Friends

So Emily and I had dinner tonight with our friend other friend Jenn. Emily mentioned how she likes to read my Facebook profile because I always have amusing statuses (stati?) and people always comment all over them. She said she used to think that people were just fake-Facebook nice to me and that they couldn't actually love me that much in REAL life.

But then she visited WV and saw that my friends so, in fact, really love me that much. People freaking leap on me when I enter a room. Literally. I have the bruises.

I'm just sharing this because it really made me smile. Sometimes I forget how much my friends love me. I never forget how much I miss them, I just have to occasionally be reminded that the love flows both ways. Thanks Em, for reminding me. Even though you've met them all of once :)

Update

I was pretty good about blogging every day there for a bit. Sometimes more than once a day. Because sometimes being alone leads to great introspective thoughts that weaves itself into insightful prose and relieves the inner tension besides. But then you find all seven seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on youtube and POOF! introspection gone in favor of trashy internet television.

So, an update on my life. I am like 90% certain that I want to double major in Anthropology and Creative Writing. Yay life choices. Don't ask me what I want to, you know, DO with those majors. I don't have to know that yet. I like to write. And I like to study people. That can be enough for the moment.

I dressed as a watermelon for Halloween. A sexy watermelon. That's right. A sexy watermelon. See, I realized AFTER Halloween that I liked the costume because it took the idea of a sexy Halloween costume and mocked it. I mean, there is nothing at all sexy about a watermelon. But someone at the Garment District (costume store in Boston) had the idea to manufacture a skanky little watermelon dress that happened to look great on me. So...I wasn't being a run of the mill slut. I was a slut making an ironic statement about slutty costumes. That's right. Think about THAT.

What else? I went to a meeting for one of the theatre groups on campus. One of the girls who hangs lights with me (Elana) is on the board for Freeplay, and she encouraged me to come. Freeplay specializes in artistically interpreted plays used to make a social statement. Fun, ya? And they need directors. And also writers. Both of which are services I can offer. I think I'm going to try to direct Wedekind's original Spring Awakening(not the Sheik musical, the old one) next semester. I already found someone who potentially wants to stage manage for me. So...potential fun to be had.

It's autumn in Boston. Obviously, it's beautiful. The trees are on fire, and there are crunchy leaves to step on everywhere I go. At night, the campus lights illuminate the yellow leaves from beneath, creating an incredible contrast to the deep blue of the sky. It's so beautiful. It's the time of year that makes me think of pumpkins, and apples, and long walks in the dark with my friends as we try to take advantage of the last moments of warmth in the air.

Hope you all are enjoying your autumn!

Arts Writing

So, I went to an improv comedy show tonight at Brandeis. For anyone not aware, improv(isation) is a form of theatre in which there is no script, nothing prepared at all. The actors just have to think on their feet and go with the flow. It can either be really cool or tank really tragically.

The show I attended mostly fell into the tragic tanking category. Their timing was off, the cast kept laughing at their own jokes, and their humor was really just sort of cheap.

The reason I'm writing clearly is not to praise this troupe. Actually they really don't have much to do with the story. The crux of this is that at the show, I was sitting next to a reporter from the Justice (Brandeis student produced newspaper) who was taking mad notes the whole time. I happened to peek at the notes (hey, I'm considering Journalism. It's not creeping. It's studying.) and was shocked at how harshly this reporter was eviscerating the show.

My first thoughts were in defense of this troupe, they worked hard for this! They're up there performing a show! Then I thought, wait a minute, I don't think they're any good either. Why do I have a problem with this reporter's notes?

Then it hit me. The reason why I will never be an arts reporter. Are you ready for this?

I'm an artist. I'm an actor. I know exactly what it feels like to be up there sweating under the lights, speaking words that seem to come from somewhere deep inside you that you didn't even know existed before. I know exactly how much time, effort, energy, and heart goes into giving a production everything you have, and I know exactly how it feels to be told that it's not enough. Your best wasn't good enough. And you sit there and you put your head in your hands and you beat yourself up and think "What did we do wrong?" until you're dizzy. Then you go home, cry for a night, then go back out and do it all again.

Yes, everyone gets bad reviews. No, not all productions are amazing nor do they all deserve audiences.

But I will not be the one responsible for crushing the dreams of a creative team. I couldn't do it. Art and creativity are too important to discourage anyone from trying their hand at it.

That is all.

On Rejection

That's right kids. Lights Down, my baby (my beloved play that I wrote and got to direct and decided to send to a publisher...) was rejected by Playscripts' Inc. It's a sad thing. I'm very disappointed. I worked hard on Lights Down, and Playscripts' rejected it with a form e-mail. Not even a personal note telling me what was wrong with it. Just a generic, "we don't want it" sort of letter. Thanks for crushing my dreams Playscripts' Inc. Thanks lots.

