Musing and Important Announcement

You are 65% Rorschach!

Now we are talking. You obviously get what we are doing. Not completely, otherwise you would have scored better, but well enough that we don't pity you.

How Rorschach are you?
Make a Quiz

What's up with that? They should have been essay questions. I had good, well thought out justifications for each answer. I was robbed.

I wonder how Catalytic I am. Or how Bouncy.

Shush you.

Stressing out a bit about money and tickets and readings and Owen Wilson and airports and jobs and money and future and life and career and stuff. Again. Gets old, doesn't it?

Reading, reading is good. I started and finished EVERYMAN (see my updated sidebar) over the weekend. It is an elegantly crafted, moving, succinct book that I kind of wish I hadn't read. Don't get me wrong. It is an exquisite little book. And worth it for the grave-digger scene alone. But I don't like thinking about death. I mean, who does, but really, I mean I really really don't like thinking about death.

I do love Philip Roth. I have all these other books I need to read and I saw it at the book store and I was like, "I need a Philip Roth fix!!" this perhaps was not the one I should have chosen.

I am now reading The Handmaid's Tale which seems to be one of those books that everyone else has already read but I missed somehow.

Okay--so the most important thing you should know about right now is:

On Sunday at 8pm in the Terrace Theater at the Kennedy Center:
Bouncing Ball Theatrical Productions and Charlie Fink present:
THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF ZIDNEY
Words by Shawn Northrip
Music by Mike Pettry
This musical adaptation of the fable The Scorpion and Frog is set in the fictitious Zidney Corporation. Ike Mizner attempts to simultaneously deal with his need for Jacob Fishberger to advance the company and his own scorpion-like nature.

Featuring:
Toni Rae Brotons
Stephen Cupo
Chris Dinulfo
John Dow
Michael Grew
Jillian Locklear
Jennie Lutz
Alessandra Migliaccio
Casie Platt
Bobby Smith
Kelly Tighe

We are behind on our website updates--but Shawn has updated the Myspace page.

It's a different kind of show then our norm, in a good, stretching-us, challenging kind of way.

Come see it. It's free. And funny. And it sounds great.

Blame Ira Glass

I had a little forced walk down memory lane today. In a bout of good/bad timing (I'm really not sure which it is) I find that I am leaving my day job at precisely the time that my department is moving locations. And not like, down the hall, but to a building around the corner from here.

So the whole "cleaning up and cleaning out" process is happening not only at my desk but everywhere around me. Which does allow me to slip away a bit less noticeably. I like that.

Anyway, today I set out to email all of the word documents, jpgs, pdfs and emails that I have saved on my work computer since spring of 2005 (yes, I've been here too long, I know) to my personal email account. I probably shouldn't have saved these on a work computer in the first place, but I did, so be it.

A lot of them conjure up good memories. Especially the ones that are show related and have happened in the past two years. I have had some great theatrical experiences over the past two years.

Of course the negative side to that is it has sunk me into a place of "What now?" thinking. A place of "How can I top this?" thinking. An "I am not as far along as I should be by now" mindset rather than a "Celebrating what has come so far" mindset.

Shit.

Ehhh, maybe it's not the clean out that's doing this, maybe it was just time to come around to that again. It happens, it happens, it is sure to keep happening.

Be gone dismal bitter thoughts. Deep dark pit of disgust, indeed.

And of course, reading the old relationship emails that can now be viewed with the knowing lens of retrospect are delightful. Finding an email that was exchanged a month before everything started to go wrong, reading my "Should I meet you in XXXX? Or at XXXXX? Or just call when I get out and see where you are?" which really meant, "I want to see you all the time and you don't seem to want to see me any of the time but just throw me a life line, please, because I don't know when this started happening and I don't know why I didn't notice it."

Yeaahhhh.

This is all Ira Glass' fault. He got me thinking about all of this.

Right. So, listening to This American Life yesterday one quote which stuck with me, more than the actual stories about break-ups, was in the introduction. Ira Glass is speaking to a young woman who is in her fourth week or so after a break-up. She's raw, you can tell, but articulate and perceptive.

Ira is talking about how aware Recent Break Up Girl is that everything she is experiencing is exactly what you expect to go through in a break-up, and how that still doesn't make it feel any better:

Ira: ...Everything she was going through was a cliché. A cliché that she was forced to go through.

