that way.
I feel like a toddler, too, just learning that my observations and thoughts on people that I genuinely liked when I met them have potential to hurt them and myself. I tell myself that I should have learned this when I was 3. Really, girl, think about what you say before you shake out your writing fingers next time, I scold.
Then I have to take a deep breath and remember to forgive myself and let go. And I realize that my knee-jerk impulse to just never show my face in the theatre scene again is probably a bit of an overreaction. I've done all I can to rectify the situation, there's nothing else I can do.
Let's just hope I've learned something from this and that it never, ever, EVER happens again.
I've since edited the offending post, but originally in my "Emerging" post I mentioned some people by name, as well as some of my musings or observations of them. I wasn't meaning any of that to be rude or disrespectful, but it also never occurred to me that when I mention people by name, my blog is only a Google-click away.
I feel like such a fool. Nothing that I wrote was a particular secret - I chatted about all of what I wrote with my friends at one point or another, and I knew that most of them could read it anyway - but upon reflection I see how what I wrote could be seen as insulting or just plain rude.
That's the worst of it for me. I have just put myself out there (semi-anonymously) as this completely rude person when I really didn't mean it that way.
I feel like a toddler, too, just learning that my observations and thoughts on people that I genuinely liked when I met them have potential to hurt them and myself. I tell myself that I should have learned this when I was 3. Really, girl, think about what you say before you shake out your writing fingers next time, I scold.
Then I have to take a deep breath and remember to forgive myself and let go. And I realize that my knee-jerk impulse to just never show my face in the theatre scene again is probably a bit of an overreaction. I've done all I can to rectify the situation, there's nothing else I can do.
Let's just hope I've learned something from this and that it never, ever, EVER happens again.
Heart Attack
It never occured to me that people could find my blog if I mentioned them, simply by googling themselves.
A wake up call and a heart attack rolled into one. Thank God the fellow who told me this was kind about it.
A wake up call and a heart attack rolled into one. Thank God the fellow who told me this was kind about it.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Emerging
Emerge. This is an event organized for all of the graduating acting students in Alberta to come and have an emerging audition for all of the artistic directors and freelance directors and theatre companies in Alberta. It’s a whole day of audition after audition, shown in four minute chunks divided by a bell if you go over time. Every student goes to Edmonton and Calgary, to two different groups of AD’s and theatre companies, with the same two pieces.
My class just finished this event. I thought we all did really well in Edmonton and even better in Calgary. Both days were long, though - leaving home at 8:00 and not getting back until late in the evening, all for an audition that flew by and a chance to schmooze with people after the day was over. We sipped glasses of complimentary wine and snacked on cheese and fruit and stood around.
I hate schmoozing. It seems pointless to me. Isn’t it too obvious that what I want from you is a job? Doesn’t this feel like I have an agenda in speaking to you? How can anything sincere come out of this? I feel dirty and gross and it’s an integral part of the career I’ve chosen.
I don't think I did too well in Edmonton, but I think I was better prepared in Calgary. Plus the wine and cheese thing in Calgary was just more friendly in atmosphere and environement, being held in a lovely venue.
At both events S. gets told that he did good work but is probably going to have to take out his piercing. A lady who knows one of my friends comes over and tells us that we all rushed our transitions between pieces but that we kicked ass – “Rosebud always does”. Someone else tells us that we were exceptionally clear. Some people don't talk to us at all.
Nothing gets reinforced to me except that everything is relative and I really can’t take what people say seriously in this career.
This is the stupidest line of work a person can possibly pursue. But I can't deny my heart and so I keep moving forward, which I guess is all I can do.
My class just finished this event. I thought we all did really well in Edmonton and even better in Calgary. Both days were long, though - leaving home at 8:00 and not getting back until late in the evening, all for an audition that flew by and a chance to schmooze with people after the day was over. We sipped glasses of complimentary wine and snacked on cheese and fruit and stood around.
I hate schmoozing. It seems pointless to me. Isn’t it too obvious that what I want from you is a job? Doesn’t this feel like I have an agenda in speaking to you? How can anything sincere come out of this? I feel dirty and gross and it’s an integral part of the career I’ve chosen.
I don't think I did too well in Edmonton, but I think I was better prepared in Calgary. Plus the wine and cheese thing in Calgary was just more friendly in atmosphere and environement, being held in a lovely venue.
At both events S. gets told that he did good work but is probably going to have to take out his piercing. A lady who knows one of my friends comes over and tells us that we all rushed our transitions between pieces but that we kicked ass – “Rosebud always does”. Someone else tells us that we were exceptionally clear. Some people don't talk to us at all.
Nothing gets reinforced to me except that everything is relative and I really can’t take what people say seriously in this career.
This is the stupidest line of work a person can possibly pursue. But I can't deny my heart and so I keep moving forward, which I guess is all I can do.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tagged
I tagged myself from Hope's blog when I had the flu and almost forgot about it entirely.
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. This last one might not happen since I don't think I know five bloggers - so tag yourselves. I'm changing the rules.
1)What was I doing 10 yrs ago?
I was 14, so I was doing some school and spending vast amounts of time outside playing and taking care of animals. It was a good life.
2) What are 5 things on my to-do list for today (not in any particular order):
I need to phone my old music teacher and ask about a mini-disc recorder, so that I can record some stuff for my mom who is making a radio documentary for Outfront.
I have to remember to email rehearsal reports before rehearsal this evening for L.'s final project.
Other than that, my day is my own.
3) Snacks I enjoy:
Tostitos with hot, hot salsa; Stoned Wheat Thins with either pickles (Vlasic, the pickles that sound so great) or dark chocolate; chocolate in any form. Sometimes fruit.
4) Things I would do if I were a billionaire:
I would pay all of my friends student loans, and my own, and create a few really great scholarships for this place, and then I think I'd invest in a really good and practical hybrid car. I'd also build wells for every village in Africa that I could find. And, lets face it, I'd go clothes shopping. And I'd build or buy myself a house somewhere, but first I'd have to figure out where I want to live.
5) Three of my bad habits:
Living in the future or the past instead of the present; letting fear be my guide; swearing. I think I swear a little too much.
6) 5 places I have lived:
The Bailey House, where we had a lovely classic barn where the chickens would lay eggs in the floor of the loft and my brothers and I saw a green orb that was watching us with friendly curiosity; The Laverick House, where every spring our animals would double, triple, quadruple in number and we'd go on quiet hunts to find hidden nests of kittens and chicks; The Star House, where I had a room with a tiny window that was too high to jump out of anyway and I learned that I need more than one way out of my bedroom or I feel trapped; The Dahlen House, where I had many, many late night hallway talks with my best friends; This house, where I am happy.
7) 5 jobs I have had:
I've been a librarian, a hostess at a restaurant, a janitor at a welding shop (which was the worst job I've ever had for multiple reasons), a supervisor at A&W, and in a month I'll be working at a coal mine. Should be fun!
8) 5 peeps I wanna know more about:
My love, S.; my friends, R. and L. and T.; my roommate J. And myself, but that makes six.
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. This last one might not happen since I don't think I know five bloggers - so tag yourselves. I'm changing the rules.
1)What was I doing 10 yrs ago?
I was 14, so I was doing some school and spending vast amounts of time outside playing and taking care of animals. It was a good life.
2) What are 5 things on my to-do list for today (not in any particular order):
I need to phone my old music teacher and ask about a mini-disc recorder, so that I can record some stuff for my mom who is making a radio documentary for Outfront.
I have to remember to email rehearsal reports before rehearsal this evening for L.'s final project.
Other than that, my day is my own.
3) Snacks I enjoy:
Tostitos with hot, hot salsa; Stoned Wheat Thins with either pickles (Vlasic, the pickles that sound so great) or dark chocolate; chocolate in any form. Sometimes fruit.
4) Things I would do if I were a billionaire:
I would pay all of my friends student loans, and my own, and create a few really great scholarships for this place, and then I think I'd invest in a really good and practical hybrid car. I'd also build wells for every village in Africa that I could find. And, lets face it, I'd go clothes shopping. And I'd build or buy myself a house somewhere, but first I'd have to figure out where I want to live.
5) Three of my bad habits:
Living in the future or the past instead of the present; letting fear be my guide; swearing. I think I swear a little too much.
6) 5 places I have lived:
The Bailey House, where we had a lovely classic barn where the chickens would lay eggs in the floor of the loft and my brothers and I saw a green orb that was watching us with friendly curiosity; The Laverick House, where every spring our animals would double, triple, quadruple in number and we'd go on quiet hunts to find hidden nests of kittens and chicks; The Star House, where I had a room with a tiny window that was too high to jump out of anyway and I learned that I need more than one way out of my bedroom or I feel trapped; The Dahlen House, where I had many, many late night hallway talks with my best friends; This house, where I am happy.
7) 5 jobs I have had:
I've been a librarian, a hostess at a restaurant, a janitor at a welding shop (which was the worst job I've ever had for multiple reasons), a supervisor at A&W, and in a month I'll be working at a coal mine. Should be fun!
8) 5 peeps I wanna know more about:
My love, S.; my friends, R. and L. and T.; my roommate J. And myself, but that makes six.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Just a Quick Note...
...to say that I went to Emerge, which is an audition that graduating acting students go to once in their life to present themselves as they emerge into the acting scene to all the theatre companies in Alberta who care to attend (85 this year), and I not only survived, I feel I did pretty well.
Yeay!
Now I'm off to rehearsal for Craving, a show I'm in that goes up in May at Fire Exit Theatre in Calgary. Hint, hint, plug, plug.
Yeay!
Now I'm off to rehearsal for Craving, a show I'm in that goes up in May at Fire Exit Theatre in Calgary. Hint, hint, plug, plug.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Pancake Theory Part II
I feel a need to explain the “Pancake Theory” post a little bit.
Last year, there was a young man here at the school. In the year that he was here he spent a lot of time with me and my friend R. I spent a lot of time listening to him in the first term, because he was crushing hard-core for R. and needed someone to talk to. After he talked to R. about how he felt (they never did go out) they spent more time together, and the three of us did dinner music together for a few months.
R. and I both counted him as a friend. Then he went home, just for the summer. We both heard from him once or twice. His only email to me did sound a bit strange – too chipper, too insistent that there were no problems between him and his parents which I thought was odd since I hadn’t thought there were problems and thus hadn’t said anything about it in my email to him. There was some scattered muttering about whether we would ever see him again – and then his father and uncle came into Rosebud and cleared out his room, leaving a typed, formal letter with the school that he wouldn’t be coming back to school in the fall.
This came out of the blue to some people and some nodded and said they’d seen it coming.
Since then, however, we haven’t heard a peep from this young man. Not a whisper, not a sign that he’s alive. He’s been deleted from Facebook, he vanished from MSN Messenger, and as far as anyone knew, emails were vanishing into cyber-space. If people phoned, his father would very curtly tell them that he wasn’t there and he wouldn’t offer to take a message. It fuelled the speculation, which went on for months – a long time considering he was only here a year. That should give you an idea of how much people liked this fellow and how odd it seemed that he just suddenly cut us all out of his life. It was very dramatic.
Some people in town (and I might add, these people are extremely sane people, who surprised me greatly with this train of thought) came up with a theory – they decided that this young man was being kept captive in his bedroom by his parents and being fed pancakes under the door.
I didn’t completely buy into the theory, but I did think about tracking him down in person, or phoning the police in his hometown and reporting a missing person, but with some thought I dismissed it as too extreme.
Or was it? [The suspenseful music begins here.]
I continued to email this young man, without expecting a response, just because I cared about him and wanted him to know what was going on in my life. In my last email to him I felt a compulsion to give him my blog address, so I did.
And he left a comment on this very blog! He refers to himself as a dinner music partner, and since only two of my dinner music partners know of my blog (him and R.) and R. didn’t leave that post (I asked her) it must have been him. I was very excited to hear from him, but even so didn’t want to pressure him into correspondence or anything.
(In case that comment gets deleted, I’ve retyped it here:
Your a very interesting person R. I never knew there was so much going on inside of that head of yours. May the Holy Spirit bless you with his riches and may he really make himself known to you. He's still living you know. All of the things written of in Acts still happen today. I love you with the love of the Lord. He loves you with such a love, oh wow it's powerful.
A certain Dinner Music Partner
Beloved Marriage
This was instantly bounced back to me, because his email address is suddenly permanently not available. So I’ve either been super-blocked or he’s deleted his email address.
Or his parents have.
It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why, after almost a year of emailing him, would he suddenly decide to block me now? And why block me after finally contacting me? And why was his message to me so bizarre?
I’m back to the pancake theory, people. I’m back to the pancake theory.
(Although, as S. had great fun pointing out last night, he could also be fed cheese slices, pizza, pitas, peanut butter on a playing card, ice cream mashed under the door – he went on for quite a while, until I explained that “Pancake Theory” has a much better ring than “Pancake/Pita/Pizza/Cheese Slices/Peanut Butter on a Playing Card/Mushy Ice cream Theory”. And it does.)
Last year, there was a young man here at the school. In the year that he was here he spent a lot of time with me and my friend R. I spent a lot of time listening to him in the first term, because he was crushing hard-core for R. and needed someone to talk to. After he talked to R. about how he felt (they never did go out) they spent more time together, and the three of us did dinner music together for a few months.
R. and I both counted him as a friend. Then he went home, just for the summer. We both heard from him once or twice. His only email to me did sound a bit strange – too chipper, too insistent that there were no problems between him and his parents which I thought was odd since I hadn’t thought there were problems and thus hadn’t said anything about it in my email to him. There was some scattered muttering about whether we would ever see him again – and then his father and uncle came into Rosebud and cleared out his room, leaving a typed, formal letter with the school that he wouldn’t be coming back to school in the fall.
This came out of the blue to some people and some nodded and said they’d seen it coming.
Since then, however, we haven’t heard a peep from this young man. Not a whisper, not a sign that he’s alive. He’s been deleted from Facebook, he vanished from MSN Messenger, and as far as anyone knew, emails were vanishing into cyber-space. If people phoned, his father would very curtly tell them that he wasn’t there and he wouldn’t offer to take a message. It fuelled the speculation, which went on for months – a long time considering he was only here a year. That should give you an idea of how much people liked this fellow and how odd it seemed that he just suddenly cut us all out of his life. It was very dramatic.
Some people in town (and I might add, these people are extremely sane people, who surprised me greatly with this train of thought) came up with a theory – they decided that this young man was being kept captive in his bedroom by his parents and being fed pancakes under the door.
I didn’t completely buy into the theory, but I did think about tracking him down in person, or phoning the police in his hometown and reporting a missing person, but with some thought I dismissed it as too extreme.
Or was it? [The suspenseful music begins here.]
I continued to email this young man, without expecting a response, just because I cared about him and wanted him to know what was going on in my life. In my last email to him I felt a compulsion to give him my blog address, so I did.