BUT upon further reflection, I have come to this realization.

The Beatles were rejected once.
J.K. Rowling was rejected NINE TIMES.
Stephen King reportedly has enough rejection letters to paper a room.

Quite frankly, Lights Down has never been in better company.

So I asked the magnificent G (who originally recommended Playscripts') if he knew of any other publishing companies who look at stuff from young new playwrights and he suggested Brooklyn Publishers. I submitted Lights Down last night.

And just a note to Playscripts' Inc, WHEN I MAKE MY MILLIONS AS A WRITER, YOU WILL BE THE FIRST ONES INVITED TO BITE ME.

That is all.

Have a nice day.

A Year

Or very nearly one.

Brendan my dear, nearly and entire year has passed since I got the phone call. That one horrible phone call. Lizz told me you had...I don't even know what phrase to use. "Committed suicide" sounds too...technical, too detached. But "killed yourself" sounds juvenile. I don't know what to call it. I don't want to call it anything.

But she called me, and I slid down the wall in my dorm hallway. Cell service died, because that's what concrete does to cell service. I just sat there on the floor, staring at my knees, unable to believe it. I called Lizz back and we talked for another minute, but neither of us knew what to say.

I walked back into the lounge on my hall(where I had previously been studying) and sat down like nothing had happened. I just stared at my computer, at all the messages scrolling down Facebook. Messages that I now understood. Messages that made me..numb inside. A few of my friends came in and I finally found my words. "One of my high school friends...committed suicide...this morning."

I remember that it was the most beautiful sunny day. Cliched though it is, I sat in my favorite seat by the window and looked out and wondered how the world could not be crying for the loss of you, who were so young and so loved.

So loved, Brendan. It's been nearly one whole year and people still write on your Facebook wall. All the time.

I'm so sorry Brendan. I'm sorry we hadn't talked in a long time. I'm sorry you didn't know how much you meant to me. I'm sorry. I am so very sorry. You touched so many of our lives. Maybe if we had let you know it, you would still be with us.

The rest of that day I was in a daze. I didn't know what to do. My roommates left me alone. I turned off the lights and laid down on my top bunk and stared at the ceiling and thought about you and remembered you and did all the things I thought you were supposed to do when someone dies.

I felt so cut off from everyone. All of our friends at home could grieve together, and there I was, stuck in Boston.

I was so terrified I was going to miss your funeral. I tried my absolute hardest to get my flight rescheduled, but I couldn't do it. I ended up rushing directly from the airport to the church, getting in late. But it didn't matter. As soon as I got there I was crying. Crying so hard I could barely see how packed the church was, how tear-streaked everyone else looked.

I think I'll always remember your funeral. And the day I found out you had died. Some things just don't go away.

You are in my thoughts a lot Brendan. Even now, nearly one year past, I still think of you nearly every day. You are so near to my heart boy. And I bet you didn't even know it.

I hope you found your peace. And I hope you can see how much we all miss you down here. Love you forever kid.

Quincy Square Market

Go there. It's freaking amazing.

Emily and I went on a Halloween costume searching adventure this past weekend and part of our adventure was dinner at Quincy Square Market. What a cool place.

It's a total tourist trap, first of all. But as I learned from my summer in Harpers ferry, tourists can be pretty cool people. The thought of tourists should not necessarily send one running in the other direction. I thought Harpers Ferry was diverse, but oh man. Quincy Square Market is WAY more so. There are people from all over the world gathered in this place. Emily and I heard a French conversation! I didn't understand a word of it, but still. Way cool.

The diversity of the populace is well represented by the services offered in Quincy Square Market. Basically a giant food court, I saw most of the globe represented in culinary form. I decided to go for some Bostonian cuisine. Emily and I both enjoyed soup in sourdough breadbowls. She had clam chowder, I had lobster bisque. Delicious! Maybe it was the soup, but the entire atmosphere just felt so...Boston. As a port city, it makes sense fro Boston to be a gathering a cultures in their more extreme form. As you go farther inland, the different cultures tend to be softened, more combined with US traditions.

In Boston all the culture feels stronger. Maybe that's just because I haven't been in a place that had any noticeable culture to speak of for most of my life. But I don't think that's it. I think Boston is truly a unique place. I really love this city. It has so much to offer, and I plan on exploring more of it as often as I can.

Perfect World

In a perfect world, I would be sitting in a glass room at the top of a tall tower. There are no electric lights. During the day, I can see by the sun and at night I am able to look at the stars without distraction.