Recent Break Up Girl: That's the crazy thing about it is, breaking up with someone is literally the most common thing. Like everyone you know, broke up with everyone they ever dated, until maybe the person they're with right now, if they're with someone right now. But when it happens to you it feels so specific. Like, I don't want to say I can't get over it in like a flippant way but, you kind of can't get over it, you're like, "What? This is what's happening? It's so shocking."

Ira goes on to talk about the complicated math that RBUG has done to compute exactly when she will be completely over the break up. I would argue that we don't ever completely get over a break up. We adjust to it, we put it into perspective, we move on and leave it behind. But it is a part of us, just as the actual relationship will always be a part of us. Until we find a way to erase all memories of the beginning, middle or end of a relationship from our minds (ala Eternal Sunshine) then we don't ever altogether "get over it".

Maybe I'm just talking semantics here.

Anyway, tomorrow we move on to another topic. I promise.

(P.S. My last post was number 500. Mercy!)

Against All Odds, Indeed

Sometimes the universe sends you all sorts of synchronistic ideas and thoughts and it's kind of beautiful and I enjoy it.

I have been thinking about relationships and love and heartache a lot. I've seen movies about relationships and love and heartache, I've read books about relationships and love and heartache. I've had conversations about relationships and love and heartache. I've listened to songs about love and relationships and heartache.

Have I ever, listened to songs about love and relationships and heartache.

Yeah, I can't stop listening to the Glen Hansard album. It's kind of ridiculous, the obsession, really.

And I can't help but think when I am listening to it that this would make a fabulous break up album.

I am very much not in the market for a break-up, mind you. Quite the opposite really.

But this is also what I have been thinking about lately. Break-ups come without warning. Usually. Or they come with warnings that we don't see, or don't want to see. And we can have that experience over and over again--that experience of a break-up happening and pulling the ground out from beneath our feet--and still, STILL, we have to jump into the next relationship full out! With both feet! No hesitation. Or else we are surely doomed for that hesitation.

Even if we recognize that "I've been here before and it eventually hurt. It has hurt every time before. It has hurt, say, eight times before. Eight times I have had my heart broken or broken a heart, and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and still, when I try to again I have to forget that all happened."

This is something different than selective memory. This is some version of selective amnesia.

I think it is tricky.

It would seem, by the basic principles of behavior modification, that once we fall in love, or some version of love, and we love and then are hurt--that we wouldn't ever do it again. Or perhaps that resolve wouldn't happen the first time, but by the second or third time it would seem almost self-abusive to knowingly enter this situation again.

And yet we do it over and over as if it were the first time. Or we have to aspire to do this or guarantee certain failure. What is that all about?

Again, synchronistically, This American Life is all about break-ups. I just listened to the segment on Break-Up Songs. It's great, and it totally makes me think--I should have done this every time I have gone through a break-up. I should have written a song, and then by now I'd have an entire album of songs. I just need someone to help me write the music. And then maybe I'd have to learn how to play the guitar. Because the best break-up songs are played on the guitar and not on the piano.

Do you remember where you were for every break up you've ever been through? I think I remember the ones where I was broken up with better than when I was doing the breaking. What's that all about?

I saw Eurydice on Saturday night. It was also about relationships and love and heartache. I am glad I saw it, though when all was said and done I was a touch underwhelmed. It might have been the circumstances--I had to spend more than I wanted to spend on a "General Admission" ticket--which ended up meaning sitting on a stool behind the last row of audience. Second Stage is a great space, and succeeds in making most of the house feel pretty intimate, but that far back I still felt a bit.... removed, I guess. And the play itself has a slight distancing quality, so the two combined did not help.

Now that I think about it, that play also has something to do with breakup songs. Because Orpheus' songs of loss are in one respect just that. Break up songs--right? So this has been going on for ages. Even the Greeks knew about break-up songs, they just didn't have Phil Collins to write them.

Otherwise, I spent a delightful weekend in Poughkeepsie where I got to sleep a lot and shop at malls. There was a little culture sprinkled in when we visited DIA: Beacon, which was really pretty great.

It's Your Right

DC Theatre Scene is holding their own version of the People's Choice Awards.

And as the Rorschach Blog excitedly announces: "Well, Rorschach is up in two categories, thank you very much Ronnie Ruff, Best Play - References to Salvador Dali Make Me Hot and Best Actress - Gabriella Fernandez-Coffey for References . . ."

