One Show Left, or The Post About Everything Ever

So much... so much... SO MUCH has happened, is happening. There are so many things to say. And I'm not entirely sure why I'm writing this, except that I want contact with someone, something, and half the apartment is cavorting at a bar, one quarter of it is cavorting in the shower, and the other eighth (excepting myself), is in some sort of catatonic state on the floor.

The problem with writing after so long is that I feel an obligation to catch up, and if I tried to do that now, I would be here for the next several months.

My God, the Fringe. The Fringe, my show, the Fringe, the apartment, the Fringe. Can I just say I feel everything about it? I feel everything about it. I feel that it is going wonderfully and horribly, and I love it and hate it, and all the gradations and shades in between. I know I couldn't keep this up for that much longer, but the fact that tomorrow is our last show might also break my heart. For good reasons and bad ones. Good reasons like love and wonder and delight in what we have done, are doing, in the talent and energy and the amazing women all around me. Bad reasons like panic over Philadelphia, and fear, the terrible cankerous fear of the moment when we all are definitively split. Fear that the moment has come and gone already, and that I am singularly disposable, less-than-ardently loved.

My own need to be loved haunts me. There's very little I can say about it without cringing. It follows me like a child, like a parasite... the more I hate it, the more it grows in power.

Well, and. And I saw a wonderful show tonight. It said lots of things, some things beautiful, some difficult, some weird. It was about terrorism, I guess, but about the terrorism in our hearts, too. Some of the things it said were so much like the things I was trying to say in my play. It was extremely frightening. I loved it, although it was sometimes extremely hard to handle. I think I sort of want to talk about it, but Crista has disappeared, and Rachel hated it so much she practically fled through the streets of New York to get away from it, which was extraordinarilly irritating for those of us trying to keep up with her. (I think you got that message from me, anyway, Rachel, but if not I apologize, because I don't want to be one of those weird passive-aggressive types who vents her frustration only in a private-public forum such as this one.)

So whatever... I mean, I'm annoyed... in fact, there are lots of little annoyances adding up to a little flame of anger inside of me, though the anger is not for anyone in particular, it just... is. I think mostly I'm lonely. Which is an odd thing in an apartment full of people. Or maybe it's to be expected. Why am I so concerned with having a place? Why do I need to be loved, not just at all, but in the right amounts by the right people at the right times?

I mean... it isn't all the time, but it's enough. The strange squeezed feeling inside, and the way I click, suddenly, into some kind of tunnel vision. I want to feel important! I may as well be honest. But inside I feel greedy, and grasping, and strange, for wanting this. And I hate being angry, but at the same time I can feel myself making decisions about it. Like, going down the street after Rachel, I could feel the anger come and offer itself, I could feel the warring desires to move toward it and away... the need to stay with the depth and the open space in me from the play vs. the need to be tethered and responsive to other people's feelings. What I don't feel is the moment of decision. I just seem to slip by, from one to the other, and then it has occurred, and my distress at that fact serves mostly to entrap me the more.

What is it that would be enough? When I was walking down the street, I had a moment of clarity, and before that while sitting and watching the play. In the play it was about compassion, about the tricky, particular nature of compassion, and the simplicity of it, that it is compassion that is holy and filled with truth, and compassion that tells the truth to our hearts in the face of horror and confusion and pain. Walking down the street, I was arm in arm with Crista and I realized that connecting is what matters, connecting with whomever is beside you, with as many people as you find... that it isn't who or for how long that detirmines connection and love, but only the magic that happens, between so many people. Like that old footprints on the heart thing, I guess... but it was very powerful. It made me see that I have not lost the people I loved, that the love is real even if it is only for a little while.

But somehow I moved from that to the complete particularity of anger, self-pity, grief. Anger at being abandoned, self-pity at same, grief at losing. Perhaps I am just afraid to be alone with myself... not to tangle myself up in my feelings but simply to be with them. I don't know, but I want to tell someone, Please don't go. Please don't forget me, Please love me. I'm here, please love me enough, love me with an ardent sort of echo in your eyes. Notice all the things about me that no-one has, and tell me so that I should know.

Am I talking to a friend, many friends, a lover, someone I want? Am I talking to God? No, I don't think it's God. Am I talking to me?