The room itself would be simply furnished, with only a giant beanbag chair. Other than that, the room would hold only notebooks, dozens and dozens of notebooks as well as a computer with a word processor, but no internet. No distractions. Only my writing. I could sit for months and just..write. Whatever thoughts flick through my mind would be placed lovingly on paper or typed onto a screen. I would turn simple ideas into characters embroidered with thoughts, feelings, relationships, and ideas all their own. In my glass room, I could create worlds.

Ideally, the room could change locations. Perhaps after several months of gleaning all I could from one locale, the room would simply relocate so that I might have a new landscape to observe.

For nourishment? I would rather not take a break to eat or drink, but eventually my hands would become weak and my thoughts muddled. So, the room would also need an infinite supply of chai tea and wheat thins. Two things I never get sick of.

With my notebooks, computer, and my provisions, I could happily remain in this place until I have written my fingers down to the bone and exhausted my mind.

Then I would take a break. Come down from my glass room and interact with the world for awhile. For where is inspiration but in creating my own interactions to observe?

My notebooks would remain up in the tower. But perhaps during my break I might connect some of my typed writings to the internet that I might get the feedback of others. But most of my writing is for me. Disorganized, often painful, rarely coherent. Simply to create more space in my mind. Dumbledore had his Penseive* and I, I have my notebooks. To be filled over and over and over and over again with my idle musings. Love it or hate it, my notebooks are always written in pen. That way no matter what I write, it can not be erased. For every piece of writing that comes from a writer has a time and a place. It just has to wait to be seen.





*Albus Dumbledore was the headmaster of Hogwarts School in the Harry Potter novels. He was super smart, and sometimes claimed that his head was stuffed too full of thoughts. So he used his magic wand to remove thoughts from his head and place them in a basin called the Penseive. So that explains that.

Love, Love, Love

Sorry to do two so similarly themed posts so close together, but recent events demand it.

As I said at the end of my last post, there are several new Facebook events springing up to support the gay community and try to show solidarity with victims of homophobic bullying. I joined one such group, actually an event. Here's the link if you want to check it out:

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=112861798774522

(Just open a new internet window and copy and paste that link into the address bar.)

Anyway, on the page for the group people are allowed to comment. Because it is an open event, anyone can join and say whatever they want. Freedom of speech.

I was scrolling down the page, reading all of the posts. Most were very kind and loving and supporting. A few, unfortunately, were not. There were several extremely homophobic posts. That's not what really bothered me though.

In reaction to these posts people who claim to be supportive of the gay rights cause became hostile. Many of the responses were threatening and crude. I recommend looking at the site, just for curiosity's sake. I really don't want to repeat some of the nasty stuff. But suffice it to say, the supporters were willing to get just as down and dirty as the ones they are supposedly fighting.

So, I decided to put my two cents in. I left this comment on the page:

" I would just like to take a second to remind the people posting on this wall that the purpose of this group is love. I ally myself with the cause of homosexual rights because members of my family and many of my friends are gay. That does not mean that I hate anyone who is homophobic. It just means that I, along with anyone else who claims to support the cause, have a responsibility to teach the message of love. Supporting gay rights does not equal hating homophobia. Hating those who hate makes us just as bad. Let's share the love, okay? In the words of the eternally wise John Lennon, "All you need is love." "

To which I received the charming comment: "all you need is a dick up your ass"

Really? REALLY?!

I said so many things, yet what you choose to target is JOHN LENNON'S LYRIC?! That sir, is just..GRRRRRRR. Contradict ME all you'd like. But DON'T twist Lennon. THAT SIR is just UNACCEPTABLE.

My point (aside form being mortally sorry for causing John Lennon to roll in his grave) is that those who preach love should practice it.

When I was at the Prop 8 protest a year or so ago, I had a really memorable experience. While we were marching with our rainbow signs, we came across an older couple standing across the street from us. The man grabbed his wife's hand and held it up. "This is marriage!", he yelled. His intention was clearly one of hate. So, laughing, my friends and I all draped our arms around each other and shouted back, "This is love!"

Being a liberal (to me at least) means being open to the other side. Loving your crooked neighbor with all your crooked heart. It's a mean, cruel, hateful world. I don't think that those who are trying to spread a message of love should do so by propagating hate.

In closing, please enjoy a fantastic song by some wonderful men.



Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.
There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game
It's easy.
There's nothing you can make that can't be made.
No one you can save that can't be saved.
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you
in time - It's easy.

All you need is love, all you need is love,
All you need is love, love, love is all you need.
Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love.
All you need is love, all you need is love,
All you need is love, love, love is all you need.
There's nothing you can know that isn't known.
Nothing you can see that isn't shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy.
All you need is love, all you need is love,
All you need is love, love, love is all you need.
All you need is love (all together now)
All you need is love (everybody)
All you need is love, love, love is all you need.