As always, vote your heart. But if your heart says "References to Salvador Dali Make Me Hot" featuring "Gabriella Fernandez-Coffey" then by all means, VOTE FOR THEM!

(And if Dali is the only show you saw of these, and Gabriella the only actress you viewed--yeah, that's you mom and dad--then by all means, VOTE FOR THEM!)

Addendum: I didn't look closely, but I realize now that my loyalties are somewhat split. So--if German epic theatre is more your thing, by all means VOTE ARTURO UI!

What About the People in Toledo?

I am listening to Glen Hansard sing his heart out. It's kind of addictive, no?

As my brother said, "Either he inspired Damien Rice or vice versa, right? They've both got that thing where they kind of build to a wail by the end of the song."

It must be an Irish thing.

Here is my Glen Hansard story. I listened to the All Songs Considered podcast from about a week or two ago which broadcast the concert of The Swell Season album, from the 9:30 club. It was the first time I'd listened to an entire concert podcast for a band I'd not heard of. It was one of those rare, instant, musical epiphanies where you say "I have to listen more of this." I looked them up and realized the connection to The Frames (whom I'd never actually listened to), and remembered something about an indie movie, but pretty much just wanted to download songs from the album the two of them recorded. Listened to it all the way up to New York (I went up to NY yesterday for a meeting about the reading we are doing at page-to-stage), had the meeting, met up with my brother and Shanz, looked at movie listings, and decided to see Once. Which I kind of knew had something to do with the music I'd listened to all morning, but was more of a draw because it was set in Ireland and I wanted to see that on screen. So then the movie starts and it's Glen Hansard, all Glen Hansard, all the time.

He's very charismatic on film.

It's a really lovely film. Very honest. Very simple. And his music is stunning.

Backing up a bit, I had a very festive weekend. Saturday night we honored a birthday. Sunday afternoon we celebrated the end of summer. Good friends and good food and good conversation all around. On Monday the equestrian headed off to Ireland and I readjusted to having all sorts of solo time. In my mind I imagined a sudden burst of productiveness. It hasn't happened quite yet.

But the New York meeting was useful and productive and it was great to hang out with my brother and the Shanz. They showed my their new hood--Astoria, Queens--and we had fabulous paninis and crostini at a neighborhood place (Go! It's really good, and cheap, and BYOB). I crashed on their brand new fancy-shmancy air mattress and was so sad to have my alarm go off at 5:10, so that I could leave the house at 5:45 and make my 7:00 am train. It felt like I'd never slept, like I'd just lay my head down, when the phone alarm started beeping. I hate that.

I did sleep pretty steadily on the train ride back, awakened each time by the conductor's announcements: Newark Airport! Philadelphia! Wilmington! Baltimore! and then readjust, sip my vitamin water, curl back up, sleep again.

I am both amazed and horrified by my ability to fall asleep anywhere at any time. Someday it might not be a good thing. Ironic because, as a young person, I was riddled with insomnia. Still am, sometimes. And yet--give me a train, a plane, a bus, a back seat? And I am out.

I have such mixed feelings being up in NY. Part of me is always like, "Why did I leave here? Why don't I live here?" but then going to the Sunshine movie theater down in the Lower East Side I look around, and I get so overwhelmed by all the little hipsters in their skinny jeans and scrunchy boots and greasy looking hair that it's like eating too much frosting and having to pucker up your mouth because it is just so much of the exact same flavor. I know that it's not like this everywhere in New York, and is certainly better in some of the boroughs, but I just want to see like--a normal pasty person from the mid-west in an outfit they bought from Kohl's. Like, an every day person. And then sitting down to previews and each indie film is about a person/couple/family/single-girl who is just that much quirkier than the one that came before them.

Seriously.

We're idiosyncratic! We're quirky! We're not well shaven! We behave in unpredictable ways in relationships! We say things that are inappropriate, to people we shouldn't say them to!

The preview for the new Ethan Hawke movie came on and I had to gulp my diet coke just to clear my palette.

And I bet I'd enjoy these movies. It just feels like urban-hipter-angst overdose sometimes.

Beautiful Misfits

So, despite the fact that I have eight dozen things to deal with before I actually go on this trip to Ireland, I am finding that I am spending all of my free time reading and researching... what? Yes. Ireland. I love planning trips. Love, love, love, love it. And I haven't done it in so long.