Weechee-in. Help me.

At the play there was a warm certainty. You must pray, I thought to myself, you must pray, pray and be full of compassion. But when I thought of prayers, of praying, of the supplicating act, that was not it. That was not what the warm certainty was asking for. My faith is perhaps being shredded by claws. Perhaps they are divine claws, or my own. Perhaps I shall make scarves out of the tatters.

The woman in the play said that great things are seen, are built, are understood through bodies and bloodshed and seeing such things. She did not name the cross, but I thought of it. She was wrong, I know that she was wrong. Or... that's not it. She was right. But there is another way. Make eyeholes in the mask of my beliefs, let me see it, let me see.

Then there is the voice that says I am afraid to see, that I am afraid always, that I am... Well, you know all about it. My God-- just realized I've turned into Professor Dilexi. Stuck between going forward and going back, between the unknown something and the known purgatory. Limbo! Like Bingo only less singing involved.

All right. Starting to ramble now. One show tomorrow. One show left. I'm scared. I feel sort of pierced. I will see my aunt tomorrow. Why doesn't my father call me back? Why doesn't he want to see me? Well, that's another thing.

One show left, one show. I do love you, you know.

Past Perfect Tense

Lately the past has been oddly present to me, but in strange, fretful, half-forgotten ways. For a mild example, when I started writing this entry some time ago, I was wearing a shirt with "Anything Goes" on it. And, as I walked across the Bellevue floor to go to the bathroom before lunch, I became overwhelmed by memories of performing Anything Goes... specifically how important it was at the time, and how my field of experience was so different from what it is now.

I am afraid of the past in many ways, yet I am also afraid of the fluidity with which it slips away. Rachel and I had sort of a collective-yet-separate revisiting of old documents and things from several years ago, in the heat of dire(-seeming), emotionally boiling situations. I certainly (perhaps we all did) went through a time when I was eager to rip myself open, in hopes of getting to the cancer inside, so to speak, and getting it out of me.

But what exactly convinced me that I have something cancerous to get rid of? I suppose that's a whole separate topic, but it seems related. I guess the problem is that I am uncertain of my relationship to myself in the past. Does that make sense? There are feelings I know I had, that I can no longer understand. Or... I feel ashamed of feeling them. Ashamed is the best word I can think of, but what it really feels like is a hot feeling all over my body, sparking and sudden, that makes me want to turn away from what I was.

I can feel the past closer to me now than it used to be, both in terms of mundane events and big sweeping ones. I am also more aware of things I thought I had left behind, that are still there. How is it that something can be dismissed in your mind, but linger in some part of yourself, as hot and strong as ever, ready to rise up again? Maybe not as strong as ever... that's not quite right. But there. There and full of influence. I am disturbed by looking back at how events have unfolded in and around me, because I can see how I might have calculatingly planned it all out, to work to my advantage. I wasn't aware of such a thing... but it's possible.

I realize this is all maddeningly vague, and I still have a lot to say, but it's time to eat dinner now, and clean the kitchen.

Speaking of punches packed from the past.

Well, fuck that, anyway. I have a kitchen in which I can eat dinner. Score one for the great escapee.

Stop. Think. Speak.

I would like to propose this threefold system of communication to President Bush, and also specifically to Randi and Michael of the box office. Especially President Bush, but since my influence on him is limited, I guess I'll have to start small.

Today I was reading about Bush's speech last night regarding our progress in Iraq, and it was so deeply angering to me that I simply had to violate my vow of silence on matters of import at work, and bring it up to Albert. He agreed... in fact, he had become so angry viewing the speech that he turned it off.

My anger stems from two basic things: First of all, the speech seems to me to be deliberately, blatantly, flagrantly misleading in its constant references to September 11th, and now the link between Iraq and that attack is explained as a common ideological framework. Last time I checked, we cannot attack people because they share an ideological framework with actual military enemies, no matter how insidious we view that ideological framework to be. For example, I feel that refusing or being unable to discriminate between members of a population... or even a general cultural group... (eg. U.S. citizen vs. President Bush, U.S. citizen vs. British citizen, Iraqi leader vs. September 11th attacker, Iraqi vs. member of other Middle Eastern country)... is, in fact, a disturbing ideological framework that we seem to share with our enemies. By that logic, the next step the U.S. should take is to invade itself.