Kurt Hummel

Because I have a relatively attentive (if small) audience, I am going to write about something I have been thinking about. It's more of a social commentary than anything that has anything to do with my life or with my school. It's news related, sort of. Recently there has been more discussion of homophobia and hate crimes that target homosexuals. So, I'm going to write about Kurt Hummel; the gay character on Glee (one of my absolute favorite TV shows).

For those of you who don't know, Glee is a show about a high school show choir. Kurt Hummel is one of the main characters. Openly gay, Kurt wears fashionable (if extremely effeminate) outfits and is crushing on the quarterback of the football team (Finn Hudson, also in the glee club). Kurt is often referred to as "one of the ladies", and he has an alto voice that any girl would kill for. He in fact sings "Defying Gravity" in a diva-off with Rachel (the glee club's star singer, played by Spring Awakening's Lea Michele), and does astonishingly well. The song, a showstopper from Wicked, is without a doubt a female song.

The question has been asked before whether the character of Kurt is any good for the gay cause. Yes, he is an openly gay character who is lovingly accepted on a popular TV show...but still...

I am going to choose the position that Kurt is not actually good publicity for young homosexual teens. Most high school aged homosexuals are not nearly as open as Kurt, and are in fact aware that it would be dangerous to do so. So he is not a character that anyone can sympathize with. Kurt is more of a caricature than an actual person. He is too wildly "fabulous" to exist in reality.

Apart from not being a sympathetic character, Kurt also embodies many of the characteristics that make people homophobic in the first place. What I find most worrisome is Kurt's aggressive crush on Finn (the football quarterback). This is exactly the kind of thing that straight males worry about. 'What if the gay kid is crushing on me?' To have a televised character obviously pushing his affections on a boy who is unwilling and in any case unable to return the attraction is dangerous. It feeds the ignorant idea that homosexual men are trying to push their ways on straight men. This is not an idea that needs any more support than it already has.

Basically, my problem with the ideology of Kurt is that his only noticeable character trait is "gay". He doesn't offer anything else to the show. He is the gay kid. The astonishingly gay kid.

Don't get me wrong, I love Kurt Hummel to death. But that's because I am fully aware that while people like that do exist, they are not the norm. I am completely supportive of gay rights and not showing hate toward people based on who they choose to love. I just don't think Kurt is particularly good press for the issue. I like the idea of having a gay character in the Glee club, I just think there should be more to him. I think he should be an actual character, who is ALSO gay.

I think that America has come to expect that in television though, and that is why Kurt's existence in Glee has not become a topic of discussion. He is not sneaky about being gay (like, for example, Ennis and Jack in Brokeback Mountain. I might have to write another on of these things about Brokeback...SO GOOD.). Brokeback became a national issue because Ennis and Jack were gay in an area that was thought to be extremely masculine. Kurt is gay in a show choir. It's a little more expected there.

Basically, Glee, rock on. Kurt, in the future I'd like to see a little more of a character. Don't just be gay. Be a person too.


**Enjoy my idle musings :) There isn't much in the way of Brandeis updates...we are having an LGBTQ Candlelight Vigil this week to show solidarity. Even on the Brandeis campus there is still homophobia. I mean, shit. If it exists HERE in liberal utopia, then it has to be everywhere. I don't understand it. I never have. Also, wear purple on October 20 to honor victims of homophobic abuse. Save the date.

Dear Allison Weiss,

You are a wonderful Indie guitarist/singer who I am exceptionally fond of. In fact, I plan on taking one of my very best friends in the known universe to your show in early October.

Anyway, one of your songs is called "Break My Heart", and I am writing this letter to you to reveal to you exactly how far from my truth one of the lyrics is.

The line is thus: "I'm in the passenger seat, of a car that's going nowhere."

The first time I heard the song, I was like, "Oh my god, that just described my life."

Listening to it a few times over though, I realized just how untrue that is.

I definitely feel like I'm going nowhere. I'm sitting in this car, and the steering wheel is freaking locked. I'm not moving, because who moves a car with a locked steering wheel? How the hell could I have any control over where I'm going if I can't steer? Another reason for going nowhere is that I my foot is stomped onto the brake so hard I'm surprised it hasn't burst through the floor of the car. What's really crazy is that I'm standing on the accelerator just as hard. I want to be moving forward just exactly as much as I want to stay where I am. Either way, I can't let my foot off of either pedal because the steering doesn't work so I'd probably just crash anyway.

So...what's wrong with the lyric? Well, Allison, clearly I am not in the passenger seat. I'm clearly in the driver's seat. I am in the DRIVER'S seat of a car that's going nowhere. I have no one to blame for the fact that even if I decide I want to move forward and not stay in the same place forever, I'll end up in a wreck because I have no idea where I'm going or any control over how I get there.