I am also spending time gathering our troops for the Bouncing Ball contribution to the Page-to-stage festival. But more on that to come.

While in Ireland I hope to visit my childhood friend Ray. He lives in Dublin (near Dublin?) with his French wife and new-born babe. I haven't seen him in, maybe ten years? At least ten years.

Thinking about seeing him has caused an onslaught of middle and high-school memories.

Ray was, Ray is, Ray now and forever will be--a truly unique and indescribable individual. Any stories I try to tell about that time would be completely lost in the translation. But when has that ever stopped me before?

Ray and I met in seventh grade. His last name started with an "Si", mine with an "Se" so I think we were in homeroom together? Funny how little random things like that can determine so much. He and my brother became friends--Ray did choir and was involved in the theater department--though I don't remember when we all transitioned from being acquaintances to being friends. Another friend of mine, Kim ("Sv") had an intense crush on him. I think she was in our homeroom too.

In eighth grade Ray was in my Global Studies class with Ms. Mclean (why do I remember these things when I can't remember the name of an actor I worked with three months ago??!!!) He sat behind me and would clicker spit on my back for an entire class period. Little tiny spit balls that he would launch through his teeth with his tongue. I never could figure out how to do it myself.

I remember leaving class one day and looking at my back in the girl's bathroom mirror. Little spit spots all over. I can picture the exact shade of yellow of that embroidered Gap shirt, and what it felt like against my skin. I was so angry at him.

In retrospect I realize that this was probably a playing out of very unrefined 12-year-old flirtations, but at the time I was just really pissed off.

The real heart of the Ray stories came during high school, emerging from the pressure cooker of friendship that was our High school Theater Department and Show Choir. Yeah, I said it. Show Choir.

When we were juniors Ray started this, like, club? Society? I think? Called the "Jerk-Nerds". Again, remembering this all it baffles me--what did our parents think? What did other student think? What did our teachers think? We literally gave our little clique of theater dorks and beautiful misfits a name, a password, a theme song (lyrics included: "Do you walk to work, or carry, a lunch?"--is that from something?), and an accessory (these big plastic rings, I'm not kidding you). And then we were shocked when people said we were being exclusive. The Mormon guy in choir felt like we were shutting him out. The techies thought we were excluding them so they started their own clique-with-a-name. I think we really thought "Only the group of us really GET each other, why would anyone else WANT to be included?"

But it seems they did.

Very, very funny to remember all of this.

Incidentally--at the end of the night of my Junior Prom it was Ray that I made out with, not my date. I'd gone with Paul the trumpet player who I really liked but who was very shy. Ray was with Sarah M., sister of the first boy I ever kissed, Scotty M. (my parents ran into him a few years ago and reported back with some glee that his wife was kind of dumpy) and we had all been drinking red wine at Kim's house (see above, Kim "Sv"). Ray and I somehow ended up on the sidewalk in front of her house kissing.

Hmmm.

The next year he dated my best friend Beth. I was jealous, not happy, for them. I was not very happy at all that year. Things kind of fell apart.

In the midst of everything falling apart I took a trip with Beth and her family to Myrtle Beach. The second or third day we were there a car pulled up in front of our hotel and Ray and our friend Brian (my senior-year-gay-prom date) rolled out, exhausted and sweaty and smiling. They'd driven down from Rochester to hang out with us. Their parents didn't know they were there. I wonder if they ever found out.

It was a time in my life when I felt completely incapable of any bold or meaningful action. I had lost my sense of the grand gesture. And I thought "Brian and Ray can do anything. They can just appear and make things better." I was so glad to know them.

Brian has since vanished, I'm afraid. But now I think I will get to see Ray again.

And in Dublin of all places.

What I'm Eating and Thinking

This was the email I sent my family this morning:

So, I gave notice at the law firm yesterday. I needed to figure out what would happen with me being away in September, and after the manager I don't like and I butted heads yet again I realized I needed to stop putting it off and just bite the bullet.

The other news is--I got a job directing for an educational theater program that will have me in Milford, CT in late-September and early-October. I knew I might get the job, I should have told you that earlier, but I didn't want to jinx it (I guess I get my superstitious side from mom). That's only about 70 miles from Poughkeepsie! What fun, right?!

I'm looking forward to it. It'll give me a chance to focus for two weeks and assess my next move. Anyone got any ideas?