Anyway, as Albert and I were discussing this without going into a whole lot of depth, but expressing our mutual anger, Randi came into the box office. Albert proceeded to say that she was a fan of Bush, and we were off to the races. It was very strange, and at some point when Randi said "they were all out to attack us, anyway," I literally started shouting, "Who? Who? Not Iraq, tell me who?" Which is highly unusual, and partly attributable to the fact that Randi seems to say almost everything at top volume and with total conviction. But it was this total jumble of sometimes contradictory cliches, and I was trying my best to argue back rationally... Randi was literally saying things about how all people in the Middle East wanted to kill us, and just complete bollocks, but with such incredible conviction! I was quite worked up, though, and it surprised me. I guess the nice-quiet-worker facade got torn right open.

I kind of liked it. Although I was sort of trembling with anger at some point when Randi and tall young Michael proposed sending all the prisoners to fight in Iraq. I said something scornful about training, and they sort of said they were kidding. I think Michael sort of just likes to get a rise out of me. I do NOT like it when people think it's funny when I'm angry, and a lot of people seem to think so. Why? I have as scorching a wrath as anybody else, when roused.

And, one good way to avoid such wrath is to try out Stop Think Speak. Not necessarily when you're talking about your annoyance at work or your ex-boyfriend or your mom... but when you're talking about large global events and war? Please. Give just a moment's ponderation to what comes out of your mouth!

I wish I could convince people that the passionate application of their minds matters, and is worth the trouble.

I Want to Post!

But I have to go to work.

Hello, Rachel and Katie and anybody else reading this.

I will actually communicate soon.

Just one thought-- why, whenever I am not clearly busy and focused, do I experience a strange feeling of panic about whatever tasks I have not yet done? And seem to think that such tasks are impossible because of a certain deficiency within myself? This is obviously incorrect thinking...

But I am uncertain about my relationship to work and busy-ness and accomplishment. That is, it seems to be often a negative cycle, working to not experience bad feelings rather than to experience good ones. Anybody else feel this way?

Damn, I really do have to go to work.

The Survey That Ate Philadelphia

Or at least my life! Try it! Inquiring minds want to know.

Have you ever...