And he left a comment on this very blog! He refers to himself as a dinner music partner, and since only two of my dinner music partners know of my blog (him and R.) and R. didn’t leave that post (I asked her) it must have been him. I was very excited to hear from him, but even so didn’t want to pressure him into correspondence or anything.
(In case that comment gets deleted, I’ve retyped it here:
Your a very interesting person R. I never knew there was so much going on inside of that head of yours. May the Holy Spirit bless you with his riches and may he really make himself known to you. He's still living you know. All of the things written of in Acts still happen today. I love you with the love of the Lord. He loves you with such a love, oh wow it's powerful.
A certain Dinner Music Partner
Beloved Marriage
I have no idea what the "Beloved Marriage" comment means, unless he's being forced into an arranged marriage of some sort and this is his last cry for help.)
Anyway, I waited a little while and then sent him another email.This was instantly bounced back to me, because his email address is suddenly permanently not available. So I’ve either been super-blocked or he’s deleted his email address.
Or his parents have.
It just doesn’t make sense to me. Why, after almost a year of emailing him, would he suddenly decide to block me now? And why block me after finally contacting me? And why was his message to me so bizarre?
I’m back to the pancake theory, people. I’m back to the pancake theory.
(Although, as S. had great fun pointing out last night, he could also be fed cheese slices, pizza, pitas, peanut butter on a playing card, ice cream mashed under the door – he went on for quite a while, until I explained that “Pancake Theory” has a much better ring than “Pancake/Pita/Pizza/Cheese Slices/Peanut Butter on a Playing Card/Mushy Ice cream Theory”. And it does.)
Monday, March 31, 2008
When I Grow Up I Intend To:
I have been procrastinating on learning monologues for my auditions in April. Today saw a fantastic amount of non-memorizing productivity – the bathroom is clean and so is my room. I actually sorted through a box of letters and cards, the oldest of which dates from my seventh birthday. No kidding.
In there I found a list that I wrote a long time ago. I don’t know when I wrote it, as there is no date, but this is what I wrote, verbatim, except for things in [these] which are my present day comments.
[The handwriting is very similar to my current writing, so I must have been in my teens]
12:36 – I just saw a cow moose outside of DeBolt. It was eating a willow.
[Then, in smaller, neater and more determined printing]
When I grow up I intend to –
take riding lessons and perhaps own a horse.
take violin lessons [at some point I wrote in the margin, ‘started @ 17 yrs’]
speak another language (romantic pref.) (Italian or Spanish)
be a surgeon perhaps.
ski and swim regularly.
own property (house and land)
act
travel
write, paint, sketch, and read classics (and interesting stuff).
go hiking
own a bird
critique movies
be a good cook.
not take things for granted.
maybe work the medical side of crime: i.e forensics or coroner.
hunt or belong to a gun club/shooting range
learn martial arts
[Then, at the bottom…]
Meet in front of M.B. @ 2 or so.
I have no hope of achieving that last note, since I have no idea what it means, but I liked reading the list and seeing the future life I had plotted out for myself. I was a pretty savvy kid – a lot of that list is still completely relevant to what I want today.
I think I’d add:
fall in love [and in the margin I could write, ‘started @ 22yrs’]
publish a book
I put the list back in the box, by the way. In several years, when I next sort through that box, I can remember…and see how many of the margins I can write ‘started @ **yrs’ in then…
In there I found a list that I wrote a long time ago. I don’t know when I wrote it, as there is no date, but this is what I wrote, verbatim, except for things in [these] which are my present day comments.
[The handwriting is very similar to my current writing, so I must have been in my teens]
12:36 – I just saw a cow moose outside of DeBolt. It was eating a willow.
[Then, in smaller, neater and more determined printing]
When I grow up I intend to –
take riding lessons and perhaps own a horse.
take violin lessons [at some point I wrote in the margin, ‘started @ 17 yrs’]
speak another language (romantic pref.) (Italian or Spanish)
be a surgeon perhaps.
ski and swim regularly.
own property (house and land)
act
travel
write, paint, sketch, and read classics (and interesting stuff).
go hiking
own a bird
critique movies
be a good cook.
not take things for granted.
maybe work the medical side of crime: i.e forensics or coroner.
hunt or belong to a gun club/shooting range
learn martial arts
[Then, at the bottom…]
Meet in front of M.B. @ 2 or so.
I have no hope of achieving that last note, since I have no idea what it means, but I liked reading the list and seeing the future life I had plotted out for myself. I was a pretty savvy kid – a lot of that list is still completely relevant to what I want today.
I think I’d add:
fall in love [and in the margin I could write, ‘started @ 22yrs’]
publish a book
I put the list back in the box, by the way. In several years, when I next sort through that box, I can remember…and see how many of the margins I can write ‘started @ **yrs’ in then…
Friday, March 28, 2008
Life Lately
Just as an update on my life...
I handed in my portfolio - so I'm done school!
I'm getting ready to go to Emerge, which is a province wide audition in April.
I'm Stage Managing for my friend L.'s final project, which means taking care of a budgie between rehearsals. His name is Barry and he likes men better than women. It really suits the play, in ways I can't begin to explain because I don't have enough time.
I have to decide where I'm going to work this summer but I have some options which make me happy.
I'm in a play in May, in Calgary - Craving by Delphine Brooker, at Fire Exit Theatre - and I'm excited about that!
Life is good.
Especially because I don't have to live on pancakes.
I handed in my portfolio - so I'm done school!
I'm getting ready to go to Emerge, which is a province wide audition in April.
I'm Stage Managing for my friend L.'s final project, which means taking care of a budgie between rehearsals. His name is Barry and he likes men better than women. It really suits the play, in ways I can't begin to explain because I don't have enough time.
I have to decide where I'm going to work this summer but I have some options which make me happy.
I'm in a play in May, in Calgary - Craving by Delphine Brooker, at Fire Exit Theatre - and I'm excited about that!
Life is good.
Especially because I don't have to live on pancakes.
Pancake Theory
Which is to say, I think my old friend from Ontario is locked in his room by his parents and being fed pancakes under the door.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Irritation
I was dreaming that I was higher than I'd ever been because I'd just smoked a joint the size of a cigarette by myself. I walked by my good friend and mentor and they were still accepting of who I am and where I was at. It was a good feeling. In the dream I told him I'd be mortified when I came down but he said, no, don't be. It's okay.
I was woken up by the phone ringing. People wait until the last minute to find replacements for work. I don't understand - you've been sick for three days, why did you think you'd be fine today? But hope springs eternal, I guess.
Then I wrote a long email to my mother in which I ranted about some of the disillusionment I've been feeling lately. When I went to send it, the internet failed. Why anyone would pay for the internet in this town is beyond me - it is the least reliable service I have ever experienced. So I got very angry and slammed my desk tray shut and broke it, which just made me angrier because I couldn't fix it. I shouted, slammed doors and pieces of furniture, and considered taking one of my glasses outside and smashing it on the sidewalk but settled for screaming which didn't have the same effect. A brisk walk with a personal cloud helped a bit. The sun helped a bit. People are friendly in the street, that helped too.
But I'm still grumpy.
I was woken up by the phone ringing. People wait until the last minute to find replacements for work. I don't understand - you've been sick for three days, why did you think you'd be fine today? But hope springs eternal, I guess.
Then I wrote a long email to my mother in which I ranted about some of the disillusionment I've been feeling lately. When I went to send it, the internet failed. Why anyone would pay for the internet in this town is beyond me - it is the least reliable service I have ever experienced. So I got very angry and slammed my desk tray shut and broke it, which just made me angrier because I couldn't fix it. I shouted, slammed doors and pieces of furniture, and considered taking one of my glasses outside and smashing it on the sidewalk but settled for screaming which didn't have the same effect. A brisk walk with a personal cloud helped a bit. The sun helped a bit. People are friendly in the street, that helped too.
But I'm still grumpy.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Dreams
I’d really like to know what my subconscious has been trying to tell me these last few nights.
I’ve had a lot of strange dreams recently, which actually is quite normal for me. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have vivid dreams that most people would probably label nightmares, but to me have a gleam of fascination to them. However, even I am unsettled by my dreams sometimes and last night I had three very unsettling dreams.
I usually don’t write my dreams down here, for fear that people will read into them and interpret them, correctly or incorrectly, and then have (or think they have) an upper hand by understanding parts of me that I don’t understand myself.
So this is an unprecedented event.
First I dreamt that I was getting married. I never saw the groom, and the wedding actually never happened in my dream. In the dream I was getting the photos taken. We were in Greece (and when I say we, I just mean the people in my dream, not all of whom I know. My friend L. was there, and so was my youngest brother, and perhaps my mother at the beginning, but I think the rest were strangers) and I wanted to get the group photos taken in this bend in the mountainous road where there was a beautiful background of another mountain and a lake. It was 6:00 in the evening, and the sun was setting behind the mountain. The wedding party wasn’t all there yet, because some of them were getting ready and some were on their way but were kind of lost. Youngest Brother was on his cell phone telling them they had to drive through the village and we were just on the other side of it. Finally everyone was there but the sun had set and we took the pictures in the dark, with the stars and moon as a backdrop. I did see some buildings before the sun set, and some people. I was content and completely relaxed, but the buildings and people had a sobering effect on me. They were not good, but not a danger to me in that moment. The groom never materialized, even in the pictures. I’m actually not sure he was ever there.
Then I dreamt of a young pregnant girl. She was blonde and lovely and innocent looking, and about five months along. She was in a prison in this horrible place (perhaps the buildings I had seen in the wedding dream) – she had been imprisoned because she was an unwed mother-to-be. This place was very conservative, cultish almost, and it was like it was the middle ages or something, technologically. It was all dirty and poorly lit. The jailer, a big brutish man, sliced open her belly and took her baby, which died because it was too young to be taken out yet. The girl staggered. He took her baby away, which was wrapped in dirty white swaddling right from the moment it came out. The girl got out of the jail when he went away with the infant but she was weak and she died. She was laid out on a table and her body was packed with cocaine, which you could see from the wound in her belly. She had been laid out with care but I don’t know who did it. The table was rough wood. Some of the people from this place found her and sat around the table and began to eat the cocaine from her womb. It was all over their faces, white powder, and in their mouths, and their eyes were stupid. They were grubby and stuffing their faces with cocaine, feasting like the dwarves in The Last Battle, with no grace or gentility but all crudeness and selfishness and greed, sitting around the table where the dead girl was laid. They didn’t even know what they were eating, they were just stuffing their faces with it. They all died of it, and sat there, slumped with their eyes dead and closed, all sitting dead in their chairs around the dead girl on the table, and it was all very still. Then, from having watched this all unfold without being a part of it, I became embodied in the dream. I was the dead girl’s mother. I was on a horse (brown, I think) and I was dressed in flowing feminine robes with a scarf masking my face like an Arabian harem girl or princess. I was beautiful and older, and filled with grief as I searched and searched for my daughter. I was a demi-goddess and although I knew the previous content of the dream I was still searching for someone to tell me the story, to tell me where I could find my daughter. I was so full of sorrow and grief and pain for my daughter and her dead child! One boy, who was almost a man but not quite yet, told me what he knew and I think he directed me to where he thought she had been buried but I didn’t ever see a grave. I was mourning and my beautiful face was full of sorrow, and it was still somehow very beautiful.
Then I dreamt that I was in a large house, although I only went into a few rooms of it. I was there with my friend R., and maybe L. and S. were there too, and perhaps one of my brothers although I don’t know which one or if they were there at all in the first place. There was a covered deck around three sides of the house but I was only on one side. The deck was screened in. There was a porch that came out onto the deck. It had large windows in the upper half of the walls but the bottom was normal wall, although at times it had the feeling of being a glass room. There was an ill-fitting door between this porch and the rest of the house. The porch jutted out all the way to the edge of the deck, effectively cutting the deck apart. There was another ill-fitting door from the porch to the deck, and on this side of the porch was a huge white dog. It was friendly like all large untrained dogs are – overwhelming and messy and unintentionally rough. I had to make the door stay shut by lifting it and turning the deadbolt into its hole so the dog wouldn’t get in, because we knew that if we were with it, it would turn nasty and bite us and perhaps try to kill us. There was a gun cabinet outside with the big white dog, and I tried to reach the cabinet to get the .22 and bullets so I could shoot the dog, but I couldn’t quite reach. If you went into the house, there was a kitchen and another door that led outside to the other side of the deck, where there was another dog. It was smaller, and a duller white (or perhaps a light dirty blonde) and it was well behaved and trained. It sat quietly and was quite reserved and didn’t send off friendly signals at all – it seemed quite intellectual and reserved, but it was safe. I was put out that I couldn’t get the gun to shoot the big stupid dangerous dog and everyone in the kitchen was playing cards and didn’t really care, even though the doors were rickety and if the dangerous dog stopped being friendly it could break in.
Then I woke up.
I don’t know what these dreams mean. My dad bought me a dream book a while back, and it isn’t very accurate – I think dreams are usually quite specific to the person dreaming them although there are some universal symbols that we all seem to hold in our collective consciousness. I do look up the symbols and read the ‘meanings’, though more for entertainment then for real knowledge, and according to that book, these dreams hold multiple signals that I am going to be betrayed by a friend, someone I least suspect.
I don’t know if I believe that.
I have been told by people I’m more inclined to believe that death in dreams usually means change; children mean new life, or a new creative project; pregnancy means the birth of creativity. Since those are the aspects of these dreams that stick out to me the most, I wonder. A child died. A young woman died too, and people ate death from her womb.
Put that way, no wonder I’m a bit disturbed.
I’ve had a lot of strange dreams recently, which actually is quite normal for me. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have vivid dreams that most people would probably label nightmares, but to me have a gleam of fascination to them. However, even I am unsettled by my dreams sometimes and last night I had three very unsettling dreams.
I usually don’t write my dreams down here, for fear that people will read into them and interpret them, correctly or incorrectly, and then have (or think they have) an upper hand by understanding parts of me that I don’t understand myself.
So this is an unprecedented event.
First I dreamt that I was getting married. I never saw the groom, and the wedding actually never happened in my dream. In the dream I was getting the photos taken. We were in Greece (and when I say we, I just mean the people in my dream, not all of whom I know. My friend L. was there, and so was my youngest brother, and perhaps my mother at the beginning, but I think the rest were strangers) and I wanted to get the group photos taken in this bend in the mountainous road where there was a beautiful background of another mountain and a lake. It was 6:00 in the evening, and the sun was setting behind the mountain. The wedding party wasn’t all there yet, because some of them were getting ready and some were on their way but were kind of lost. Youngest Brother was on his cell phone telling them they had to drive through the village and we were just on the other side of it. Finally everyone was there but the sun had set and we took the pictures in the dark, with the stars and moon as a backdrop. I did see some buildings before the sun set, and some people. I was content and completely relaxed, but the buildings and people had a sobering effect on me. They were not good, but not a danger to me in that moment. The groom never materialized, even in the pictures. I’m actually not sure he was ever there.