Other random thoughts:

* I wanted to write something about the wedding DJ who hosted my cousin's party in Lawrence, NJ but I can't remember what his name was or even the hotel where we had the party. I do remember his purple suit and gel-slicked hair, his non-stop patter and his fun for all ages party games. I remember that we played name-that-tune. The rest has been repressed. Maybe this is a good thing.

* I had to return a tap out in College Park today (as in "tap a keg") and we stopped for lunch here. I was in heaven. Or, errr, Nirvana. So good. So much food. Like $8 for this amazing vegetarian buffet AND they bring you a dosai as well. Seriously, all I want to do now is curl up and sink into a lentil and potato induced coma, but that isn't an option right now. This means I've had Indian food twice in three days which is strange since before that it had been about a year. Monday was Northern Indian though, and this is Southern, which I actually prefer. Perhaps this is the universe's way of celebrating my near conclusion of the Rushdie book. Yeah, remember that? Still going. Almost done. I started that in April. Pretty lame of me, right?

* I've been listening to Ani all morning (no particular reason). That woman, by far, has the market cornered on breakup/you've cheated/I'm cheating songs. Be they angry: "...Vicariously I have her in me, I want to peel off my skin, let the water wash in"; sad: "You are a china shop, and I am a bull, you are really good food, and I am full, I guess everything is timing, I guess everything's been said, so I am coming home with an empty head"; or determined: "I'm singing now because my tear ducts are too tired and my brain is disconnected but my heart is wired"

Ow, ow, ow, ow.

And you have to wonder, are these all about the same break up? Multiple break ups? Multiple, painful, messy, complicated, break ups? And you just want to reach out and hold Ani's hand. Because you know she's a trouper and all that, but it just sucks that any one person has been screwed over that much. Or maybe she's just particularly good at expressing it.

She and Fiona Apple should like, start a book club. Ever try to find a hopeful Fiona Apple song to put on someone's not-too-depressing-mix-cd? Nearly impossible.

* Watched Hot Fuzz last night. Loved it. So funny. Great writing. And I was actually rather moved by the relationship between the two lead men. Early on I said "Oh, he's reluctantly in this small town now so of course he'll meet a small town girl and fall in love and be won over from big city life". And the eq said "You saw Shaun of the Dead, right? Could you predict how that one went? No, right?" He was correct, of course, and the truest love that emerged was between man-friends/partners. Watch it.

* YES--received the passport. AND-bought the plane tickets. And guess what airline covers a leg of the trip? Of course it does. Hopefully everything will have blown over by then.

Useless Ranting

I'm in a shitty mood, rather inexplicably.

The weekend wore me out. Really--it was great, everything went smoothly with both wedding-related parties I attended--but Sunday just put me over the edge. Essentially, eight hours total of travel for a four hour party. My own planning, I know, but I wouldn't do that again. Clinched by the two hour wait in the Newark train station, since apparently if you buy the $111 ticket from Newark to DC as opposed to the $140 Acela ticket, they have every right to inform you that your train is delayed 2 hours and fifteen minutes and you CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. Unless you are me, who decides that a livid white girl screaming and cursing about the failure of the Sherman Laws and the supposed anti-trust rulings when it comes to Amtrak and the general state of rail travel in this country is going to be a high priority in Newark, New Jersey, a city with considerably bigger fish to fry. Seriously though, stupid white girl or no stupid white girl, it is outrageous.

Blahty-blahty-blah. I'll get over it, the mood will pass, the rest of the week will be better, I'm sure.

I'm also having a "must-get-up-to-NY-before-september" urge. Is there any way to get cheaper than $50-odd tickets for EURYDICE? Anyone know? Is it still selling out?

Ah! And I got my passport yesterday. Not that I need that to get up to NY. But, you know, sigh of relief and all.

A Two-Second Favor

Sign this petition.

Even if it is just to make me happy.

I know the world has many larger issues worth signing petitions for. But if we can get a Trader Joe's just up the street, I promise I'll cook you all, ahh, heat up for you all, ummm defrost for you all dinner along with a bottle of two-buck Chuck.

Rockets

Interesting.

I found this through this blog entry, which I found when I googled:

"cleavage how much is too much appropriateness"

Because frankly? I have no idea. I just don't know. I'm not entirely sure that I care either, but I suppose I should.