snuck out of the house – No… as a child I never tried to run away, which interests me in retrospect.
gotten lost in your city – Yes, sometimes on purpose.
seen a shooting star – Yes, many times… the person I got this from (random stranger whose blog I was reading) said no. That seems very sad to me! Shooting stars are not that uncommon, are they? I usually see them every summer at least once.
been to any other countries besides Canada – Yes, should I list them? Maybe I will. Onondaga Nation (does that count?), Holland, Belgium, China, Spain, Portugal, Moracco, Italy, Austria, Germany, Czech Republic, France, Ireland, England…Yay for being well-traveled. I’m in the mood for another trip soon, I think.
had a serious surgery – I don’t think so… I didn’t really have any surgery as a baby, so I guess no.
gone out in public in your pajamas –Yes, if Bryn Mawr or the laundry room of my apartment counts as in public.
kissed a stranger – Assuming we mean a passionate sort of kiss, no. Well, I guess assuming we mean any kind of kiss, unless we’re counting children or something. I think I’ve kissed strange children if they attach themselves to me.
hugged a stranger – I think so. I mean, not a total stranger without any introduction first. I’ve been told that as a child I had to be told not to hug everyone on first introduction.
been in a fist fight – No. Never been in any sort of serious physical conflict, and even came to playfighting rather late in life.
been arrested – No, only had one sort of interesting and at the time intensely humiliating encounter with the police, when some woman caught me dancing on her dock because it was a beautiful day and I was happy (and not aware that it was a private dock), and she thought I was insane and suicidal and called the police. That was quite horrible, in fact.
laughed and had milk/coke come out of your nose – Yes. Milk, I think, at lunch in high school, at one of those hexagonal (or whatevergonal they were) tables, probably about some random sexual joke that didn’t actually make lots of sense, but was still one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.
pushed all the buttons on an elevator – No… do people really do that?
swore at your parents – No. I’ve sworn in front of my parents before, but not often. I don’t really swear at people much. I mean, I have in my life. But I take it pretty seriously.
been in love – I think so. I get confused about this, because I’ve not been in love with someone who has been in love with me. That I know of. But… putting aside wishful thinking and the idea that if it didn’t work out, it wasn’t really love, then I’ve been in love at least once, probably more like three times… and I hope I can also count the first time, when I was about 12 and so was he, and it was this kind of mutual sunshiney thing where we just smiled at each other a lot and I watched him play soccer, because that was by far the nicest and least painful. Hopefully that doesn’t sound bitter. I’m confused about love.
been close to love – What does this mean? Close to being in love? Clearly, yes, see above. Close to people who were in love? Yes, certainly, that’s pretty easy to do. Close to people who were having sex? Sometimes unpleasantly so, though never in an obscene ridiculous way.
been to a casino – Yes! Several in Atlantic City, mostly to use the bathroom or to prowl around for no especial reason. I think my favorite is still the Wild West one, though Caesar’s is kinda cool too. Casinos are super-weird, I think. Like… the imitation of riches in the presence of actual riches, but mostly not with actual rich people.
been skydiving - No
been skinny dipping – Yes, and with great enthusiasm. Once in the ocean in Spain (fabulous!!) and many times at Bryn Mawr, of course.
skipped school – Not as in, skipped a whole day of elementary or high school. Yes, if we’re talking about college. YES YES YES if we’re talking specifically about statistics, which I think I skipped more often than I attended.
seen a therapist – Yes, just after my parents split up. I liked him, but I’m not sure the experience did me much good, since it was not at all self-initiated and I was in a strange hidden state at that time. But probably he saw it differently and understood more about me than I would have liked, or even still like. Who knows?
done the splits – What does this mean? Is it sexual? Talking simply about doing a split? Alcohol related? I don’t think I’ve done it, whatever it is.
played spin the bottle – Sort of. This is a good story, I think. I was 14, and at a friend’s birthday party, and we were playing spin the bottle. Well, I was nervous, I didn’t want to play but I sort of did, so I was just sitting around on the outside of the circle with other non-players. And then this kid John—very strange, very talented, very attractive and very very very disturbed, as it turned out in the end—spun the bottle and it pointed at me. He was poised there in the circle for a moment, and I swear he looked like some sort of wildcat about to strike, and then he pounced at me and pressed his lips to mine, and it felt very nice and very sweet, like a tiny spark of life. And I was glad, because I had been concerned that I would end up being “sweet sixteen and never kissed,” and as it turned out, without him I would have been. And then I had to spin, and it landed on Nathaniel and we kissed, too. Later I found out that Morgan got her first kiss that night too, and neither of us knew the other had.. Strange, huh?
gotten stitches – Yes. One stitch. It was the night before we were moving out of Country View apartments (where we lived my fifth grade year) to High Acres, where we live now. I was playing outside with my friend Erica… she was younger than me, but really a brick, lots of fun and up to all kinds of fantastic games. We were playing in this fabulous rock filled ditch thing, where we pretended to have a wild hide-out and eat cattail hotdogs and raise falcolns, that sort of thing. Also, one of my rock people lived there. His name was Peter and he was very big, a sort of large folk-heroesque man who was a miner in the rocks. I don’t think I told Erica about him, or about Wiz and Wizina, the wizard couple who lived in the bushes nearby with their baby girl, whose name I forget, or about the old sailor whose memories appeared over the crest of the hillside that the apartment building was on, and we could watch them like movies. Anyway, Erica and I were playing, and this strange little boy who lived across the way from me came out and was smashing rocks against the tarvia, and all of a sudden I looked up and saw this rock heading straight for me. So I ducked, but it hit my head anyway, and I looked up and just felt this strong, sudden pain, which gave me energy, so I started yelling at the kid, something inane like, “You don’t do that! You don’t throw rocks at people!” but it must have impressed him in some way, because he ran away. I didn’t realize it was more serious than that until Erica was like, “You’re bleeding,” and I looked down and saw a big drop of blood land on my shoe, and then another. I can still see that very clearly, the shape of the blood-drop on my shoe. I started to cry then, and Erica ran to get help. And then the mom of the rock-thrower lead me around the house and my mom and dad and grandma came over to see what had happened. I spent the rest of the evening in the emergency room watching sitcoms with a handsome high school boy who had broken some bone in a sporting accident, and ended up with my one stitch. Somewhere under my hair there is probably a scar. Our move was a bit forestalled. And moving anywhere with my parents was always a calamitous journey, to say the least.