Then I dreamt of a young pregnant girl. She was blonde and lovely and innocent looking, and about five months along. She was in a prison in this horrible place (perhaps the buildings I had seen in the wedding dream) – she had been imprisoned because she was an unwed mother-to-be. This place was very conservative, cultish almost, and it was like it was the middle ages or something, technologically. It was all dirty and poorly lit. The jailer, a big brutish man, sliced open her belly and took her baby, which died because it was too young to be taken out yet. The girl staggered. He took her baby away, which was wrapped in dirty white swaddling right from the moment it came out. The girl got out of the jail when he went away with the infant but she was weak and she died. She was laid out on a table and her body was packed with cocaine, which you could see from the wound in her belly. She had been laid out with care but I don’t know who did it. The table was rough wood. Some of the people from this place found her and sat around the table and began to eat the cocaine from her womb. It was all over their faces, white powder, and in their mouths, and their eyes were stupid. They were grubby and stuffing their faces with cocaine, feasting like the dwarves in The Last Battle, with no grace or gentility but all crudeness and selfishness and greed, sitting around the table where the dead girl was laid. They didn’t even know what they were eating, they were just stuffing their faces with it. They all died of it, and sat there, slumped with their eyes dead and closed, all sitting dead in their chairs around the dead girl on the table, and it was all very still. Then, from having watched this all unfold without being a part of it, I became embodied in the dream. I was the dead girl’s mother. I was on a horse (brown, I think) and I was dressed in flowing feminine robes with a scarf masking my face like an Arabian harem girl or princess. I was beautiful and older, and filled with grief as I searched and searched for my daughter. I was a demi-goddess and although I knew the previous content of the dream I was still searching for someone to tell me the story, to tell me where I could find my daughter. I was so full of sorrow and grief and pain for my daughter and her dead child! One boy, who was almost a man but not quite yet, told me what he knew and I think he directed me to where he thought she had been buried but I didn’t ever see a grave. I was mourning and my beautiful face was full of sorrow, and it was still somehow very beautiful.
Then I dreamt that I was in a large house, although I only went into a few rooms of it. I was there with my friend R., and maybe L. and S. were there too, and perhaps one of my brothers although I don’t know which one or if they were there at all in the first place. There was a covered deck around three sides of the house but I was only on one side. The deck was screened in. There was a porch that came out onto the deck. It had large windows in the upper half of the walls but the bottom was normal wall, although at times it had the feeling of being a glass room. There was an ill-fitting door between this porch and the rest of the house. The porch jutted out all the way to the edge of the deck, effectively cutting the deck apart. There was another ill-fitting door from the porch to the deck, and on this side of the porch was a huge white dog. It was friendly like all large untrained dogs are – overwhelming and messy and unintentionally rough. I had to make the door stay shut by lifting it and turning the deadbolt into its hole so the dog wouldn’t get in, because we knew that if we were with it, it would turn nasty and bite us and perhaps try to kill us. There was a gun cabinet outside with the big white dog, and I tried to reach the cabinet to get the .22 and bullets so I could shoot the dog, but I couldn’t quite reach. If you went into the house, there was a kitchen and another door that led outside to the other side of the deck, where there was another dog. It was smaller, and a duller white (or perhaps a light dirty blonde) and it was well behaved and trained. It sat quietly and was quite reserved and didn’t send off friendly signals at all – it seemed quite intellectual and reserved, but it was safe. I was put out that I couldn’t get the gun to shoot the big stupid dangerous dog and everyone in the kitchen was playing cards and didn’t really care, even though the doors were rickety and if the dangerous dog stopped being friendly it could break in.
Then I woke up.
I don’t know what these dreams mean. My dad bought me a dream book a while back, and it isn’t very accurate – I think dreams are usually quite specific to the person dreaming them although there are some universal symbols that we all seem to hold in our collective consciousness. I do look up the symbols and read the ‘meanings’, though more for entertainment then for real knowledge, and according to that book, these dreams hold multiple signals that I am going to be betrayed by a friend, someone I least suspect.
I don’t know if I believe that.
I have been told by people I’m more inclined to believe that death in dreams usually means change; children mean new life, or a new creative project; pregnancy means the birth of creativity. Since those are the aspects of these dreams that stick out to me the most, I wonder. A child died. A young woman died too, and people ate death from her womb.
Put that way, no wonder I’m a bit disturbed.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Letting Go
I'm experiencing something new.
I've been hesitant to write or talk about it because it feels like once I do it'll disappear.
Whatever this is, I treasure it, and sometimes when I share a treasure it vanishes - or at the least loses some of it's luster.
So I'm not going to say much.
But letting go feels a lot better than holding on.
I've been hesitant to write or talk about it because it feels like once I do it'll disappear.
Whatever this is, I treasure it, and sometimes when I share a treasure it vanishes - or at the least loses some of it's luster.
So I'm not going to say much.
But letting go feels a lot better than holding on.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
A Thought
I think I'm going to try to let go of all my past resentments and just live, and deal with, today.
I'm also curious as to what happens when a blog post title gets repeated. I like one and two word titles - I've got to repeat sometime.
I'm also curious as to what happens when a blog post title gets repeated. I like one and two word titles - I've got to repeat sometime.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
This Resonates
The dust of exploded beliefs may make a fine sunset.
-Geoffrey Madan,writer (1895-1947)
That quote makes a lot of sense to me.
It wouldn't have even 7 months ago, but it does now.
The world isn't black and white, or even grey.
It is the full spectrum of colour, all the shades and hues.
When my beliefs lock me into a narrow range I think sometimes they have to be blown up in order for me to see the rainbow again.
-Geoffrey Madan,writer (1895-1947)
That quote makes a lot of sense to me.
It wouldn't have even 7 months ago, but it does now.
The world isn't black and white, or even grey.
It is the full spectrum of colour, all the shades and hues.
When my beliefs lock me into a narrow range I think sometimes they have to be blown up in order for me to see the rainbow again.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Another Short Post
Well, this is it. I open my show today, and take my second-to-last step towards graduation.
I have had so much help from so many people...it has made the whole project happen and I have so much gratitude that it wells up and almost, almost makes me cry.
I am very humbled.
Later I'll be nervous.
Here goes.
I have had so much help from so many people...it has made the whole project happen and I have so much gratitude that it wells up and almost, almost makes me cry.
I am very humbled.
Later I'll be nervous.
Here goes.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Elusive Balance
There has to be room for being honest, taking care of yourself and not taking responsibility for other people's feelings, and still caring about other people and how your life affects them.
There has to be.
I just wish I knew what that looked like.
There has to be.
I just wish I knew what that looked like.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Weekend
I had a weekend that had nothing to do with final project land, which was a good break. I went to my first ever hocky game, Swift Current Broncos vs. Calgary Hitmen, and the Broncos won 2-0 (which made for their 10th straight win...I know nothing about hockey but the things I hear I remember...with S. and his friend cheering loudly right beside me it was impossible not to learn something). Then S. and I went and watched "I Am Legend" which was fun.
It was a good weekend.
It was a good weekend.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Surreality
Well, the poster is done.
The set is getting there and so is the sound design.
I have meetings for costumes and basic production mentoring.
And rehearsal.
It's changing from plans on paper to tangible reality.
This is a surreal process - the final project I've thought about for years, ever since I got here, and now I'm actually doing it.
And the town is empty - people off in Israel, Vancouver and New York. But they'll all get back in time to see the finished thing, after all the work is done and over.
Whenever that is.
The set is getting there and so is the sound design.
I have meetings for costumes and basic production mentoring.
And rehearsal.
It's changing from plans on paper to tangible reality.
This is a surreal process - the final project I've thought about for years, ever since I got here, and now I'm actually doing it.
And the town is empty - people off in Israel, Vancouver and New York. But they'll all get back in time to see the finished thing, after all the work is done and over.
Whenever that is.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Final Project City
I'm in the midst of it, people. In the midst.
It feels like I should spell that 'mist' - it certainly seems that way.
But I keep on truckin'.
It feels like I should spell that 'mist' - it certainly seems that way.
But I keep on truckin'.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Pay it Forward...?
The other day I received an email from the parents of a girl I grew up with. It was one of those forwards that reminds me that the people from Saved! aren’t just a stereotype – you know, the ones that say things like, “Support the troops in Iraq who are doing God’s patriotic will by saving the heathen Iraqis and bringing God’s chosen civilization to the savages! Put your name on here to get prayer back into our godless schools! If you don’t, remember that Jesus is watching! Shame and judgement will follow you all the days of your life! Vote for the Christian candidate even though everyone with half an eye can see he’s a complete hypocritical prick!” – those kind of emails. The last one I got was so full of hatred veiled in righteousness that I cried, and then sent an email back requesting that they not send me any more forwards.
It’s been a long time but another one finally made it through. This one was equally angry and bitter. Apparently the Canadian government wants to take the words “Under God” off of our money. I didn’t know those words were on our money, but whatever. Maybe it’s one of those American forwards that is making the Northern Tour, as it were. Either way, it was full of the angry justice that makes me forget what Jesus was about.
“If they [the government] doesn’t want to acknowledge God on our money/in our schools/in our courts, then I [the Christian, presumably] don’t want them taking Christmas or Easter holidays. I want my post delivered over the holidays, I want full government services when the Christian holidays occur. After all, if they don’t want to serve God, why should they get any of the perks?”
That’s not exactly what it said but that’s what I got out of it. (If you want to read the actual email leave a comment and I'll send it to you.) I swore (I was having an angry day anyways) and then wrote them another email. Here it is –
Dear LR,
Do you not get the impression that these kinds of emails are going against several commandments in themselves - namely, Love thy neighbour as thyself and be good to those who persecute you - ? This doesn't seem to be turning the other cheek or any of the things that Jesus spoke to us about.
Yes, it saddens me when a nation turns from God, but really, this country hasn't been a nation 'under God' in years. I doubt God has been a central part of any government in Canada during my entire lifetime. If it matters to you so much to have 'under God' on your money, or to have the 10 Commandments on a government building, or to have prayer in school, then fight the government on that instead of being childish about it and saying, well then fine. If you aren't going to do things the way I want, then you can't have any holidays. Good grief, people. That kind of attitude just makes Christians match the stereotype.
Please stop sending me crap like this. It just makes me mad and I'd like to have as many good days as possible. Thank you.
Rebecca
A few days later, to my immense surprise, I got a response.
Sorry Becky that you are sounding so bitter these days. I’ll pray for you.
LR
I laughed when I got that. Bitter? I’m sounding bitter? Excuse me, did you read the email you sent me first?
Then I shook my head, took a breath and thought about it. My email did have anger in it, and I can see how anger sounds like bitterness.
More interesting to me, though, is that, from opposite sides of this email, we both think the other person is bitter and completely wrong. Deceived, even. We probably think the exact same things about each other and see ourselves in the same boat that we think the other is missing.
That intrigues me extremely. I would like to sit down with LR and have a conversation to see if my interpretation of the forwards is what she actually means. Perhaps it is all a difference of semantics.
I kind of doubt it. But I would like to start some kind of conversation to see.
It’s been a long time but another one finally made it through. This one was equally angry and bitter. Apparently the Canadian government wants to take the words “Under God” off of our money. I didn’t know those words were on our money, but whatever. Maybe it’s one of those American forwards that is making the Northern Tour, as it were. Either way, it was full of the angry justice that makes me forget what Jesus was about.
“If they [the government] doesn’t want to acknowledge God on our money/in our schools/in our courts, then I [the Christian, presumably] don’t want them taking Christmas or Easter holidays. I want my post delivered over the holidays, I want full government services when the Christian holidays occur. After all, if they don’t want to serve God, why should they get any of the perks?”
That’s not exactly what it said but that’s what I got out of it. (If you want to read the actual email leave a comment and I'll send it to you.) I swore (I was having an angry day anyways) and then wrote them another email. Here it is –
Dear LR,
Do you not get the impression that these kinds of emails are going against several commandments in themselves - namely, Love thy neighbour as thyself and be good to those who persecute you - ? This doesn't seem to be turning the other cheek or any of the things that Jesus spoke to us about.
Yes, it saddens me when a nation turns from God, but really, this country hasn't been a nation 'under God' in years. I doubt God has been a central part of any government in Canada during my entire lifetime. If it matters to you so much to have 'under God' on your money, or to have the 10 Commandments on a government building, or to have prayer in school, then fight the government on that instead of being childish about it and saying, well then fine. If you aren't going to do things the way I want, then you can't have any holidays. Good grief, people. That kind of attitude just makes Christians match the stereotype.
Please stop sending me crap like this. It just makes me mad and I'd like to have as many good days as possible. Thank you.
Rebecca
A few days later, to my immense surprise, I got a response.
Sorry Becky that you are sounding so bitter these days. I’ll pray for you.
LR
I laughed when I got that. Bitter? I’m sounding bitter? Excuse me, did you read the email you sent me first?
Then I shook my head, took a breath and thought about it. My email did have anger in it, and I can see how anger sounds like bitterness.
More interesting to me, though, is that, from opposite sides of this email, we both think the other person is bitter and completely wrong. Deceived, even. We probably think the exact same things about each other and see ourselves in the same boat that we think the other is missing.
That intrigues me extremely. I would like to sit down with LR and have a conversation to see if my interpretation of the forwards is what she actually means. Perhaps it is all a difference of semantics.
I kind of doubt it. But I would like to start some kind of conversation to see.
Monday, January 21, 2008
My Recent Thoughts
People confuse and intrigue me. They are mysterious and predictable. I sometimes think I should understand them better since I am a people too but I don’t.
One of my friends was getting close with her ex again, to the point where I wondered if they had secretly gotten back together. If they were, that sure ended fast. The girl who caused them the most trouble swooped back into the picture and now the ex is off with her, dropping my friend like so much hot dog shit. Why did this happen? I don’t know. I don’t see any love between the ‘home-wrecker’ and the ex. I know my friend loves him but I don’t think he loves her back. And I wonder at these people’s ability to love themselves.
It seems that people who can’t love themselves also can’t be alone, and that’s what this feels like to me. It’s horrible and painful and difficult to witness, and I wish I could be there for my friend – but she flew to Vancouver to get away from this. I hope that’s a good thing for her but it feels like she’s just running away from the pain instead of dealing with it.
It makes me so, so thankful that I let S. love me and that he lets me love him. I am so grateful that we share a love together.
****
I just had a good talk with my roommate J. We talked about people, relationships, pain and how people hurt each other over and over and over. How it’s so hard to witness people hurting each other but that that is all you can do most of the time.