Otherwise, it's a great song. Keep up the good work, and I'll see you at your show!
Hillary

**I realized I hadn't blogged in awhile, but I'm out of entertaining college anecdotes. This is just a peek into my (admittedly rather crazy) mental state. I like metaphors. They're more fun than straight truth.

Maine

I could live in Maine. Just saying.

So, Emily, our friend Jenn, and I took a day trip to Maine yesterday. Ogunquit, specifically. For those of you unfamiliar with Maine geography, Ogunquit is a beautiful little beach town about 90 minutes from Boston. Absolutely amazing.

On a different note, beaches always make me think of my Daddy. As soon as my feet touched the sand (and that was relatively soon after stepping off the pavement, as I kicked my shoes off), I wanted to make a sand castle. That's something he and I would always do. We would create these simple but huge mountains of sand and then decorate them with seaweed and shells and rocks and anything else we could find. It was something we did every time we went to the beach. Just he and I. I guess because Jess was too young to really help. Or maybe it was just because I was Daddy's girl. Another thing we did on the beach was fly kites. Emily h ad never flown one before, and if the beach had been less crowded I probably would have made her go buy a cheap kite so I could teach her. (PS she did end up building a sandcastle with me).

I think the reason beaches still can evoke such strong memories for me is because I don't go to them often enough. I have been to the beach WITH my Dad more times than I have been without him. I'd like to keep it that way. I always want the smell of sand and salt water to make me stop, smile, and remember the Dad who took me on special just Dad-and-Hilly beach dates. My Dad loved the water, and I loved loving it with him. And I miss him every time I am near the ocean. Lots of other times too.

But anyway, I was writing about Maine. Which is lovely. I could really and truly see myself living there. I do realize that it gets freaking cold in the winter, but I think I could handle that. I look good in sweaters :P I think I could rock it. But then again, there also aren't many people in Maine, so it is probably difficult to get a job. But it's close to Canada, so I could smuggle in pharmaceuticals if need be. Kiddinggggg.

Love to all!

Ready, Set, CLASS!!

Mom: So what are you most excited about for this year?
Me:(thinks about it for a second)Classes.

The saddest part is that I was not kidding. Or being sarcastic. I am absolutely in beautiful nerd love with the classes at Brandeis. Yesterday I had French (enchantee!) and Psych (which I dropped. Promptly.). French was basically like a high school language class, and I just really didn't care enough about Psych to put in the level of work they were asking for.

Today I just got out of my new Anthropology course: Landscapes, Places, Meaning, and Memory Across Cultures. The professor won my heart as soon as he walked into the room. I had gotten there early (because I am pathologically punctual) and everyone was just sort of sitting around waiting for class to start. Oh PS, the desks were arranged in a circular formation with a clear head but there were too many desks for the circle so some were scattered around the edges, clearly not places of authority. Everyone arranged themselves around the room according to how close they did or did not want to be seated to the professor (I might have just made a grammatical butchery of that sentence...oh well.), of course leaving the head desk empty in anticipation of his arrival.

When Professor Golden entered the room however, he sat at one of the edge desks without a word. No introduction, no 'time to start class!'. Just entered and sat in a place unusual for the teacher to sit. It put the whole class into semi-spaz mode as everyone had to decide in a split second how to orient themselves to this new positioning of the room. As he watched this, Professor Golden smiled and said, "Now see how nervous I've made you all? That's the effect that space and placement has on our culture."

OMG. He did NOT just underline the ENTIRE PURPOSE of our class.

Except that he did. In an exquisitely simple but poignant manner.

Wow. You go Professor Golden. You go.

Now I'm off to Adapting and Revising: A Collaborative Process for Prose Writers, Playwrights, and Screenwriters. Hopefully to be wowed again.

While You Were Out

Hey everyone!

I'm back!!

That's right kids, I am once again at Brandeis, this time as a SOPHOMORE. Before I dive into this year, I wanted to give you all a bit of a catch-up on what happened during my summer. Oh what a summer it was.

Basically, everything epic that could have happened, DID. Emily (from 'Deis) came to visit, there was tons of stargazing and hanging out with people who are fantastic and mean absolutely everything to me, there was some time spent with a really awesome boy who ended up being...well...just a boy (friends to the end...), and there was this super awesome play that I got to direct. That I wrote. That starred only the most incredible cast EVER. Apparently they liked me too because they gave me roses and a framed picture that they wrote nice things all over :)

So summer was great. Beautiful. Ended too soon, but doesn't it always?

I'll post more about the first few days on campus in a bit. But now I must dash. Lunch date!