drank a whole gallon of milk in one hour – No… is that something people do very often?
bitten someone – Not anyone else, that I know of.
been to Niagara Falls – Yes… with my parents and Lauren in… third grade, I think? We sang “America” from West Side Story the whole way there and back, and didn’t know the words, so it was mostly, “DA DA DA DA DA AMER-I-CA, DA DA DA DA DA AMER-I-CA!” We also went over the falls in a bathtub, which I have a picture of, a wonderful picture of Lauren and I with big round eyes and mouths. And we went on the Maid of the Mist, and into the Caves of the Mist, which was wonderful. It was a very good trip, I think, even though I did get sick at one of the restaurants we went to. But I had fun.
gotten the chicken pox – Yes. Once I learned they were not a food, I became susceptible.
kissed a member of the opposite sex – Yes, but not at all as often as I would have liked.
crashed into a friend's car – No.
been to Japan – No.
ridden in a taxi – Yes, for the first time in NYC after the Beginnings Acting Workshop when I was 14… many times thereafter in many places, most notably and constantly in Seville, where the taxis are cheap and the drivers are friendly. Mostly in a good way… occasionally in the way where they tell you you are the kind of girl boys want to have babies with.
been dumped – Not really, I guess… but sometimes I’ve felt dumped, if not always in a romantic context.
shoplifted – No, not unless you count the time I took about a hundred business cards from some guy my dad knew with the intention of using them as pretend airplane tickets and got in lots of trouble.
been fired – No.
had a crush on someone of the same sex – Yes, often in the “gosh she’s cool and smart and lovely and I want to be her friend” way, less often in the “gosh she’s cool and smart and lovely and I want to kiss her and take her clothes off” way… but it’s happened both ways.
had feelings for someone who didn't have them back – Yes… is there anyone over the age of 12 who would not answer yes? How did they get that hand dealt to them? Maybe they don’t have feelings for people very often?
gone on a blind date – No, though it might be interesting.
lied to a friend – Yes… certainly in the casual, “I can’t do the thing you want to do for a better reason than my actual reason” way, or feigning a bit more disappointment than I actually felt about the collapse of plans… Probably in more serious ways too, but they don’t come to mind at the moment. Unless you count keeping secrets. It seems to be in my nature to keep secrets.
had a crush on a teacher – Never in a serious way… more in flashes of “Ooh, smart and powerful figure just said something marvelous and we sort of think the same way and they’re not bad looking at all…”
celebrated Mardi-Gras in new Orleans – Nope, I’ve done my farewelling to the flesh right in my hometown. Well, and in Bryn Mawr and Philly.
been to Europe – Yes, see initial country question.
slept with a co-worker – No. God, no. And unless I get a new job with very different people, I really don’t intend to.
been married – No… we don’t count the faux four-way all-female marriage Roz, Liz, Abby and I cooked up for a potential high school reunion, do we?
gotten divorced – No.
had children – No.
seen someone die – No… not actually seen.
had a close friend die – Do we count my Uncle Alan? I loved him, and we had started to be something like grown-up friends, as well as uncle and neice.
been to Africa – Yes, to Moracco for one whirlwind weekend full of touristy strangeness and animal encounters (camel and snake).
driven over 400 miles in one day – No.
been to US – In fact, I was born there.
been to Mexico – No, oddly enough, seeing that it is the closest Spanish-speaking country and I speak Spanish.
been to India – No… but I’d really like to go!
been on a plane – Yes… the first time when I was 7 or 8 to go to Florida for grandparent-visiting and Disney World. The most recent time on the way back here from Seville this January.
seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show – Yes, though it took me awhile to see it all the way through in the right order, and now I own a copy by default, though I’ve never watched my own copy… a sad fate of many movies I buy.
thrown up in a bar – No, nor ever due to alcohol, long may that record hold.
purposely set a part of myself on fire – No, unless you count the passing your fingers through flame trick, which I loved loved loved as a kid and still think is pretty darn cool.
eaten sushi – Yes, but I’m still squeamish about the raw fish aspect.
been skiing/snowboarding – No, actually, at least not downhill skiing, despite my Upstate NY creditials. But I liked cross-country a lot when we did it in school. Except for some reason I was exempt from going down the big hill, and I don’t know why. Was I incapable of doing it? Was I scared? I can’t remember.
met someone in person from the internet – Yes, by accident! I just happened to be at a coffeehouse with some friends, and they happened to know this random guy there, and we were all hanging out and playing games, and lo and behold, it’s a guy I’d been talking to online for a couple of months. It was sort of fun and coincidental.
lost a child – No, thank God.
gone to college/university – Yes, I’m a Bryn Mawr grad!
graduated college/university – Oh, I jumped the gun there.
fired a gun – Speaking of guns… no. I have fantasies where people are attacking me and I get the gun and I have to pretend I know how to use it, when I don’t at all.
purposely hurt yourself – Yes, but not in a terribly dramatic way… I don’t think. For example, if I have a really bad headache, sometimes I’ll dig my fingernails hard into my head to distract myself… and I’ve been known to bite my forearms and fingers out of extreme frustration, or seemingly outletless frustration. I’m still rather self-conscious about this habit, but it’s never gotten terribly common or intense.
taken painkillers – Yes. Surprise?
been intimate with someone of the same gender – Are we talking about sex? If we are, then no. If we’re talking about love and sharing and trust and things… yes, certainly.