As we talked, he mentioned that his brother-in-law is so awkward at their family events. We talked about how people sometimes assume that their future mates should just mesh into their families of origin. It happens for some people. My friend L. who just got married, they both fit into the other’s family like water into more water. But does that mean that if it doesn’t work out that way that the relationship is doomed or bad or with the wrong person?
I don’t think so.
I think the fear is that if the significant other doesn’t fit in, that the child will then choose the mate over the family and it will cause a schism. That happens, I’m sure. But if the mate doesn't fit, it doesn't mean there will be an unhealthy separation of the child from the family.
I feel like my parents are afraid because S. doesn’t fit into our family like he was born there. I wish they wouldn’t be. There isn’t anything to be afraid of. He knows my family is important to me. He just can’t handle any expectation that he’ll get all chummy with these people who created me. He doesn’t do well with expectation from anyone, even those he trusts, and he takes time to trust people.
I wish that didn’t scare my parents so.
****
I wish that people would learn, once and for all – you can’t steal something that you can’t own.
In other words, people.
Loves cannot be stolen. If A leaves B for C, it’s because A didn’t want to be with B, not because C stole A somehow.
There are a few people in this town that I would like to slap, to explain this to, but most of them are in the midst of believing that they’ve been stolen from so I doubt this would go over well.
Besides, another truth is that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink. I can talk until I’m blue in the face but no-one has to listen or accept what I say as truth. They have to all figure it out for themselves, the hard way it looks like.
****
I wonder why people blame this place for their troubles and their pain. I have heard so many people say that they have to leave this town, to get away from it all.
There is pain here, crap here, politics – good lord, are there politics in this town – but it isn’t any different ‘out there’.
The only difference I can see is that out there you don’t usually live in the midst of the people you share intimacy with. When you don’t interact with people on the level we live on here, of course you don’t get hurt.
You don’t experience the love, support and blessings either though. Not on the same scale. Pain and love live at the same depth. When you are the most open to love, you are the most open to pain, and it seems to me to work the other way round too.
I don’t understand why people think they can run from their pain. Pain comes from inside you and that goes with you wherever you go.
I feel like I can’t live in Rosebud forever, but not because I’m being smothered here or damaged here. I have to leave to get another perspective of the world. I went from my parent’s house to this town of intimacy and I wonder what it is like to live in a ‘normal’ place. I feel a need to prove to myself that I can live and be okay 'out there', that I can make friends in a world where they aren’t made for you. I also need to live in my own house, without roommates (someday), and that won’t happen here simply because this is a town centered around a school – the houses are centered around dorms so there is nowhere to live unless I have roommates.
It isn’t that Rosebud is smothering me though. I love the people here, I love the people I live with. They are like people I have seen everywhere else...beautiful, damaged, blessed, open, closed. People are people wherever you go. Life is a blessed thing, wherever you are given the chance to live it out.
One of my friends was getting close with her ex again, to the point where I wondered if they had secretly gotten back together. If they were, that sure ended fast. The girl who caused them the most trouble swooped back into the picture and now the ex is off with her, dropping my friend like so much hot dog shit. Why did this happen? I don’t know. I don’t see any love between the ‘home-wrecker’ and the ex. I know my friend loves him but I don’t think he loves her back. And I wonder at these people’s ability to love themselves.
It seems that people who can’t love themselves also can’t be alone, and that’s what this feels like to me. It’s horrible and painful and difficult to witness, and I wish I could be there for my friend – but she flew to Vancouver to get away from this. I hope that’s a good thing for her but it feels like she’s just running away from the pain instead of dealing with it.
It makes me so, so thankful that I let S. love me and that he lets me love him. I am so grateful that we share a love together.
****
I just had a good talk with my roommate J. We talked about people, relationships, pain and how people hurt each other over and over and over. How it’s so hard to witness people hurting each other but that that is all you can do most of the time.
As we talked, he mentioned that his brother-in-law is so awkward at their family events. We talked about how people sometimes assume that their future mates should just mesh into their families of origin. It happens for some people. My friend L. who just got married, they both fit into the other’s family like water into more water. But does that mean that if it doesn’t work out that way that the relationship is doomed or bad or with the wrong person?
I don’t think so.
I think the fear is that if the significant other doesn’t fit in, that the child will then choose the mate over the family and it will cause a schism. That happens, I’m sure. But if the mate doesn't fit, it doesn't mean there will be an unhealthy separation of the child from the family.
I feel like my parents are afraid because S. doesn’t fit into our family like he was born there. I wish they wouldn’t be. There isn’t anything to be afraid of. He knows my family is important to me. He just can’t handle any expectation that he’ll get all chummy with these people who created me. He doesn’t do well with expectation from anyone, even those he trusts, and he takes time to trust people.
I wish that didn’t scare my parents so.
****
I wish that people would learn, once and for all – you can’t steal something that you can’t own.
In other words, people.
Loves cannot be stolen. If A leaves B for C, it’s because A didn’t want to be with B, not because C stole A somehow.
There are a few people in this town that I would like to slap, to explain this to, but most of them are in the midst of believing that they’ve been stolen from so I doubt this would go over well.
Besides, another truth is that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink. I can talk until I’m blue in the face but no-one has to listen or accept what I say as truth. They have to all figure it out for themselves, the hard way it looks like.
****
I wonder why people blame this place for their troubles and their pain. I have heard so many people say that they have to leave this town, to get away from it all.
There is pain here, crap here, politics – good lord, are there politics in this town – but it isn’t any different ‘out there’.
The only difference I can see is that out there you don’t usually live in the midst of the people you share intimacy with. When you don’t interact with people on the level we live on here, of course you don’t get hurt.
You don’t experience the love, support and blessings either though. Not on the same scale. Pain and love live at the same depth. When you are the most open to love, you are the most open to pain, and it seems to me to work the other way round too.
I don’t understand why people think they can run from their pain. Pain comes from inside you and that goes with you wherever you go.
I feel like I can’t live in Rosebud forever, but not because I’m being smothered here or damaged here. I have to leave to get another perspective of the world. I went from my parent’s house to this town of intimacy and I wonder what it is like to live in a ‘normal’ place. I feel a need to prove to myself that I can live and be okay 'out there', that I can make friends in a world where they aren’t made for you. I also need to live in my own house, without roommates (someday), and that won’t happen here simply because this is a town centered around a school – the houses are centered around dorms so there is nowhere to live unless I have roommates.
It isn’t that Rosebud is smothering me though. I love the people here, I love the people I live with. They are like people I have seen everywhere else...beautiful, damaged, blessed, open, closed. People are people wherever you go. Life is a blessed thing, wherever you are given the chance to live it out.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Magic Mother Eyes
My mother has been silent this holiday.
We haven’t talked much and I feel it as an uncomfortable weight on me.
I don’t know what she’s thinking. I don’t know if I want to know what she’s thinking. It’s driving me crazy not knowing what she’s thinking.
I don’t know if I want her to know what I’m thinking either.
When I was young I stole a box of Smarties from a guest who overstayed her welcome in our house. I stole them a few at a time until they were all gone. Mom confronted me and asked me if I had taken them. I lied to her face. She believed me and that was when I realized that the magic mother eyes were a lie.
It’s strange how if you’ve been told something enough times, even when it’s proven to be false you still believe it.
This Christmas I got busted for smoking pot with my brother. My mom was so shocked. I was shocked too. I thought she already knew. I don’t know why. It’s not like I told her. The myth of the magic mother eyes is strong.
There are a lot of things that I assume my mother knows and when it becomes apparent that she doesn’t it surprises me every time. She asserted her omniscience so often in my childhood that it is going to take a lot of repetition before that lie is broken in my mind for good.
One thing I know – it won’t be broken with silence.
We haven’t talked much and I feel it as an uncomfortable weight on me.
I don’t know what she’s thinking. I don’t know if I want to know what she’s thinking. It’s driving me crazy not knowing what she’s thinking.
I don’t know if I want her to know what I’m thinking either.
When I was young I stole a box of Smarties from a guest who overstayed her welcome in our house. I stole them a few at a time until they were all gone. Mom confronted me and asked me if I had taken them. I lied to her face. She believed me and that was when I realized that the magic mother eyes were a lie.
It’s strange how if you’ve been told something enough times, even when it’s proven to be false you still believe it.
This Christmas I got busted for smoking pot with my brother. My mom was so shocked. I was shocked too. I thought she already knew. I don’t know why. It’s not like I told her. The myth of the magic mother eyes is strong.
There are a lot of things that I assume my mother knows and when it becomes apparent that she doesn’t it surprises me every time. She asserted her omniscience so often in my childhood that it is going to take a lot of repetition before that lie is broken in my mind for good.
One thing I know – it won’t be broken with silence.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
F
My boyfriend just got cast in a show. I’m very proud of him – he’s a talented actor and he loves theatre so much. I’m really happy that he’s got another chance to do what he loves.
Last night I went to the first read-through. This is where the cast and crew sit around a table, designs are presented, and the play is read aloud. This play is a tear-jerker. I know I’ll be a mess when I go to see it – I’ll need Kleenex for sure.
Afterwards, as I was leaving, one of my teachers came up to me and asked if she could talk to me for a minute. We sat on the couches in the lounge as people were leaving the building and she told me that I failed dance.
I failed dance.
It is the first time I’ve failed anything that I was being graded on.
Tears spilled down my face as she gently told me that my absence from 7 of the classes meant that I did not meet the requirements to pass. Frustration welled up inside me. Those 7 classes were missed because of my health. My body betraying me. I’ve had a bad past five months, health-wise.
She did tell me that the Ed Team took that into consideration and they aren’t making me take the class again. I’ll still graduate with my FRSA. I’ll just have an F on my transcript. That was so frustrating to hear. I worked hard so I wouldn’t have to take dance yet again.
I could have used the Kleenex last night too.
S. was full of astonishment when I told him. Not because I failed, but because I’ve never failed at any graded thing before. He laughed at me, after he held me and comforted my last tears away, and told me that failing at something just made the winning later that much greater. “Like when you finally pass grade 7,” he said.
It made me smile. I think that was the point.
We talked it over. I guess I wasn't terribly surprised that I failed because of absences. Even though I went to every class I could physically handle, and I worked hard in class, that just wasn’t enough. I guess my body has limitations and it just let fly with them last term.
One thing we both thought was interesting though was how, and where, and when I was told about it. In a public place, right after a reading of a play. Crying on a couch as people walked by, leaving. I think I would have preferred it if she had set up a meeting in her office or something. But this is Rosebud and that is how things end up being done. I can’t say I’m not guilty of having done the exact same thing to people - 'Oh, hi, I have this to tell you right now because it's on my mind...not because this is an appropriate time and/or place to do so...'
Whatever. I have my first F. I’m still here. I’m still okay. I still like myself.
For some reason I feel wonder at this. And a little proud of myself. I can still like myself after I fail at something. I've grown.
Good to know.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Frustration
I want to yell but
I repress it yet again.
Don't want to startle
the neighbours
the calm predictable people
with whom I must
be calm
and predictable
even though it chokes me
and smothers me
and makes me want to
SCREAM
And capital letters
just
aren't
enough.
I repress it yet again.
Don't want to startle
the neighbours
the calm predictable people
with whom I must
be calm
and predictable
even though it chokes me
and smothers me
and makes me want to
SCREAM
And capital letters
just
aren't
enough.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Life & Time
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything meaningful for this blog. At one point I had determined to write twice a week, to treat this as the column I’d love to write some day. Then I had a dark tea time of the soul and I haven’t thought of that since, until now.
Christmas has come and gone. It’s my brother’s 20th birthday tomorrow. Soon I’ll be headed back to Rosebud and then on to Medicine Hat for the wedding of L & K. It seems the busy never stops, not even for the birth of Christ.
Well, the remembrance of it, anyway.
My cousin has mono. She’s a school teacher, like her sister and another cousin. Looking in from the outside it looks like Holdeman Mennonite girls graduate school, stay home for a few years, and then if a proposal hasn’t come along they go teach school. They don’t go into nursing until it looks like those wedding bells are going to be a while. I wonder at my cousins and their acceptance of their life with the apparent lack of choice. They probably wonder at me and the life I’ve chosen.
My extended family and I have very little in common. I realized that at this years family gathering. They sit around and talk about people I don’t know, events that I don’t care about, details of life that don’t involve me or I don’t experience. The things I want to know – who likes who, what are their thoughts on God, life, relationships – they don’t talk about those things. I disconnect from them because it doesn’t come close to anything I care about. I think that’s unfortunate.
I haven’t been outside today. I’ve looked outside and seen the snow falling from the sky and landing in little drifts. I’ve thought about my dog, getting fatter every time I see her, who probably spent her day in her house too. I’ve thought of my brother’s ferrets. If they weren’t so smelly I’d go play with them but they reek of musk.
In a way it will be a relief to go back to my home and my schedule. There is a certain stress to being ‘home’ for the holidays. This isn’t my home and never has been. Any place I lived with my parents is in their (and my) past now, since they moved here (and bought this land) after I left to go to school. It’s strange to come to a place where I’ve never had a bedroom, where my furniture is in the storage shed and my things have never had a home. They have to carve out a space for me when I come visit. It’s a change for both me and them and I think while we both like seeing each other we also both breathe better when it’s over.
Maybe not. Maybe they don’t find my visit a stress at all. Now I feel guilty for feeling stressed out here. Well, being the daughter of a recovering addict, a Holdeman Mennonite, and two Catholics (and yes, that’s just two parents), I’ve probably come by this guilt naturally.
I have enjoyed being here. Seeing my brothers. Seeing my parents. Relaxing and eating and drinking and being merry. I haven’t had any deep heart-to-hearts with my mom, which surprises me. Every chance we would have had, the television stole from us. I’m not used to having a TV.
I have seen a lot of Christmas and New Years shows and it makes me want to be with S. on New Years, to join the tradition of kissing the one you love when the year ticks over. Someday I know it will happen. I like traditions and being part of them so I will make it happen.
Happy New Years, everyone.
Christmas has come and gone. It’s my brother’s 20th birthday tomorrow. Soon I’ll be headed back to Rosebud and then on to Medicine Hat for the wedding of L & K. It seems the busy never stops, not even for the birth of Christ.
Well, the remembrance of it, anyway.
My cousin has mono. She’s a school teacher, like her sister and another cousin. Looking in from the outside it looks like Holdeman Mennonite girls graduate school, stay home for a few years, and then if a proposal hasn’t come along they go teach school. They don’t go into nursing until it looks like those wedding bells are going to be a while. I wonder at my cousins and their acceptance of their life with the apparent lack of choice. They probably wonder at me and the life I’ve chosen.