Finale

"December 24, 10 p.m. Eastern Standard Time,
Can't believe a year went by so fast...
Time to see,
What we have time to see!
Turn the projector on!"

RENT of course. From the finale.

Fitting, because it is the finale of my freshman year of college.

WHERE THE HELL DID IT GO?! Didn't I just get here? Time goes SO fast. Especially because I did a fairly decent job of wishing it all away in the end part of first semester. Never, Ever wish away time. Because no matter how hard you try, you'll never get it back.

Someone told me that years go faster as you get older because each year is a smaller fraction of your life. I don't know if it's that or something else, but I can vouch for the fact that everything is so fleeting.

I'm going to be a sophomore. Wasn't it like a week ago that I was crying every night, freaking out about where I was going, how I was going to be there, what was going to happen next?

I still can't answer any of those questions. But I guess I'm not as worried about it anymore. It's hard to be worried when I just finished finals and I have three clear months ahead of me to just enjoy my friends and my home.

No, this year wasn't at ALL what I expected. But I wouldn't change anything. Even the stuff that sucked will make a good memory someday. And the stuff that was great was really really great.

So long freshman year! Summer, do your worst. I'll be back in Boston in the fall <3

Brendan

I knew a pic had to exist of this. Still thinking of you kiddo.

Are there no Shadows where you are?

Dear Brendan,

I've been thinking about you a lot tonight for some reason. I remember little things like that time you and Sofi stole my shoe and put it on top of a flat that I could possibly reach the top of, and how after Mary Girard won Regionals, you literally jumped off the stage into my arms and for a brief second I held all of your weight.

It's so surreal. I look through old pictures on Facebook and, without warning, there you are. On the edge of some frame, always smiling, always on the edge. You were on the edges of my memories, but you were there. It's even stranger now that you were on the edge. I will start to tell a story now and stop, all of a sudden, because I remember that you were there.

I tell a joke, one of my favorites (Where does the King keep his army? In his sleevey!), and recall as soon as I've done so that it was you who first shared it with me. People around me laugh, because I've made the kind of friends who like corny jokes, and I smile, but feel strange inside.

I miss you. I hadn't seen you in a year, and probably would not have seen you for a long time to come, but I miss you. I think a lot about you, now that you are gone. You are the first person I know who is my own age who died. The first funeral I went to where I cried.

The emotions inside of me when I think of you are so...strange, to use the word yet again. But it applies. I'm sad, but there's more to it. There's the thought that I barely knew you, so why am I so very sad? As I mentioned, you were just a peripheral character. I think that makes it even harder. You were someone I didn't give much of a thought when you were there, so it's now odd that you have become the focus of my thoughts.

I don't know Brendan. But I hope that wherever you are, there are no shadows, and that you see everything as day (those are adapted Anberlin lyrics by the way, "Are there no shadows where you are?/ I can see everything as day"). I truly hope that you have found your peace, and I hope you know that you are so very missed, even by people of whom you might not expect it. You were such an amazing addition to the world and it is such a loss that your sun doesn't shine on us anymore. But the memories will always be there kid. And every time I see you flitting around the edge of some story I tell of wonderful times at home, I will stop, and I will remember what an incredible hugger you were, and how special you could make anyone feel.

I love you Brendan. And I hope you know that.

Dreaming

Recently I've had two very similar dreams. They were both about my dad, but he was dead. I was addressing him as though he was visiting for a brief time, but as though he had missed a lot.

In the first dream, I took him driving with me. I told him (and this is absolutely true) that I think a lot about all of the things he will never get to see me do, and one of the bigger things was that he will never have to deal with the pride/terror involved in teaching a teenage daughter how to drive. So I took him for a drive
(nevermind that in the dream I was a TERRIBLE driver, like, seriously, I almost took out someone in a toll booth).

The next dream was a tour of Brandeis. I showed him all my places, all the things that I do. Then we were laying down and I put my head on his chest (as I did so often as a baby and a child). I was about to tell him about Robbie, but we were interrupted by something inconsequential that involved a debate between the theatre clubs and BTV (no doubt my subconscious warring about whether I want to be a cliquey stage actor or a friendly film actor).

I woke up thinking..."Damn I wish that was real."

Well, why wasn't it? Just because it took place within the realm of my dreams, does that mean that it's fake? That out there, in some realm of existence, some ethereal form of my father isn't interested in my life, in what I do, where I go, who I am becoming?Is it truly just an image my subconscious dredged up to humor my wandering thoughts and reminiscences?

Or have I, in some sense, been visited by my father twice this week?