The Heat has Broken!

Huh, what happened to me getting to choose the font I want? Oh well.


Yes, the heat has broken! I heard it was supposed to today, but I was hesitant to believe. But my tepid faith was nonetheless rewarded at lunch time by this amazing, cool breeze blowing all down the street. I was so happy. I was grinning all the way to the Bellevue. I passed all these sad-faced people and I wanted to tell them, hey people, it's cooler now! I saw a big black woman smiling like me, and you could tell she knew. I passed the Academy of Music, and there was some kind of television interview being taped for outside. And just as I was trying to figure out which way to get by without getting in the way of anything, this little crowd of people started applauding for the kid who was doing the TV interview. It was exciting. The Academy of Music is starting Evita, and they were playing "Star Quality" into the street. I had this whole fantasy about what if they wanted people to sing it on TV and I was very excited, and then I realized that I don't know the song very well. This minor problem was dispelled in my imagination by the time I got into the Bellevue.

The security guy who likes how I dress ducked away from his little counter thing to say "Hey, Lady." I saw him do it real fast so he wouldn't miss me. And I didn't say good morning at 2 in the afternoon the way I did last time he said hi to me. I behaved quite normally, I think, and we shook hands and talked about the weather. He said I looked cool, anyway. It's not that he's especially handsome or young, but the first time he complimented me was right when I was feeling insecure about my clothes, and he does wear a little white flower in his buttonhole as part of his uniform, which I think is enough to impress a girl these days. So I went down the escalator (is that spelled right?) practically dancing with Star Quality all over me.

It didn't stay quite that nice, since I was sitting next to some people whose conversation made me think of that strange elusive club of social understanding that I am never quite in. And while the food I had (U Dong, which is some kind of lovely Japanese noodle soup), was really good, it was too hot to finish it all before I had to leave. By that time I was feeling less cute and aware of my belly, which is generally not a good thing.

BUT-- for one brief shining moment, it was COOL in Philadelphia, and I was the hottest thing in sight. ;)


Since I finished reading Millions today, I feel compelled to thank the patron saint of coldness, but sadly I do not know who that is.

Thanks anyway! :) Please please keep it up.

Anxiety, Compassion, Mardi Gras Beads

Here are some people I saw today:

Coming into work, I passed this shirtless man. His chest was handsomely contoured, but sort of a pale, ashen color, which seemed different from the rest of his skin. He seemed to have some nicks or cuts on his body, but I couldn't tell if he had been hurt externally or if this was some kind of disease. He lurched when he walked. He seemed tired. I was struck by him. I thought he was in trouble. I sort of stopped, uncertain of what to do. Everyone kept moving, including me and him. We were going in opposite directions. I thought about going back, and asking if he needed help. I kept looking back as he got farther away. Almost as soon as he was too far to go back to, I became convinced that this is what I should have done. I prayed that he would find help if he needed it, and that I would get another chance...