In other news, I went with CP and Shawn to Dr. Granville Moore's last night. I love the atmosphere and the beer selection. The mussels were good but I realized by the time I was halfway through the bowl that I usually get mussels as an appetizer to share with someone. As a meal? That's a whole lot of mussels. I also liked the curry dipping sauce much more than the "spicy ketchup". Next time I'd try one of the vinegar based sauces. As a self-proclaimed condiment fanatic, that's a major part of the meal for me.

In the future? Share the mussels. Share the frites. Leave more room for the beer.

Live It

Thanks to everyone who has expressed concern about my aunt. She is alive, she pulled through that night and now it is very much a wait and see situation. We have an (unrelated) family event happening this Sunday, which we are going through with--so hopefully everyone will have a chance to be together for a joyous event to take some of the edge off of the sad one preceding it.

Joy and sorrow, birth and death, love and loss--never one without the other. The sweet and sour cocktail of life.

Enough platitudes. Go out and have a festive weekend. I will too, I promise, while enjoying the scenic wonders of New Jersey.

30-Love

So, on Saturday and Sunday I experienced this phenomenal thing called a "weekend". It's like, a couple of days where you get to do fun things--things that you really want to do--and then you can sleep a little bit late the next morning. It's a really cool idea, I'm glad someone came up with it.

While I did still log in some hours at the day job (sound of wheels grinding, grinding, creaking, stopping) I did manage to:

Play Tennis

Yes, I did. Sort of. Okay, so, the equestrian (I know, I know, I am sick of the moniker too and kind of sick of dwelling on all the things we do to pass our time. I'm sorry. But this is my life and I haven't yet determined if no longer being single should mean no longer blogging as it does for some bloggers. When I started this blog I wasn't single. So, we'll see. I'll wait it out, if it all gets too cloying let me know.) Anyway, he was at one time a tennis instructor (yeah, that too, jack of many I guess). I was, at one time, a tennis pupil. A lousy tennis pupil.

I played on my Junior Varsity high school tennis team my sophomore year. I was second string doubles. Which basically meant I was the lowest category possible where the matches actually counted. But I did enjoy playing.

My brother was, of course, very good at tennis. My brother was very good at many sports. I was not very good at any sports. I still joined my fair share of teams--five years of soccer, five years of gymnastics, two summers of tennis lessons, one summer of softball--note, I was not very good at any of these sports. I was particularly bad at softball.

I suppose in the long run it is good that I still tried, both for the sake of humility and for the sake of physical well-being. Sports forced me to be active and to be social. Most of my friends were very athletic. They were smart girls who also did sports. I was a smart girl who also did music and theater. I wanted to be around them more so I tried to do sports. They always tolerated my efforts. I was glad for that (even if I did lose the relay for us on field day in fifth grade).

Anyway, for some reason in high school I decided I wanted to join a team again and tennis seemed like the best option. My brother had played for a year, I was friends with the cool alternative chicks who played on the women's team, so for once in my life I got past the fact that I was *bad* at something and did it anyway.

I was reminded of this on Saturday.

For the weeks leading up to it, a tennis date seemed like a good idea. It would be a fun way to be active. The weather had been consistently nice, not crazy hot (as it is now, curses) and I was totally jazzed about trying to conjure up any skill I once had and better yet--to improve! To be able to play a game sometime! Right? Maybe.

We drove up to the courts in Georgetown and I started having second thoughts. No, actually, I got on the metro to head to Georgetown in the first place, and I started having second thoughts. People would see my racket and think "What is she doing going to play tennis? She is so clearly not an athlete. Impostor. Who does she think she is?"

I seriously thought this. It's what comes of growing up in a town that values athletic ability above nearly anything else and knowing full well that this was never, ever going to be my forte. I suddenly recede to the nervous ten-year-old in sweaty shin guards half-heartedly playing halfback (no pun intended) while the crowds cheered on my goal-scoring friends with their long legs and speedy gaits. And so when we actually get to the court I am a little relieved that they are occupied.

"Another time, maybe?" Ah. He knows of another court.

Right.

We go, it is empty, I actually start feeling clammy, like this was a bad idea, I suck at tennis and I get defensive when people try to teach me things and why did I think this would be fun?