Now that I think of it, I have had dreams of my father before. Dreams where he is dead, but I question the legitimacy of his presence. In past dreams, I have been hung up on the fact that everyone thought he was dead, so how could he be before me? I think my acceptance of the current situation in these most recent dreams shows a kind of maturation. I have finally accepted the fact that my father is dead, never coming back.

But still watching over me. Do the dead ever truly leave us?

My father in life would never have left me to live without him for 7 years. Even during his most prolonged absences, there were cards. I think these are his cards. His way of telling me that, although he is not here to hug me, to tell me that he loves me and my brother more than anything else in the world, that he is still here.

Daddy, I love you. And I will miss you forever, but I can get used to these dreams if it means you are still with me.

Anyone but You

So World, Mother, and whoever else happens to be reading, this is an example of what I write when I have no intention of sharing. But apparently I need to OPEN UP more. So, here it is.

You say you're sorry,
You know you've been a bad friend
It kills me, but I say okay, it's fine
If it was
Anyone but you,
I would have given up long ago.

I know this is how you work,
That it's NOT just me you treat this way,
It's everyone.
And if it was
Anyone but you
I wouldn't care half so much
Because that's just how some people are

But it isn't
Anyone but you
It's You.
You who I care so very much about
In a way that has not for many years been reciprocated
You who haunt my dreams,
Asleep and awake,
I never see
Anyone but you

Anyone but you
Could not hurt me so badly
Time and time again.
But you can.
You have that power.
I handed it to you
And I never took it back.

I wonder now
As I think of your eyes
Your smile
Your self
If I will ever be able to see
Anyone but you.

**It doesn't have a resolution. Because that's the way that works. Make of it what you will.

How do You Know?

Your whole body is shaking.
Every muscle in your entire body is quivering.
Your legs threaten to stop their ever present support of you,
Your fingers are beyond your conscious control,
Even your voice, your tool, your skill,
Has been given over to a much quieter, more tremulous, weaker version of itself
Than the one you rehearsed with.

Yes, everything shakes.

You stand there, on your miniature stage in front of the smallest, yet somehow most consequential audience you have ever before faced,
And you begin to speak the lines you have carefully prepared.
They rush out,
Sounding nothing like anything you've said before,
Nothing like the strong, confident-sounding monologue you spent hours working over.
Your breath continues to catch in the strangest ways as your muscles still refuse your command.

You finish speaking,
Your last syllable petering off into silence.
Your face muscles relax, move downward.

Downward?
This means they were up once.
Up, smiling, even during the prose that should have brought tears...
But it did.
You wipe the tears from your face, left over from the character in whose shoes you spent the last few moments.
Tears.
Yet..a lifted, smiling face.
Smiling, though you shook.
Smiling, though you cried.
Smiling, though you feared this judge worse than any before.
Smiling.

That's how you know you belong up there.
On that stage, facing that director at that audition,
The director who will tell you in a few fleeting words whether or not you are good enough.
And your face pulls itself into a smile, without you even realizing it.
A smile that blends perfectly to look like tears, anger, or ecstasy.
No matter what role you become,
What emotion plays across your soul,
You smile.

That's how you know.

The Castle!

So, through a terribly overwhelming process known as the Housing Lottery, I was assigned a living space for next year. I'll take a second to outline the Lottery for your viewing pleasure.

Mid-February I recieved an e-mail telling me that my number was 425. This basically translates to...well...no one really knows. Not even the Dept. of Community Living can tell you. It's a fair number. I mean, the numbers went down to like 1000 something. The housing areas for sophomores are thus (in order of desirability): The Village (AC, and they clean your bathroom for you), Rosenthal (suite style living, close to lots of things, but you have to clean your own bathroom-traditionally party living), East (at the bottom of a large hill, doubles or singles, no suites-but traditionally more social than), The Castle (a Hogwarts-esque building that is supposed to be super anti-social but really, who cares. IT'S. A. FREAKING. CASTLE.), a single in North or Massell( freshman quads. yes, living with freshman as a sophomore. Not. Fun.), or, like, a trash can on the Great Lawn.

So with my number I was also assigned a housing appointment time. My appointment was sheer hell. I literally sat in a room full of nervous people for 3 hours. Everyone was nervous because we were all watching the projector screen which displayed the list of rooms still available. By the time we got to the 400s, people were sweating. Rosie and the Village were closed completely, East was rapidly closing. Things got super tense.

But then...sigh. It was over. The end of the world was averted as people were finally assigned their rooms, mostly the ones they originally wanted. It just all seemed to work out okay.

And I got my Castle room. SCORE!!!! I'm going to be at freaking Hogwarts next year. Suck on that. Yeah!!!! It's lovely. Google image search the Brandeis Castle. She's a beaut.