My extended family and I have very little in common. I realized that at this years family gathering. They sit around and talk about people I don’t know, events that I don’t care about, details of life that don’t involve me or I don’t experience. The things I want to know – who likes who, what are their thoughts on God, life, relationships – they don’t talk about those things. I disconnect from them because it doesn’t come close to anything I care about. I think that’s unfortunate.
I haven’t been outside today. I’ve looked outside and seen the snow falling from the sky and landing in little drifts. I’ve thought about my dog, getting fatter every time I see her, who probably spent her day in her house too. I’ve thought of my brother’s ferrets. If they weren’t so smelly I’d go play with them but they reek of musk.
In a way it will be a relief to go back to my home and my schedule. There is a certain stress to being ‘home’ for the holidays. This isn’t my home and never has been. Any place I lived with my parents is in their (and my) past now, since they moved here (and bought this land) after I left to go to school. It’s strange to come to a place where I’ve never had a bedroom, where my furniture is in the storage shed and my things have never had a home. They have to carve out a space for me when I come visit. It’s a change for both me and them and I think while we both like seeing each other we also both breathe better when it’s over.
Maybe not. Maybe they don’t find my visit a stress at all. Now I feel guilty for feeling stressed out here. Well, being the daughter of a recovering addict, a Holdeman Mennonite, and two Catholics (and yes, that’s just two parents), I’ve probably come by this guilt naturally.
I have enjoyed being here. Seeing my brothers. Seeing my parents. Relaxing and eating and drinking and being merry. I haven’t had any deep heart-to-hearts with my mom, which surprises me. Every chance we would have had, the television stole from us. I’m not used to having a TV.
I have seen a lot of Christmas and New Years shows and it makes me want to be with S. on New Years, to join the tradition of kissing the one you love when the year ticks over. Someday I know it will happen. I like traditions and being part of them so I will make it happen.
Happy New Years, everyone.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Merry Christmas
I'm home for the holidays...so although I'm sure it seems like I've taken a break from writing already (sorry...been busy) I probably won't write for a while yet. I've got nothing to do, but the internet at my parent's place is painfully slow. I am right now at my brother's house, where he has wireless, but where he also keeps calling me by his girlfriend's name. I think it's funny but my other brother thinks it's creepy.
So, have a Merry Christmas everyone, and a Happy New Year!
So, have a Merry Christmas everyone, and a Happy New Year!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Christmas Time's a comin'...
...and I have not written here for two weeks! Not that much has been happening...the show is trucking along, only 8 shows left (I write this from backstage before the last show of the week)...school is almost done...I took my last dance class ever yesterday and it made me realize that I am entering a week of lasts. Last choir concert, last choir class, last acting class presentation, last performance night (possibly), last voice lesson, last acting coaching session (possibly)...
It's a busy last week of school. On Sunday I am resting, then going to a bridal shower for L. Monday I am at a fund-raiser for the school all day. Tuesday, class all day. Wednesday, same deal with a show too. Then three days of two shows a day, possible final project auditions (oh yeah! I got my final project approved and now I'm headed down the road to hell...I mean, finishing my programme, which is not the same thing at all), hanging out with classmates before they all super-nova next year...
It is a strange thing to be in the end of a four year section of my life.
But it is an adventure too.
It's a busy last week of school. On Sunday I am resting, then going to a bridal shower for L. Monday I am at a fund-raiser for the school all day. Tuesday, class all day. Wednesday, same deal with a show too. Then three days of two shows a day, possible final project auditions (oh yeah! I got my final project approved and now I'm headed down the road to hell...I mean, finishing my programme, which is not the same thing at all), hanging out with classmates before they all super-nova next year...
It is a strange thing to be in the end of a four year section of my life.
But it is an adventure too.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
63 Compliments for under a Dollar
I received 63 compliments from the 13-year-old boys in the cast last night. Between the 3 of them, I heard everything from “Why don’t you have a halo?” (my personal favourite) to “You drink water well” and “Your grin looks good on you”. I was complimented on my tooth-brushing abilities, my teeth, my eyes (which are not only as blue as the sea and the sky but reminiscent of stars), my lips, my acting and singing; I was told I would win the World’s Next Top Model and Canadian Idol, that I make everything I wear look good, and that I am witty and as wise as the sea. I was told that if the alphabet could be reorganized “I’d put U and I together” and that I’d make a great girlfriend. They also liked my laugh.
No, I did not spike their water with love potion. It all started when one of them asked me if I’d give him a nickel for every compliment; when I said no, he asked for 2 cents, and when faced with another rejection he settled for one. I have a load of pennies I’ve been wanting to get rid of so – somewhat to his surprise I think – I agreed. Then another one of them heard of the plan, so with the spark of competition they jumped head-long into it. The third boy hasn’t joined the race but he’s the winner as far as quality goes – he’s responsible for my favourite one, which he tossed out after listening to the other two go at it for five minutes.
I’ve made some rules. After they both got to around 25 I decided that they can only give me one compliment at a time – one before the show, one at intermission, one after the show, etc. – which I hope will not only up the quality but will make it easier for me to remember the good ones and record them later.
So far it’s worked rather well. And if nothing else, at the end of this, I’ll have a rather inflated ego, I’ll have gotten rid of all my pennies, and the 13-year-olds will have a better idea of what to say to woo their own fair maidens. It’s a win-win situation for me and they learn something constructive. If the next generation of girls gets blessed/plagued with verbose guys that’s just how it has to be.
No, I did not spike their water with love potion. It all started when one of them asked me if I’d give him a nickel for every compliment; when I said no, he asked for 2 cents, and when faced with another rejection he settled for one. I have a load of pennies I’ve been wanting to get rid of so – somewhat to his surprise I think – I agreed. Then another one of them heard of the plan, so with the spark of competition they jumped head-long into it. The third boy hasn’t joined the race but he’s the winner as far as quality goes – he’s responsible for my favourite one, which he tossed out after listening to the other two go at it for five minutes.
I’ve made some rules. After they both got to around 25 I decided that they can only give me one compliment at a time – one before the show, one at intermission, one after the show, etc. – which I hope will not only up the quality but will make it easier for me to remember the good ones and record them later.
So far it’s worked rather well. And if nothing else, at the end of this, I’ll have a rather inflated ego, I’ll have gotten rid of all my pennies, and the 13-year-olds will have a better idea of what to say to woo their own fair maidens. It’s a win-win situation for me and they learn something constructive. If the next generation of girls gets blessed/plagued with verbose guys that’s just how it has to be.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
I think there may be light coming...
So, I am posting a bunch of depressing stuff I wrote in the last week below, but today I woke up feeling lighter than I have for a while. My acting coach told me that freedom comes with responsibility, and that thought is percolating in my soul - also that God doesn't give us freedom but he gives us chances to grab it for ourselves. So I am realizing that I have to get up off my butt and reach for what I want even when it scares me shitless.
Anyway - the depressing stuff. Here it is.
I’m not sure I believe in God’s love anymore.
I believe He exists. That He is who He says He is. The whole dying for sins thing too, being the saviour of the world.
But my saviour?
It is so hard. To trust. To have faith. To believe that He cares for me, that He cares what happens to me, that in the outcome of my life He has any interest.
In chapel today we read a psalm aloud. “In Him does my heart trust.” Trust came out as a whisper.
I don’t trust God right now and I think that maybe if I did I wouldn’t feel so full of pain and despair but the feelings aren’t going away and I don’t feel His presence any closer so it’s hard to start trusting Him now.
God, I hate this.
I don’t know why it started and I don’t see any ending.
It goes away for a day here and there which just makes it that much worse when it comes back.
And I keep running into blocks in my acting that are connected to specific things that happened in my life that are connected to how I feel now, and I can’t make any headway and I am despairing in everything.
I know I need to get help but I am reluctant. Afraid.
Pray for me. I ask this with the awareness of the irony therein. Pray for me, that my faith might come back and my joy might return.
I have to learn to trust myself. I have to learn to listen to myself. I have to stop being so hard on myself.
It isn’t that I don’t believe in God. I still do. I believe he exists. I just don’t believe so much that he cares about me. And I’m wondering just why I should care about him.
My faith has never been super strong. My brother said it well – I’m more sure that I won’t let my 6 year old watch LoTR than I am that I will be a Christian when I have said 6 year old. God know this, or He should. So why is He testing me this way? He knows I’m not strong in this area. He knows better. He is gambling and He might lose. I don’t understand why He would do this.
I am not strong enough to be Job and yet that is who I am being forced to be.
Anyway - the depressing stuff. Here it is.
****
I believe He exists. That He is who He says He is. The whole dying for sins thing too, being the saviour of the world.
But my saviour?
It is so hard. To trust. To have faith. To believe that He cares for me, that He cares what happens to me, that in the outcome of my life He has any interest.
In chapel today we read a psalm aloud. “In Him does my heart trust.” Trust came out as a whisper.
I don’t trust God right now and I think that maybe if I did I wouldn’t feel so full of pain and despair but the feelings aren’t going away and I don’t feel His presence any closer so it’s hard to start trusting Him now.
God, I hate this.
I don’t know why it started and I don’t see any ending.
It goes away for a day here and there which just makes it that much worse when it comes back.
And I keep running into blocks in my acting that are connected to specific things that happened in my life that are connected to how I feel now, and I can’t make any headway and I am despairing in everything.
I know I need to get help but I am reluctant. Afraid.
Pray for me. I ask this with the awareness of the irony therein. Pray for me, that my faith might come back and my joy might return.
I have to learn to trust myself. I have to learn to listen to myself. I have to stop being so hard on myself.
It isn’t that I don’t believe in God. I still do. I believe he exists. I just don’t believe so much that he cares about me. And I’m wondering just why I should care about him.
My faith has never been super strong. My brother said it well – I’m more sure that I won’t let my 6 year old watch LoTR than I am that I will be a Christian when I have said 6 year old. God know this, or He should. So why is He testing me this way? He knows I’m not strong in this area. He knows better. He is gambling and He might lose. I don’t understand why He would do this.
I am not strong enough to be Job and yet that is who I am being forced to be.
****
Stream of Consciousness Murky and Dark
How can I act now? I am missing my soul.
How can I make art? My tool is an empty shell without heart or warm blood.
How can I create when I am dead?
My soul is trapped so deep within me
it screams and all that comes out is a smile
on an empty vacuous face
How are you?
Fine, fine
and my spirit is dying but no one can see it
and I have no fire left within me
the Ecthroi have won
and they chew on my bones
In all seriousness I do not know how I can go on being an artist when I feel so dead. I cannot access anything and I feel that all my acting is a mask behind which is so much anger and pain that it overwhelms me so I shy away from it.
I am sick. I am tired of being full of pain and anger.
I want to be happy from the depths of my toes to the lightness of my head.
I want to be free in every way – I want my body to be everything, my voice to be unleashed, my soul to fly and swirl and my eyes to see something other than blackness.
My eyes to be something other than empty.
Why does my spirit only flash and spark sometimes?
It isn’t gone, it teases me with moments of fullness and life and then hides away in some deep mark of my psyche that is hidden, so hidden that I can barely feel the pulse to let me know I am still even alive.
Not so gone that people worry about me.
Not there enough for me to be truly alive.
Not gone enough for me to abandon all hope.
Not present enough for me to believe that it will come back.
Am I going to be like this forever.
Am I going crazy? Have I lost my mind?
Am I imbalanced somewhere?
I feel like a living lie.
I am crashing and burning and I do not know how to be honest.
I don’t know how to tell anyone so I hint and I pull away and wait for someone to see and reach out to catch me or cushion my fall. Or at least say look, someone is on fire.
All my soul is on the outside of my body burning me alive
and it doesn’t hurt
because my soul is outside watching
and I wouldn’t be on fire
if my soul could feel the burning
It doesn’t care enough to come back inside
It is tired of being trapped
so it has gone on vacation
and is waiting, somewhere, for my body to catch up to it.
Maybe I’m just tired.
Maybe I just need a break.
Maybe I’m depressed.
It certainly took long enough coming.
I don’t want to die though.
That’s a good thing. I think.
I just want to sleep until it all feels better.
Or until it feels like something.
Other than pain.
Because I don’t want to deal with it and I’m sick of being weak.
That is what pain is to me – tears and weakness that I should control better.
I thought I had dealt with this but apparently I haven’t.
And I write this and I know people will think this is my every waking moment but it isn’t
I just feel like this a lot
not all the time.
I still laugh from a real place
watching cats jump into walls on YouTube
I still smile from a real place when Scott leans his head against me
I still feel love from a real place
just not a God place
because God has abandoned me
and left me to fend for myself
like I always do.
Like I always have to do.
I know he’s the one who’s footprints I’ll see later
but I think that’s a crock of shit.
I’m drifting away from him
but he isn’t stopping me
or even trying to answer me when
I pray
God.
Why have you forsaken me again?
Again again again again again
Always forsaken in the end
He would rather watch me self-destruct
than come down and meddle with his fucked up creation
Fuck you, God.
Why can’t I just leave you and try to find a way out alone?
Why do I always pray and cry out for help that doesn’t come, help that you so sporadically ladle out that I have some hope that maybe you do care after all and you are leaving me like this to grow in some way?
I hate growing
you should know that by now
I want the growing part to be over
I want to be an adult already
I am sick of adolescence. But that is where I’m stuck
forever.
How can I act now? I am missing my soul.
How can I make art? My tool is an empty shell without heart or warm blood.
How can I create when I am dead?
My soul is trapped so deep within me
it screams and all that comes out is a smile
on an empty vacuous face
How are you?
Fine, fine
and my spirit is dying but no one can see it
and I have no fire left within me
the Ecthroi have won
and they chew on my bones
In all seriousness I do not know how I can go on being an artist when I feel so dead. I cannot access anything and I feel that all my acting is a mask behind which is so much anger and pain that it overwhelms me so I shy away from it.
I am sick. I am tired of being full of pain and anger.
I want to be happy from the depths of my toes to the lightness of my head.
I want to be free in every way – I want my body to be everything, my voice to be unleashed, my soul to fly and swirl and my eyes to see something other than blackness.
My eyes to be something other than empty.
Why does my spirit only flash and spark sometimes?
It isn’t gone, it teases me with moments of fullness and life and then hides away in some deep mark of my psyche that is hidden, so hidden that I can barely feel the pulse to let me know I am still even alive.
Not so gone that people worry about me.
Not there enough for me to be truly alive.
Not gone enough for me to abandon all hope.
Not present enough for me to believe that it will come back.
Am I going to be like this forever.
Am I going crazy? Have I lost my mind?
Am I imbalanced somewhere?
I feel like a living lie.
I am crashing and burning and I do not know how to be honest.
I don’t know how to tell anyone so I hint and I pull away and wait for someone to see and reach out to catch me or cushion my fall. Or at least say look, someone is on fire.