The long and short of it was: the eq is a great teacher, patient but persistent, and he managed to make me feel like I didn't totally suck while also acknowledging that I definitely play a version of "push tennis"--meaning I never actually complete a swing, just kind of shove the ball as close to where I think it needs to be as I can manage. We worked on what a swing feels like and where I need to be in relation to the ball to make that swing work. Bottom line is, I get in too close to the ball. Need to fight that instinct.

I also need tennis shoes because my running shoes stick to the court. Although I may also need new running shoes, so, eh--all of this is still cheaper than a gym but at this point I definitely need to stick to one shoe investment at a time. And since I don't foresee the next time we will have a chance to hit the courts, the running shoes are probably the better bet.

Relax on a Patio

Two patios, actually. Following the tennis we had dinner at a restaurant patio and then beers on a patio with friends. Both were lovely, and once I got over my Glover Park prejudice I was actually able to acknowledge the fact that the restaurant we went to was not pretentious at all (though it must be said--I was surrounded by madras) and was actually more reasonably priced than similar places on the hill. The privately owned patio was even better--great company and great conversation, the only drawback there being that I didn't load up on the bug spray and now have constellation-like formations of mosquito bites on both of my legs.

Next time I see you, ask, and I'll totally show you Orion.

Visit Costco

I think this is fun anyway. We were there on a mission--party-planning and the like, but I still like marvelling at the four gallon tubs of ketchup and wondering about the people who purchase them.

Attended Meetings

A-ha, very important, blahty-blah, important meeting, yes, of course, lots of important stuff talked about...

Right? I mean, kind of. Right?

And, well, that's about it. All in all pretty lovely. So nice to start seeing the world and all the people in it once again.

I Know. I Question Why I Do It Too.

This is exciting. (Love mussels, love Belgian beer.)

The more I walk around my neighborhood, the more I am aware that getting to the further east portion of H Street (which is developing quicker than my side) is cake.

What else is exciting? I've been going running. I half dread the possibility of running into Mr. Fortier each time, knowing that he will torment me for my out-of-breathedness and ruddy face for months to come if I do, but I don't let that stop me. I am feeling the shin splints however, which is not enough to stop me but may indeed slow me down.

Advice on that anyone? New sneakers? Run only on the grass? Or just suffer it out?

I'm feeling a twinge of home-sickness these days. Not exactly "home"-sick I suppose, but family-sick-ness. My parents came down for each of my shows last season so I saw quite a bit of them. Like a visit a month. It was a bit excessive, I mean exhausting, I mean, it was great...

But now it's been two months and I'm like, hello? You got a daughter down here you know?

That's not meant to be a guilt trip, seriously, at all.

And my brother? I can't remember when I last saw my brother. Last fall, I think? When I was rehearsing for NYMF? Maybe?

This is all inspired, I am sure, by a visit with the family of the equestrian out in the VA 'burbs again last night--an even more complete crew than before with the addition of a sister and her two wee ones and the brother who was out of town before.

We made it all the way this time without incident.

I dunno. Detecting the behaviors and inflections that reveal two people to be related--be they tendencies that came via nature or nurture--made me miss my biological other half quite a bit. (I know it, a bit of aw shucks sentimentality there). I never got it when people would say, "You and your brother, you don't really look that much alike, but there is something very similar in the way you speak and converse with people..." But I have to say, watching the little Youtube video on the Fringe Blog I did see it. It's something in the way we look up to conjure our next thought, something in the furrowed brow (the damned furrowed brow).

Siblings. Bound by blood and forehead wrinkles.

On the "It-Is-Possible-To-Share-Too-Much-And-Be-Too-Honest-Oh-Shit-It-Surely-Is" and "Why-Does-Everyone-Get-So-Friggin'-Worked-Up-By-The-Mention-Of-A-Pulitzer?" fronts, I finally caught up with this little literary scandal (do you think that anyone outside of NY and the college towns that both of these writers have worked in are even following this thing?)

I used a play by Elizabeth Dewberry for my Junior Year directing thesis which at the time I truly loved. It was a dark-comedy, very Southern Gothic. I was very Northern-Great Lakes myself.

I liked that it was a lot of things I was not. Loads of Tammy Wynette in the sound design.

One of my professors at school had directed a couple of her plays in Baton Rouge at LSU (actually, I think, at the Regional Theater based there) and he spoke quite highly of her.

What a mess it all is. Just. Stop. Writing. About. It. Why. Do. You. Think. We. Care. I'm tired of the over-sharing out there.