Academia, Genocide, and Other Things

"So it wasn't just that things interested him because he didn't know from boring-it was the connection his brain made, connections he couldn't help but seek out."
~An Abundance of Katherines, by John Green

(I wanted to make that quote the title, but it wouldn't fit.)

Anyway, I first want to say that I just love how sometimes, my brain makes these lightning fast realizations that completely and totally fascinate me. It's what I love about college. In high school, I think my brain only got me really super excited like once or twice a year. In college, if I do all my reading and homework, it can happen several times a week.

Like now, for instance. I have a paper due in my Human Rights class in about a week and I am EXCEEDINGLY behind on my reading, so I'm catching up so as to write a good paper. I just picked up "A Problem from Hell: America in the Age of Genocide" by Samantha Power.

It's quite a read. And I'm only on like page 20. So far, Power has talked about the Turkish slaughter of Armenians and the international reaction to it. This was back in 1921, before genocide was even a word.

So my paper topic is thus: If you could advise the Clinton Administration on the situation in Rwanda a few years ago, what would you tell them? Go into Rwanda, damn the consequences, save the lives? Or stay out. Play it safe.

I had no idea how to answer (and I still don't) but upon reading Power's book, I realized that my entire question was wrong. I was looking at it like the choices were either
1. Enter Rwanda with force because it's the right thing to do to save the lives that we were no doubt capable of saving
OR
2. Stay out (and here's the important part) BECAUSE IF WE ENTER WE WILL BE DRAINING AMERICAN RESOURCES AND POTENTIALLY INVOLVING OURSELVES IN A WORLD CRISIS THAT IS NOT OUR OWN(I was thinking along the lines of another Viet Nam, or Iraq [although Clinton admittedly would not have known about Iraq yet].)

The problem with that, as Power points out, is that when looking at genocide (a word coined to describe the WWII Holocaust) the arguments should not be so self centered. It doesn't matter what AMERICA wins or loses. Intervene to save lives, or, and here is it, stay out TO UPHOLD INTERNATIONAL LAWS that protect sovereignty within a nation's own borders.

That maintaining sovereignty seems like it would be easy to brush away if what the nation in question was doing was perceived as wrong. But (and this ties into my anthropology class, which I totally dig), who are we to define what is WRONG? Americans as a group tend to see cultural phenomena purely from within American context. In order to correctly assess a situation, it has to be looked at from WITHIN the society being questioned.

This is not to say that genocide is ever acceptable, it simply needs to be understood in contextual terms before any extreme action is taken.

Okay...my mind is still firing so I'm going to go read more before I fall asleep. If you want to borrow the book, I will bring it back with me for the summer. Not quite summer reading, but once I'm done with this semester, I won't need it for a class text anymore.

Love to all!

Sometimes, Writing Happens.

I have no idea where this came from. I started out just wanting to jot down a line or two about the ice. Here's what THAT turned into.



Ice makes the asphalt glitter
It's so beautiful that for a moment
I forget the treachery of treading upon such a glamorous surface. My boot slides, refusing to grant me the traction I need to remain upright. I fall.
Fall.
Fall.
I open my eyes.
There you stand.
You hold out a hand
Which I take, gladly.
You help me to my feet,
Turning the world back up the right way for me. I tilt my head so that I may look into your eyes.
You smile.
I smile.
We walk away from the scene of my
Fall.
Your hand in mine
That you may hold me up
And help to balance my world.

Winterrrr

I'm sure most of the few readers I ever had have completely lost patience with waiting around for me to post. I know, I'm bad at regularity. But...isn't it fun when I DO write something? Worth checking anyway? No?

...

Well fine. :P Don't read this. I don't care. (I do.)

I landed in Boston Logan at like 1 a.m. this morning and took a cab to Brandeis where I promptly fell into bed. I didn't fall asleep until probably close to 5, but that's my fault. I do this thing called thinking, and it sometimes keeps me awake.

ANYWAY.

I woke up this morning, had a perfectly nice and polite conversation with my roommates, then Ilana pulled up the shade.

And it was snowing.
And I was excited.
Because I love snow.
Enough with the fragments.

So, I went through all my morning routines with the tooth brushing and the getting dressed and such like, then I got ready to walk to my first class...IN THE SNOW. I was really excited as I put on my boots, and scarf, and coat. I kept smiling all the way to my class, simply because I have a monumental love of solid-ish sky-water.

Class.

End of class.

I decided to walk over to get my mail. Did so, then had to walk back to Renfield.

By this point I has wet socks and my hair was curling really weirdly. Eh.

About halfway to my second class, I was done with snow. The end. Am I really going to be buried in this slushy mess until MAY?! I don't know how okay that is. My socks may never dry properly...oh well. That's the price I pay.

See you in the spring...