All my soul is on the outside of my body burning me alive
and it doesn’t hurt
because my soul is outside watching
and I wouldn’t be on fire
if my soul could feel the burning
It doesn’t care enough to come back inside
It is tired of being trapped
so it has gone on vacation
and is waiting, somewhere, for my body to catch up to it.
Maybe I’m just tired.
Maybe I just need a break.
Maybe I’m depressed.
It certainly took long enough coming.
I don’t want to die though.
That’s a good thing. I think.
I just want to sleep until it all feels better.
Or until it feels like something.
Other than pain.
Because I don’t want to deal with it and I’m sick of being weak.
That is what pain is to me – tears and weakness that I should control better.
I thought I had dealt with this but apparently I haven’t.
And I write this and I know people will think this is my every waking moment but it isn’t
I just feel like this a lot
not all the time.
I still laugh from a real place
watching cats jump into walls on YouTube
I still smile from a real place when Scott leans his head against me
I still feel love from a real place
just not a God place
because God has abandoned me
and left me to fend for myself
like I always do.
Like I always have to do.
I know he’s the one who’s footprints I’ll see later
but I think that’s a crock of shit.
I’m drifting away from him
but he isn’t stopping me
or even trying to answer me when
I pray
God.
Why have you forsaken me again?
Again again again again again
Always forsaken in the end
He would rather watch me self-destruct
than come down and meddle with his fucked up creation
Fuck you, God.
Why can’t I just leave you and try to find a way out alone?
Why do I always pray and cry out for help that doesn’t come, help that you so sporadically ladle out that I have some hope that maybe you do care after all and you are leaving me like this to grow in some way?
I hate growing
you should know that by now
I want the growing part to be over
I want to be an adult already
I am sick of adolescence. But that is where I’m stuck
forever.
****
So there you have it. Two statements of where I've been at for what seems like forever.
Although I think I may be done throwing the tantrum now.
We'll see...
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Small Mercies
It seems that God will only grant me small mercies these days. No voice, no consolation from Him, just dreams that flicker in and out of my waking mind and words from the people around me that bring the light back.
Today I had two unexpected conversations that helped me, conversations about trust and letting go of fear and control.
I don’t do either very well. Maybe if I could learn to let go and let God I’d be happier.
One of my classmates told me that he is letting God steer his life. He saw through the show he just finished that if he trusted his scene partner instead of trying to control the scene, then the magic happened. He somehow gained the wisdom to apply that to his life – God as the ultimate scene partner – and he is finding so much peace right now.
I am very envious but at the same time I suddenly saw that I only trust God with reservations, which isn’t really trust at all.
That is how I trust. With reservations.
That conversation showed me that my lack of trust is really my own insecurity that in some way I won’t measure up – I will be lacking. I am not interesting enough, smart enough, experienced enough…I don’t have the beauty or knowledge to be worth spending time on. I am not worth loving. I am not worth caring for. I don’t have the faith for God to want to help me and because of that, I feel that I’ll be tested over and over until I learn to trust. Written down I see that doesn’t make any sense. How can I learn to trust if He doesn’t show me He can be trusted? But that is still what I seem to believe.
I am not alone in this either. Every weakness, every folly, people have been perfecting since the dawn of time.
People around me accept me and value me even when I think I have lost everything that makes me worthwhile. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.
To be shown such great mercy when I feel that I deserve nothing is more than I ever expected.
For some reason I have been blinded but God is still all around me. Why is it so hard to trust that to be true? Why do I feel so alone in this?
I know that I need to trust and I cannot.
He gives me small mercies anyway.
Date of Origin: November 12th 2007
Today I had two unexpected conversations that helped me, conversations about trust and letting go of fear and control.
I don’t do either very well. Maybe if I could learn to let go and let God I’d be happier.
One of my classmates told me that he is letting God steer his life. He saw through the show he just finished that if he trusted his scene partner instead of trying to control the scene, then the magic happened. He somehow gained the wisdom to apply that to his life – God as the ultimate scene partner – and he is finding so much peace right now.
I am very envious but at the same time I suddenly saw that I only trust God with reservations, which isn’t really trust at all.
That is how I trust. With reservations.
That conversation showed me that my lack of trust is really my own insecurity that in some way I won’t measure up – I will be lacking. I am not interesting enough, smart enough, experienced enough…I don’t have the beauty or knowledge to be worth spending time on. I am not worth loving. I am not worth caring for. I don’t have the faith for God to want to help me and because of that, I feel that I’ll be tested over and over until I learn to trust. Written down I see that doesn’t make any sense. How can I learn to trust if He doesn’t show me He can be trusted? But that is still what I seem to believe.
I am not alone in this either. Every weakness, every folly, people have been perfecting since the dawn of time.
People around me accept me and value me even when I think I have lost everything that makes me worthwhile. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.
To be shown such great mercy when I feel that I deserve nothing is more than I ever expected.
For some reason I have been blinded but God is still all around me. Why is it so hard to trust that to be true? Why do I feel so alone in this?
I know that I need to trust and I cannot.
He gives me small mercies anyway.
Date of Origin: November 12th 2007
I Had A Dream
I had a dream.
In my dream I had a giant moth for a companion. It’s name started with a G and had a lot of vowels in it; it was at least nine letters long. I remember seeing it written down and saying it, feeling it in my mouth. It was gone as soon as I woke up.
The moth was my guardian, protector and guide.
I was riding on its back when an Ecthroi who looked like Mr. Jenkins popped up in front of us, floating in the air, completely out of place in the world of northern trees and familiarity, completely unfazed by the surrounding, intent only on one thing.
Me.
And more than that, the tiny ball of light deep within me.
Its stare hurt me, scared me. I closed my eyes to keep the light inside so it couldn’t be stolen away. Its gaze kept going through me, I had to curl up to keep the light safe, eyes closed hands clinging to the fur covering G--------‘s body.
And then something made me stop. I stopped shaking. I let go of the fear.
I opened my eyes and uncurled my body and looked the Ecthroi in the eyes and let the light out.
Instead of going away it grew bigger until my whole self was alight, light was pouring from me and filling the world, and the Ecthroi screamed and was vanquished, vanishing into nothingness before me and the un-defeat-able light that lived within me.
We had won. I had past the test. The light that had endangered me had saved me; what has brought the attention of the Ecthroi had defeated it.
This is my life.
I am surrounded by Ecthroi, and I can’t see my moth-guardian and I feel very alone. I feel that I am the Farandoli being seduced, promised an easier way if only I stop the dance, stop the song, let the light go away and then they’ll leave me alone.
They don’t tell me what will happen if I stop, if I surrender. I will be left alone, ‘in peace’ but they don’t tell me what their peace is.
I am so tired, their call is beginning to sound reasonable. Sensible. Easier at least.
The thing is…I know what will happen if I stop dancing and I just can’t let the light die.
It hurts so badly. It’s so damn hard. I am so afraid. And I feel so alone.
I so easily forget the dreams.
They seem to be the only way that God will speak to me any more and they are so often gone when I open my eyes.
The light isn’t getting any bigger. It isn’t chasing away my enemies. They aren’t afraid, they aren’t screaming and vanishing; they’re whispering, comforting, telling me gently that my light isn’t really there, there isn’t anything to let die in the first place …there is no sun, there is only the lamp that I have changed with my childish imagination, isn’t that a silly thing to do! I feel like I am surrounded by fairy book characters – Ecthroi, the Green Lady – but I have no fairy tale saviours. There is no Aslan to save me.
Yet I know that this battle is important. That my light matters, that someday I will see the fruits of this struggle but right now I can’t see anything.
Hope is very far away.
Faith is dying.
Fear is everywhere.
The light isn’t getting any bigger. It isn’t getting any smaller although the scope of the darkness seems to be expanding. I’m being shown all the darkness and I don’t get to see any of the light except the small share that dwells within me. It seems pitiful and shabby, and defeat seems inevitable. There is no hope in the vision I am being bombarded with every day.
Why is God silent now?
Why does He only speak to me in dreams that fragment and vanish?
I despair, and the Ecthroi gather around me like vultures waiting to feast on my death. But I don’t die and the light keeps flickering.
For now.
Date of Origin: November 11th 2007
In my dream I had a giant moth for a companion. It’s name started with a G and had a lot of vowels in it; it was at least nine letters long. I remember seeing it written down and saying it, feeling it in my mouth. It was gone as soon as I woke up.
The moth was my guardian, protector and guide.
I was riding on its back when an Ecthroi who looked like Mr. Jenkins popped up in front of us, floating in the air, completely out of place in the world of northern trees and familiarity, completely unfazed by the surrounding, intent only on one thing.
Me.
And more than that, the tiny ball of light deep within me.
Its stare hurt me, scared me. I closed my eyes to keep the light inside so it couldn’t be stolen away. Its gaze kept going through me, I had to curl up to keep the light safe, eyes closed hands clinging to the fur covering G--------‘s body.
And then something made me stop. I stopped shaking. I let go of the fear.
I opened my eyes and uncurled my body and looked the Ecthroi in the eyes and let the light out.
Instead of going away it grew bigger until my whole self was alight, light was pouring from me and filling the world, and the Ecthroi screamed and was vanquished, vanishing into nothingness before me and the un-defeat-able light that lived within me.
We had won. I had past the test. The light that had endangered me had saved me; what has brought the attention of the Ecthroi had defeated it.
This is my life.
I am surrounded by Ecthroi, and I can’t see my moth-guardian and I feel very alone. I feel that I am the Farandoli being seduced, promised an easier way if only I stop the dance, stop the song, let the light go away and then they’ll leave me alone.
They don’t tell me what will happen if I stop, if I surrender. I will be left alone, ‘in peace’ but they don’t tell me what their peace is.
I am so tired, their call is beginning to sound reasonable. Sensible. Easier at least.
The thing is…I know what will happen if I stop dancing and I just can’t let the light die.
It hurts so badly. It’s so damn hard. I am so afraid. And I feel so alone.
I so easily forget the dreams.
They seem to be the only way that God will speak to me any more and they are so often gone when I open my eyes.
The light isn’t getting any bigger. It isn’t chasing away my enemies. They aren’t afraid, they aren’t screaming and vanishing; they’re whispering, comforting, telling me gently that my light isn’t really there, there isn’t anything to let die in the first place …there is no sun, there is only the lamp that I have changed with my childish imagination, isn’t that a silly thing to do! I feel like I am surrounded by fairy book characters – Ecthroi, the Green Lady – but I have no fairy tale saviours. There is no Aslan to save me.
Yet I know that this battle is important. That my light matters, that someday I will see the fruits of this struggle but right now I can’t see anything.
Hope is very far away.
Faith is dying.
Fear is everywhere.
The light isn’t getting any bigger. It isn’t getting any smaller although the scope of the darkness seems to be expanding. I’m being shown all the darkness and I don’t get to see any of the light except the small share that dwells within me. It seems pitiful and shabby, and defeat seems inevitable. There is no hope in the vision I am being bombarded with every day.
Why is God silent now?
Why does He only speak to me in dreams that fragment and vanish?
I despair, and the Ecthroi gather around me like vultures waiting to feast on my death. But I don’t die and the light keeps flickering.
For now.
Date of Origin: November 11th 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Gilmore Girls
I watched Gilmore Girls this morning. If only my life was that uncomplicated and straightforward. I can understand their problems and see the solutions to them; most of the time they have a clear way out if they’d make the hard choices and act on them. Granted, part of the reason I have such clarity about their lives is that I’ve made many of their mistakes, and part of the clarity stems from the fact that their lives are scripted and consistently so. But it offers comfort seeing as I’m in a place where there is no clarity and thus no choices to act upon.
My life is a fog.
In truth, I’ve accepted that. It’s nice to not be constantly frustrated about the fog anymore. I admit I wistfully think about problems in life that require a clear choice and present a clear action but I know that I don’t have those right now so I am just living. That is all I see in front of me right now so that is all I do.
Okay fine. There is still frustration. I don’t like this feeling of forced stagnation. I don’t see a forward path, I don’t see anything that I can do to break this off, I don’t see how I can progress in any of my chosen fields. All I can see is the routine – wake up, eat, go to class, do the homework, do the show, find time to socialize in there somewhere before going to sleep again, and a lot of waiting, waiting, waiting. It feels like I’m waiting for news of my future but I don’t really know what I’m waiting for. I’m the one who will be creating my future at this point. There is no one else to wait for, no one who will be giving me news.
Perhaps because I don’t know how to create my own future yet, I am stuck. I’m in that horrid adolescent stage of school. It seems I am always in that stage with something in my life – first actual adolescence, then the teenage separation from my parents which actually happened just last year (complete with tedious rebellion), then towards all authority figures and now with school. I am growing towards life and I can’t say the growing stage is very enjoyable. I am getting tired of the un-enjoyable stages of life. Please, somebody tell me that this isn’t what life is! I cannot bear the thought that this is going to be my life…going from one time of fog to another. I really cannot bear it.
The one particular spark of hope from this is the revelation that I am not alone in my struggles and experiences. I am not the only one who liked a guy and didn’t tell him, to lose him to another girl and then experience fits of envy. I am not the only person who isolates myself when I’m struggling. I am not the only person who would rather live in fantasy than in reality.
The fog isn’t lifting.
But I do remember that there is a peculiar beauty in mist.
Date of Origin: October 31st 2007
My life is a fog.
In truth, I’ve accepted that. It’s nice to not be constantly frustrated about the fog anymore. I admit I wistfully think about problems in life that require a clear choice and present a clear action but I know that I don’t have those right now so I am just living. That is all I see in front of me right now so that is all I do.
Okay fine. There is still frustration. I don’t like this feeling of forced stagnation. I don’t see a forward path, I don’t see anything that I can do to break this off, I don’t see how I can progress in any of my chosen fields. All I can see is the routine – wake up, eat, go to class, do the homework, do the show, find time to socialize in there somewhere before going to sleep again, and a lot of waiting, waiting, waiting. It feels like I’m waiting for news of my future but I don’t really know what I’m waiting for. I’m the one who will be creating my future at this point. There is no one else to wait for, no one who will be giving me news.
Perhaps because I don’t know how to create my own future yet, I am stuck. I’m in that horrid adolescent stage of school. It seems I am always in that stage with something in my life – first actual adolescence, then the teenage separation from my parents which actually happened just last year (complete with tedious rebellion), then towards all authority figures and now with school. I am growing towards life and I can’t say the growing stage is very enjoyable. I am getting tired of the un-enjoyable stages of life. Please, somebody tell me that this isn’t what life is! I cannot bear the thought that this is going to be my life…going from one time of fog to another. I really cannot bear it.
The one particular spark of hope from this is the revelation that I am not alone in my struggles and experiences. I am not the only one who liked a guy and didn’t tell him, to lose him to another girl and then experience fits of envy. I am not the only person who isolates myself when I’m struggling. I am not the only person who would rather live in fantasy than in reality.