And yes, I recognize the irony here. Aren't I just as guilty of sharing too much? Who the fuck cares that I miss my brother? I know. I get it. Blogs are innately and inevitably ego driven vehicles for all of us to share too much. So be it.

And finally--one of the funniest reviews I have ever read. It's for real, right?

Enough Already

Interesting discussion both on-topic and off regarding ON BEAUTY last night. I am sad to say I ended up having to skim/speed read the last 50 pages or so to finish in time. I'll do them justice this weekend, I promise.

I did have to read and re-read the ending several times. Did I miss something? I rather agree with Ms.Hannah that it peters out a bit. My best guess was that maybe he finally "liked the tomato". Heck, maybe he even loved the tomato.

That said, I did very much enjoy the book. I am sure that someone more thoroughly ensconced in the world in which it's set(Northeast Academia) would *get it* on a deeper level, but it succeeds on many levels, so this doesn't seem to matter or limit it.

So says I.

Many interesting questions about identity and race. Revelations about marriage and relationships. And one rather disturbing sex scene.

Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it, don't do it. Shit. They did it.

That kind of thing.

A somewhat off-topic discussion about the way we (universal we) have a tendency to romanticize pain and oppression. On topic because the character of Levi, the youngest sibling in the family felt a need to hide the privilege and opportunity that was his birthright to better "fit in" with the company he wanted to keep. He was an upper middle class kid who wanted more than anything to be *street*. Kid was never actually going to be *street*.

I think as artists we tend to do a version of this. But instead of poverty we glorify pain (which can indeed include poverty) and rename it "truth" and "meaning" and "significance". But really? It's just pain.

Someone else's pain? Nothing compared to our pain. Someone without pain? Useless. Worthless. Why should they even try? They have nothing to create! They have nothing to say!

They (gasp) had a happy childhood.

A hurrah to "happy childhoods".

And if you didn't have one--make your own, now. Go climb a tree. Walk barefoot in the grass. Sing a song. Hug a furry thing. Confess a secret to your best girlfriend. Giggle.

Angst is so totally over-rated.

Speaking of re-living childhood, plan is to go play tennis on Saturday (weather allowing). I'll let you know how that turns out.

Beauty-ful

While I had every good reason to get to sleep early last night, I was instead up until 2:30am reading On Beauty. I am quite enjoying this book.This should not come as a surprise. White Teeth is one of my top ten (or so) all time favorites. It is among the books I will recommend to people, sans caveat.

I was introduced to Zadie Smith in 2001, by a jury-mate on the trial I served on right before leaving NY. She was a very cool, downtown, quiet in that I-Want-to-Know-More-About-You way, graphic designer. I liked her very much until she became the jury hold out who just as quietly refused to compromise on anything. Anything.

Then I didn't like her so much.

But she did tell me about White Teeth.

Zadie Smith and I were born in the same year. Yeah. This fact makes me feel a bit small, but I'm not holding it against her. She's also very beautiful.

But hey, beauty and success are totally over-rated, right?

Anyhow, I think she is a master of the inner monologue. Not in the meticulously detailed and particular manner that Ian McEwan wrote in Atonement, but in an even more human, endearing, equal parts funny and heart-breaking way. There is nothing pretentious in the way she reveals her characters. They are who they are, they just are, flawed and stunning and complex, and then they live and breath and laugh and anguish and sob.

(I'll try to avoid spoilers here.) There is a scene between a husband and wife dealing with the husband's three week affair after thirty years of marriage. The wife is an ample, earthy, sizable black woman--grand in every way. The woman her husband cheated on her with is tiny, pale, taut, and bony. Very white and very small.

And when the wife finally asks the questions she had been avoiding asking, "Why did you choose someone who was as unlike me as anyone could possibly be? Is this what you have been missing all along" it is devastating.

Because that's what we do, isn't it? We note with precision that the person who cheated on us, or left us, or strayed from us, or is with us but looking elsewhere, is looking at something we can never be. They are admiring the tall to our short, the angular to our zaftig, the pale to our swarthy, the easy-going to our neurotic, the logical to our flighty, and even if we know we can never be any of these things, it is glaring and obvious and frustrating and painful to acknowledge this. It was a hard scene to read, but beautiful.

This Salon review says it all better than I can, but there are definitely spoilers here.

The Cat