The fog isn’t lifting.
But I do remember that there is a peculiar beauty in mist.
Date of Origin: October 31st 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Facebook.
All summer long I listened backstage to my friend and cast-mate talk about it, listened as he shared news about common friends who were members, resisted his encouragements to join. In September I even went so far as to join a ‘I Will Not Join Facebook’ club; members, 3. It is a very elite club.
Its membership is down to 2 these days. I have succumbed.
I have good reasons. My entire immediate family is on there, and while my youngest brother won’t check his email he does check his Facebook network, meaning I can now keep up with his life a little better. Almost everyone I know from this town is on there too, although since I see them every day it seems a moot point. I have extended family on there, as well as people I haven’t seen in ages, since childhood, since leaving home…and I’ll admit that I’ve liked catching up with people I otherwise probably would never have spoken to again.
I’ll also admit to enjoying the applications. Hatching Eggs is a lot of fun. So is 10-Second Interview; I love reading other people’s answers. Being able to electronically fight people, play Scrabble, or cast magical spells on people before zombie-biting their necks is also entertaining. I find sharing my favourite books and music to be a pleasant way to express myself. I can even share my mood, complete with a little emoticon to visually convey my inner self.
My moods, on Facebook, have been remarkably stable. I’ve been ‘loved’, ‘in love’, ‘content’. I have felt those things in the last couple weeks, so the happy little yellow ball with a kiss on it’s cheek hasn’t been lying. Exactly.
But then I realized that I was telling my brother that I was ‘fine’ when in fact I was feeling like shit.
For the majority of my time in these last few weeks I have not felt happy, positive emotions. Words like ‘lost’, ‘confused’, ‘extremely uncertain’ have been more accurate. Not that it shows much. It’s not just on Facebook that I present a happier front, although it’s easier to be cheery when you’re writing on walls and sending electronic messages. People can’t see the physical truth then; the jaw that hasn’t been able to relax since the beginning of October, the tension in my face, the hair-trigger emotions. Although even when they can see it people tend to be too wrapped up in their own world to notice, so I get away with my isolation coping mechanism.
I might have still been in denial about my emotional falseness if it hadn’t been for that note to my brother. If I can’t tell my brother what I really feel, then who can I tell? So I deleted my dishonest, chipper words and wrote something else. I don’t remember what, but it was truthful.
It still took me a while to be more honest with my Facebook page…but I am now a little, lonely looking blue hover-ball who is ‘confused because my life is just that way right now’.
Yesterday when someone asked me how I was I told them that I was having a dark tea-time of the soul.
I don’t know why, but being honest about that with people makes it seem more bearable.
Date of Origin: October 25th, 2007.
All summer long I listened backstage to my friend and cast-mate talk about it, listened as he shared news about common friends who were members, resisted his encouragements to join. In September I even went so far as to join a ‘I Will Not Join Facebook’ club; members, 3. It is a very elite club.
Its membership is down to 2 these days. I have succumbed.
I have good reasons. My entire immediate family is on there, and while my youngest brother won’t check his email he does check his Facebook network, meaning I can now keep up with his life a little better. Almost everyone I know from this town is on there too, although since I see them every day it seems a moot point. I have extended family on there, as well as people I haven’t seen in ages, since childhood, since leaving home…and I’ll admit that I’ve liked catching up with people I otherwise probably would never have spoken to again.
I’ll also admit to enjoying the applications. Hatching Eggs is a lot of fun. So is 10-Second Interview; I love reading other people’s answers. Being able to electronically fight people, play Scrabble, or cast magical spells on people before zombie-biting their necks is also entertaining. I find sharing my favourite books and music to be a pleasant way to express myself. I can even share my mood, complete with a little emoticon to visually convey my inner self.
My moods, on Facebook, have been remarkably stable. I’ve been ‘loved’, ‘in love’, ‘content’. I have felt those things in the last couple weeks, so the happy little yellow ball with a kiss on it’s cheek hasn’t been lying. Exactly.
But then I realized that I was telling my brother that I was ‘fine’ when in fact I was feeling like shit.
For the majority of my time in these last few weeks I have not felt happy, positive emotions. Words like ‘lost’, ‘confused’, ‘extremely uncertain’ have been more accurate. Not that it shows much. It’s not just on Facebook that I present a happier front, although it’s easier to be cheery when you’re writing on walls and sending electronic messages. People can’t see the physical truth then; the jaw that hasn’t been able to relax since the beginning of October, the tension in my face, the hair-trigger emotions. Although even when they can see it people tend to be too wrapped up in their own world to notice, so I get away with my isolation coping mechanism.
I might have still been in denial about my emotional falseness if it hadn’t been for that note to my brother. If I can’t tell my brother what I really feel, then who can I tell? So I deleted my dishonest, chipper words and wrote something else. I don’t remember what, but it was truthful.
It still took me a while to be more honest with my Facebook page…but I am now a little, lonely looking blue hover-ball who is ‘confused because my life is just that way right now’.
Yesterday when someone asked me how I was I told them that I was having a dark tea-time of the soul.
I don’t know why, but being honest about that with people makes it seem more bearable.
Date of Origin: October 25th, 2007.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Hope
Yesterday I went for walk and railed at God for immersing me in darkness and misery and hopelessness.
I just want some hope, and you aren’t going to give me any, are you, I cried.
I woke up this morning from a dream I cannot describe – not because I don’t remember it but because it is too close to my heart to share right now.
He gave me hope.
I am such a fool! And such a childish soul! I feel very humbled and comforted all in one breath.
I asked without faith for hope, and He gave to me abundantly.
Date of Origin: October 25, 2007
I just want some hope, and you aren’t going to give me any, are you, I cried.
I woke up this morning from a dream I cannot describe – not because I don’t remember it but because it is too close to my heart to share right now.
He gave me hope.
I am such a fool! And such a childish soul! I feel very humbled and comforted all in one breath.
I asked without faith for hope, and He gave to me abundantly.
Date of Origin: October 25, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Yes, I know...Shit-tastic Isn't A Word
Well, it figures that I write a great post about how wonderfully confident I see myself, an adult all grown-up and secure, and then I have a shit-tastic day right away after.
I live next to an art gallery, a beautiful old building converted into a place to hang beautiful pictures. It has an alarm system – those pictures need protecting, even in a town so small that anyone who knows the pictures exist has a code to disarm the system anyway. That alarm, when it does go off, sounds like a giant alarm clock from Hell.
Especially when it goes off at 1 in the morning.
And again at 5.
Which it has done for the last two nights.
The explanation is that mice (of which the building, being old, has quite a few) run around and set off the motion sensors. And then it takes ten to fifteen minutes for the maintenance man to get out of his nice warm bed and turn off the alarm. And another ten or fifteen minutes for me to get back to sleep. Which adds up to at least half an hour off of my much needed REM sleep.
If I had a key I’d just run over and turn it off myself, but since I don’t I lie in my bed and bitch and moan about the ‘fucking alarm system’ and the useless nature of said system. After the second alert last night I rolled over and said “Don’t fucking set it again!” If I had a key, I’d probably go over there around 10 at night and disarm it, just to get a good night’s sleep, and then alarm it again in the morning.
Anyway, because of the giant alarm clock from Hell I woke up grumpy. Very grumpy. Try as I might I couldn’t really shake it. I’m playing a very chipper woman – the City Lady who gives presents to little poor children – in the Christmas show, and first thing this morning (of course) we worked that scene. Every time we stopped and the director gave me notes I had to bite down on my resentment and anger, my ‘unteachable spirit’ and my bad attitude. By the time we left for lunch I was in a right pissy mood.
I spent the first forty minutes of my lunch break crying. Everything from pity-party tears to sobs that rise out of you, crunching your body in the process. My eyes looked like I’d just taken a huge hit of pot, they were so red, and my nose was thoroughly plugged, but I did feel better. It’s hard to acknowledge and accept myself when I’m having a bad day. It’s easier to beat myself up for not being at 100%, which just makes me feel worse in the long run.
After the good cry and an equally good (though not as soggy) lunch, I repeated a mantra to myself. A positive rant, as I call it. “I am having a bad day. That’s okay. I am still a good person. I can’t be as big and open as P.F. wants, and that’s okay because I am still doing the best I can do for where I am at today. And that isn’t failure. I’m not failing, I’m not pathetic, and it’s okay to be weak. I am okay. I am still a good person...”, over to myself until I began, a little, to believe it.
As I stepped out the door to return to rehearsal P.F. himself was driving by and he gave me a ride. He asked me how I was doing and I said, on the verge of tears again (I feel very emotionally unstable today), that I was having a bad day. He was very understanding, and told me that it was okay if I wasn’t ‘finished’ today – ‘rehearsal is a process’, he told me. ‘We don’t open tonight, or even next week.’ And he told me he wasn’t concerned because he is confident that I know what he wants and I will get there before the show goes up.
Actually, everyone who saw me before my eyes returned to normal was very comforting and understanding, which goes to show me that my assumption that isolation is the best coping mechanism is quite flawed. It also helped me to actually believe that having a bad day is okay. Others accepted me where I was at, and that helped me to accept where I was at, and then I felt a whole lot better.
And so, though the day started out pretty shitty, it has turned into a not-so-bad day after all.
Date of Origin: October 17, 2007
I live next to an art gallery, a beautiful old building converted into a place to hang beautiful pictures. It has an alarm system – those pictures need protecting, even in a town so small that anyone who knows the pictures exist has a code to disarm the system anyway. That alarm, when it does go off, sounds like a giant alarm clock from Hell.
Especially when it goes off at 1 in the morning.
And again at 5.
Which it has done for the last two nights.
The explanation is that mice (of which the building, being old, has quite a few) run around and set off the motion sensors. And then it takes ten to fifteen minutes for the maintenance man to get out of his nice warm bed and turn off the alarm. And another ten or fifteen minutes for me to get back to sleep. Which adds up to at least half an hour off of my much needed REM sleep.
If I had a key I’d just run over and turn it off myself, but since I don’t I lie in my bed and bitch and moan about the ‘fucking alarm system’ and the useless nature of said system. After the second alert last night I rolled over and said “Don’t fucking set it again!” If I had a key, I’d probably go over there around 10 at night and disarm it, just to get a good night’s sleep, and then alarm it again in the morning.
Anyway, because of the giant alarm clock from Hell I woke up grumpy. Very grumpy. Try as I might I couldn’t really shake it. I’m playing a very chipper woman – the City Lady who gives presents to little poor children – in the Christmas show, and first thing this morning (of course) we worked that scene. Every time we stopped and the director gave me notes I had to bite down on my resentment and anger, my ‘unteachable spirit’ and my bad attitude. By the time we left for lunch I was in a right pissy mood.
I spent the first forty minutes of my lunch break crying. Everything from pity-party tears to sobs that rise out of you, crunching your body in the process. My eyes looked like I’d just taken a huge hit of pot, they were so red, and my nose was thoroughly plugged, but I did feel better. It’s hard to acknowledge and accept myself when I’m having a bad day. It’s easier to beat myself up for not being at 100%, which just makes me feel worse in the long run.
After the good cry and an equally good (though not as soggy) lunch, I repeated a mantra to myself. A positive rant, as I call it. “I am having a bad day. That’s okay. I am still a good person. I can’t be as big and open as P.F. wants, and that’s okay because I am still doing the best I can do for where I am at today. And that isn’t failure. I’m not failing, I’m not pathetic, and it’s okay to be weak. I am okay. I am still a good person...”, over to myself until I began, a little, to believe it.
As I stepped out the door to return to rehearsal P.F. himself was driving by and he gave me a ride. He asked me how I was doing and I said, on the verge of tears again (I feel very emotionally unstable today), that I was having a bad day. He was very understanding, and told me that it was okay if I wasn’t ‘finished’ today – ‘rehearsal is a process’, he told me. ‘We don’t open tonight, or even next week.’ And he told me he wasn’t concerned because he is confident that I know what he wants and I will get there before the show goes up.
Actually, everyone who saw me before my eyes returned to normal was very comforting and understanding, which goes to show me that my assumption that isolation is the best coping mechanism is quite flawed. It also helped me to actually believe that having a bad day is okay. Others accepted me where I was at, and that helped me to accept where I was at, and then I felt a whole lot better.
And so, though the day started out pretty shitty, it has turned into a not-so-bad day after all.
Date of Origin: October 17, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Little Woman (in my head)
I have always had a distinct mental image of myself. It’s literally a little version of me who stands in the centre of the blackness of my mind, suspended in the empty space behind my eyes, reflecting my impression of my physical and metaphysical self.
This image has changed throughout my life. The first memory of my mental self comes from my childhood. I was innocent in outlook and physicality, looking out into the world with wide open eyes, a shy yet curious gaze through a fringe of unruly hair. Unaware of any judgement that might come from my physical appearance. I think this is from my preteen years, when I was 10 or 11.
In my next image I’m older, 16, shy and gangly and awkward. In my mind I’m awkwardly tall and hunching over to hide that height, my face hidden behind unattractive glasses, my hair plain, too long, held back simply in a low ponytail. I’m wearing a t-shirt that hides my figure, high-waisted jeans practical for chores and outside work that reveal nothing of my femininity. Shy, with no confidence, wanting to make friends but too uncertain to leave the edges of the social settings I find myself in. At home only with animals and the outdoors, a girl who experiences nothing but confusion when it comes to her own species. A dreamer who reads and creates marvellous adventures in her head but can’t interact with the reality around her.
The teenage awkwardness abated as I grew used to my body, and my mental image changed. My inner height changed to match my physical height and I no longer saw myself too tall and hunched over. I saw my figure begin to assert itself in my head, although my clothes still hid most of my femininity away under the guise of modesty. My eyes reappeared in my face. I was still perplexed when it came to interacting with people my own age, but now was of an age where the adults above me began to treat me like a peer, listening and being friendly with me. Because most of that change happened at work, my adult self wore my work uniform, and my at home self was blurry and extremely confusing.
The change to what I see now was a gradual and painful one. Figuring out who I am and who I want to be; learning that I am an adult and not a child, and what that looks like in real life; figuring out how to interact with a peer set made up of people my own age…change is always chaotic but with something so integral to my mental image of my self the chaos seemed more integral to my life as well. I slipped between different mental images, particularly with my family, and it was confusing to both myself and them. It caused fights and outbursts of anger as I jumped between mental images ranging from mature independent adult to toddler in the span of five minutes. Last Christmas in particular was a time of flux that resulted in some nasty interactions with my mother, painful inflictions that thankfully haven’t left permanent damage.
And who do I see now?
A woman. Standing straight and emanating confidence as I look at the world around me. Beautiful, attractive and secure in that knowledge, feminine and strong. Capable and talented, with a strong passion for life. Alone or with people, growing comfortable with my emotions and what I want. Whatever I’m wearing, however my hair is, whether I’m wearing makeup or not, I look beautiful to myself. My appearance doesn’t depend on my externals anymore. I am a powerful, sensual, feminine adult and I know it.
Even when I am full of uncertainty my inner image doesn’t revert to the images from my uncertain times of life. I may look like a woman who doesn’t know where she’s going or why, and I may be sitting down, head in my hands, drooping or kicking and screaming and throwing a tantrum, but I am still a woman.
Yeah. I am content. Confident. Secure. Adult. Feminine. Powerful. Unthreatened.
Wonderful.
Date of Origin - October 16th 2007
This image has changed throughout my life. The first memory of my mental self comes from my childhood. I was innocent in outlook and physicality, looking out into the world with wide open eyes, a shy yet curious gaze through a fringe of unruly hair. Unaware of any judgement that might come from my physical appearance. I think this is from my preteen years, when I was 10 or 11.
In my next image I’m older, 16, shy and gangly and awkward. In my mind I’m awkwardly tall and hunching over to hide that height, my face hidden behind unattractive glasses, my hair plain, too long, held back simply in a low ponytail. I’m wearing a t-shirt that hides my figure, high-waisted jeans practical for chores and outside work that reveal nothing of my femininity. Shy, with no confidence, wanting to make friends but too uncertain to leave the edges of the social settings I find myself in. At home only with animals and the outdoors, a girl who experiences nothing but confusion when it comes to her own species. A dreamer who reads and creates marvellous adventures in her head but can’t interact with the reality around her.
The teenage awkwardness abated as I grew used to my body, and my mental image changed. My inner height changed to match my physical height and I no longer saw myself too tall and hunched over. I saw my figure begin to assert itself in my head, although my clothes still hid most of my femininity away under the guise of modesty. My eyes reappeared in my face. I was still perplexed when it came to interacting with people my own age, but now was of an age where the adults above me began to treat me like a peer, listening and being friendly with me. Because most of that change happened at work, my adult self wore my work uniform, and my at home self was blurry and extremely confusing.
The change to what I see now was a gradual and painful one. Figuring out who I am and who I want to be; learning that I am an adult and not a child, and what that looks like in real life; figuring out how to interact with a peer set made up of people my own age…change is always chaotic but with something so integral to my mental image of my self the chaos seemed more integral to my life as well. I slipped between different mental images, particularly with my family, and it was confusing to both myself and them. It caused fights and outbursts of anger as I jumped between mental images ranging from mature independent adult to toddler in the span of five minutes. Last Christmas in particular was a time of flux that resulted in some nasty interactions with my mother, painful inflictions that thankfully haven’t left permanent damage.
And who do I see now?
A woman. Standing straight and emanating confidence as I look at the world around me. Beautiful, attractive and secure in that knowledge, feminine and strong. Capable and talented, with a strong passion for life. Alone or with people, growing comfortable with my emotions and what I want. Whatever I’m wearing, however my hair is, whether I’m wearing makeup or not, I look beautiful to myself. My appearance doesn’t depend on my externals anymore. I am a powerful, sensual, feminine adult and I know it.
Even when I am full of uncertainty my inner image doesn’t revert to the images from my uncertain times of life. I may look like a woman who doesn’t know where she’s going or why, and I may be sitting down, head in my hands, drooping or kicking and screaming and throwing a tantrum, but I am still a woman.
Yeah. I am content. Confident. Secure. Adult. Feminine. Powerful. Unthreatened.
Wonderful.
Date of Origin - October 16th 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Like Mother, Like Daughter
My mother is a writer.
All of my life she has called herself a writer. I must admit that during most of my growing up she only wrote in her journal. Before she began her blog I actually didn’t see much concrete evidence of her writer status. However, she has always been a writer and I never doubted that.
I didn’t have a title until I went to acting school. After a few years I felt comfortable calling myself an actor. Well, actress – I don’t like the whole politically correct thing of everyone being actors now. I had my own title, I had my own life, things were good.
Then about a year ago I took a playwriting class.
God forbid I ever call myself a writer. I have always written, but it was more of a hobby. An interest, nothing more. I kept a diary from the age of 6, on and off, wrote several skits with my brothers, wrote a children’s novel in my teens that I never did anything with and I have at least half a dozen unfinished stories in my head and in my filing cabinet, but I was not a writer. It was an interest, an acceptable interest for an actress. Supplemental income and all that rot. So I took the class.
Within two months I began to wrestle with my titles. My teacher was calling me a writer. My classmates were calling me a writer. The other instructors in the school were calling me a writer.
I refused to accept it. Even though I was writing and nothing had ever felt so perfectly natural to me, I rejected the title with all the strength and stubborn willpower in my body.
I struggled and procrastinated like I had never done before in my entire life. The things I would do instead of writing! I suddenly found a passion for my annotated bibliography, the most pointless course I take here; I don’t think my room has ever been so clean and orderly. I vacuumed. I hate vacuuming. I washed other people’s dishes. Anything so that I could avoid writing my play.
I put an astounding amount of energy into avoiding writing. My ideas would come, my spirit would whisper to my muse, and I would evade eye contact. “If I can’t see you, then you aren’t reeeallll,” right?
I can only live in denial for so long, but it took a lot of wrestling before I broke down and called myself a writer. It did break me, even though I was alone that first time.
I go for walks when my thoughts get too jumbled up to the cemetery up on the hill, an old cemetery full of old graves of long forgotten people. I walked around the dead, watching my feet swish through the grass, scaring the grasshoppers into their rain-pattering flight. I was railing against God. Against my play. My idea, the only one I’d been given, was too big. Too dangerous. Too painful. It wasn’t fair, and I told God so.
I crumpled to the ground and with tears falling down my face I looked up to the sky and said, “I’m a fucking writer. Okay? I’m a writer. And I hate it.”
I uttered the phrase with a mouth full of resentment and bitterness. It wasn’t fair, I was an actress, I was not my mother, I refused to become my mother, and I knew this was the first step down a long and impossible backslidden slope.
Months later I finally said the words to someone else. I think my passion for writing equals my passion to act. It was strange to hear those words coming out of my mouth. The strangest part was that my resentment had disappeared. It was suddenly okay for me to admit that I could, perhaps, be a writer.
I’ve spent way too much time trying to figure out why I had such a strong negative reaction to being called a writer. I’m no closer to an answer, and no closer to knowing why it became okay. But I can call myself a writer now.
It scares me, but there is a peace in the fear along with an excitement as I explore this newly forgiven aspect of myself. The world seems like an open book, my oyster chock-full of pearls just waiting for me to come along and pick them up.
Like mother. Like daughter.
I’m okay with that now.
All of my life she has called herself a writer. I must admit that during most of my growing up she only wrote in her journal. Before she began her blog I actually didn’t see much concrete evidence of her writer status. However, she has always been a writer and I never doubted that.
I didn’t have a title until I went to acting school. After a few years I felt comfortable calling myself an actor. Well, actress – I don’t like the whole politically correct thing of everyone being actors now. I had my own title, I had my own life, things were good.
Then about a year ago I took a playwriting class.
God forbid I ever call myself a writer. I have always written, but it was more of a hobby. An interest, nothing more. I kept a diary from the age of 6, on and off, wrote several skits with my brothers, wrote a children’s novel in my teens that I never did anything with and I have at least half a dozen unfinished stories in my head and in my filing cabinet, but I was not a writer. It was an interest, an acceptable interest for an actress. Supplemental income and all that rot. So I took the class.
Within two months I began to wrestle with my titles. My teacher was calling me a writer. My classmates were calling me a writer. The other instructors in the school were calling me a writer.
I refused to accept it. Even though I was writing and nothing had ever felt so perfectly natural to me, I rejected the title with all the strength and stubborn willpower in my body.
I struggled and procrastinated like I had never done before in my entire life. The things I would do instead of writing! I suddenly found a passion for my annotated bibliography, the most pointless course I take here; I don’t think my room has ever been so clean and orderly. I vacuumed. I hate vacuuming. I washed other people’s dishes. Anything so that I could avoid writing my play.
I put an astounding amount of energy into avoiding writing. My ideas would come, my spirit would whisper to my muse, and I would evade eye contact. “If I can’t see you, then you aren’t reeeallll,” right?
I can only live in denial for so long, but it took a lot of wrestling before I broke down and called myself a writer. It did break me, even though I was alone that first time.
I go for walks when my thoughts get too jumbled up to the cemetery up on the hill, an old cemetery full of old graves of long forgotten people. I walked around the dead, watching my feet swish through the grass, scaring the grasshoppers into their rain-pattering flight. I was railing against God. Against my play. My idea, the only one I’d been given, was too big. Too dangerous. Too painful. It wasn’t fair, and I told God so.
I crumpled to the ground and with tears falling down my face I looked up to the sky and said, “I’m a fucking writer. Okay? I’m a writer. And I hate it.”
I uttered the phrase with a mouth full of resentment and bitterness. It wasn’t fair, I was an actress, I was not my mother, I refused to become my mother, and I knew this was the first step down a long and impossible backslidden slope.
Months later I finally said the words to someone else. I think my passion for writing equals my passion to act. It was strange to hear those words coming out of my mouth. The strangest part was that my resentment had disappeared. It was suddenly okay for me to admit that I could, perhaps, be a writer.
I’ve spent way too much time trying to figure out why I had such a strong negative reaction to being called a writer. I’m no closer to an answer, and no closer to knowing why it became okay. But I can call myself a writer now.
It scares me, but there is a peace in the fear along with an excitement as I explore this newly forgiven aspect of myself. The world seems like an open book, my oyster chock-full of pearls just waiting for me to come along and pick them up.
Like mother. Like daughter.
I’m okay with that now.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Easier
It’s easier to be sceptical than successful.
It’s easier to question than to conquer.
It’s easier to rationalize your disappointments than to realize your dreams.
I don’t want the easy life anymore.
It’s easier to question than to conquer.
It’s easier to rationalize your disappointments than to realize your dreams.
I don’t want the easy life anymore.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Rose Coloured Shards of Glass
Once upon a time I was told that cynicism is really disillusioned romanticism.
That explanation clicked somewhere deep within me and stuck. When I feel cynical I remember that phrase.
Sometimes I have the awareness to look around and see what ideals have just been smashed into the ground.
I hate having my ideals broken.
Seeing reality doesn’t feel worth the clarity and understanding it brings.
I am disillusioned with Rosebud.
What am I supposed to do when my ideals get broken up? I don’t want to be a cynical, jaded person. I don’t want to see the world through black glass.
Feelings seem to come in layers, emotion under emotion under emotion. The foundation of my cynicism is a deep pool of pain and sadness, rooted in grief and loss.
Would I rather feel those ‘negative’ feelings than sink into the truly negative view that I’ve been experiencing?
It hurts. It sucks. I have cried, flailed about lost and confused, been angry and deeply still.
This must be what it was like when I was three, experiencing that first betrayal.
Can I deal with the pain and learn from it without erecting blocks and fortresses to protect my spirit?
The ideals that were broken shouldn’t have been illusions. They were honourable. Realistic. Even in a fallen world, they should have held true.
I should be able to trust people.
The authorities in my life should be on my side. They should champion my cause; help me complete my training without blocking my path to success. There should be no room, no toleration, for manipulation and bullying.
People should be able to say no and be listened to.
I should have an advocate on my side when I have a conflict or misunderstanding with the school or theatre.
Authority figures shouldn’t let ego and pride shouldn’t get in the way of what is best for those beneath their power.
Adults should take responsibility for their choices. They should accept the consequences of their actions instead of pointing fingers and putting the penalties on those without power.
My friends shouldn’t lie to my face.
The corners of masks are being lifted and those behind them don’t see it happen. Darker layers of humanity are being exposed, denied and lied about. I am losing my ability to trust and I don’t know how to get it back.
I don’t want to be cynical.
I don’t want to be blind.
I don’t want to be guarded.
I don’t want to be foolishly vulnerable.
I want to find the balance, where I can be open as far as I trust, where I can respect myself and avoid unsafe situations, where I can see the faults and yet still like the people.
I want to be able to choose to trust.
Do I wish I had never seen the curtain rise and that I still believed that this place was a little part of Heaven without faults or problems?
It would have been easier if there had been time between the masks’ revelation.
Now I ask:
How do I learn to protect myself righteously instead of being defensive without due cause?
And how do I get my rose-coloured glasses back?
That explanation clicked somewhere deep within me and stuck. When I feel cynical I remember that phrase.
Sometimes I have the awareness to look around and see what ideals have just been smashed into the ground.
I hate having my ideals broken.
Seeing reality doesn’t feel worth the clarity and understanding it brings.
I am disillusioned with Rosebud.
What am I supposed to do when my ideals get broken up? I don’t want to be a cynical, jaded person. I don’t want to see the world through black glass.
Feelings seem to come in layers, emotion under emotion under emotion. The foundation of my cynicism is a deep pool of pain and sadness, rooted in grief and loss.
Would I rather feel those ‘negative’ feelings than sink into the truly negative view that I’ve been experiencing?
It hurts. It sucks. I have cried, flailed about lost and confused, been angry and deeply still.
This must be what it was like when I was three, experiencing that first betrayal.
Can I deal with the pain and learn from it without erecting blocks and fortresses to protect my spirit?
The ideals that were broken shouldn’t have been illusions. They were honourable. Realistic. Even in a fallen world, they should have held true.
I should be able to trust people.
The authorities in my life should be on my side. They should champion my cause; help me complete my training without blocking my path to success. There should be no room, no toleration, for manipulation and bullying.
People should be able to say no and be listened to.
I should have an advocate on my side when I have a conflict or misunderstanding with the school or theatre.
Authority figures shouldn’t let ego and pride shouldn’t get in the way of what is best for those beneath their power.
Adults should take responsibility for their choices. They should accept the consequences of their actions instead of pointing fingers and putting the penalties on those without power.
My friends shouldn’t lie to my face.
The corners of masks are being lifted and those behind them don’t see it happen. Darker layers of humanity are being exposed, denied and lied about. I am losing my ability to trust and I don’t know how to get it back.
I don’t want to be cynical.
I don’t want to be blind.
I don’t want to be guarded.
I don’t want to be foolishly vulnerable.
I want to find the balance, where I can be open as far as I trust, where I can respect myself and avoid unsafe situations, where I can see the faults and yet still like the people.
I want to be able to choose to trust.
Do I wish I had never seen the curtain rise and that I still believed that this place was a little part of Heaven without faults or problems?
It would have been easier if there had been time between the masks’ revelation.
Now I ask:
How do I learn to protect myself righteously instead of being defensive without due cause?
And how do I get my rose-coloured glasses back?
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