Then, I had to go to Rite Aid on my lunch, and I passed this old, scrawny guy sitting on one of the planters near there. He had pink feathers and Mardi Gras beads around his neck, and some ratty, dirty shirt and shorts on his body. I think he was sort of talking to himself. I was struck by him, too.

On the way back to work, I passed this tall black guy selling flowers. He had roses this time, lovely red roses. He says he's homeless and trying to earn money honestly. I've bought flowers from him a couple of times before. I said I had to go to work. He said he could walk right with me, I didn't have to slow down. He follows you with this hangdog hopeful look that will instantly turn to disappointment and disillusionment if you say no. I didn't want to buy them and take them into work. I wanted to get away this time, and I did.

Michael let me out of work early. We were watching the Sopranos all day. Violence and heart, and I don't know which there is more of. Anyway, I was gonna come down here to this cafe to use the internet where it's cool. And on my way I pass this guy sitting there with his cardboard sign, and his head is down over his hand, and his face is crumpled like he's in despair. He looks sorta young, like maybe when he lifts his head he will be handsome. And I think fuck, I just can't, I just can't go by while somebody looks like that. I think maybe he'll be handsome when he looks up. I read his sign. It doesn't make much sense. Something about a train he needs some money for, his dead father, some aunts in Connecticut, he's so depressed, he had to spend his money on two days of sugar medication, please, please. So I go off, thinking I'll get him some food and bring it back. I walk halfway down the street, and I don't see anything but McDonalds. I'm thinking, what if he hates McDonald's. What if he's a vegetarian. What kind of thing is it to get somebody food without knowing what they want. Besides it's sort of near Bally's and I don't want to risk running into Rashool.

Back to the man with the cardboard sign. I see myself in the window. You don't look as hot as you think you do, in that skirt. I see myself, bending down to him, before I get there. I am very aware of my skirt. It's pretty. I am becoming, maybe, a girl who wears clothes that other people admire. I have, maybe, earned admittance into the female club. Or maybe it's the money club, or the make-up and plucked eyebrows club, in which case I am out.

"Hey," I say. "Hey." He looks up at me. He is not handsome. His face is full of troubling angles. His eyes are red, bloodshot. He is not ok. I don't think I ask. "Hey, are you hungry? Are you thirsty?" His mouth spills words. Words about getting out of here, about how excited he is, just needs the 8 dollars. I lie and tell him I don't carry cash money. I ask, where is your train. I offer to go with him to 30th St. and get his ticket. He says somebody will give him the money, whatever. He voice is confused. It wanders around, trailing his meaning behind it, in tatters. His voice is not hopeful. It is not excited, when he says he is excited. "Listen, I bet you're hungry. Thirsty. Why don't I get you something to drink?" Ok maybe Pepsi. "Ok, you stay here. I'll go get it, I'll be right back."

Back on over to Rite Aid. I find about a million kinds of Pepsi. It is dazzling. Lime and lemon and diet and vanilla and one calorie and caffeine free. I pick caffeine free. I decide to get some food. There's a sale on cereal. I pick a heart healthy bran thing. I think that means love, and caring. When you give somebody nourishing food, and not candy or something. When you know it's probably the only food they have right now. Maybe he will think it's stupid. At the counter, it turns out that you have to buy the two cereals to get the discount. It is only 70 cents less to get the one than it would be to get two. I feel I am in the hands of destiny, a bit trapped by logic. I go back and get cornflakes with bananas already in them. I didn't know that was an option. My bill is $6 something.

The man is still bent over himself when I arrive again. I think about how I would feel in the heat, how crazy I felt when there was no air conditioning yesterday. I bend down and say I got him Pepsi and cereal, too. He doesn't want the cereal. He says he would only want the cereal with milk, anyway he's going to be on the train for like 4 days. So take it, I say, to eat on the train. No, honey, you keep it, it's better you keep it. Only enough medicine for two days anyway and then when I run out I can't eat. Keep it, I say. For those two days. Ok? Maybe you will get hungry. I take out the heart healthy one. You take this one. You keep this one. Ok? Good luck. Thank you, he mumbles. I do not know what our eyes said together, his and mine. He bent back over his body.

I straightened up. I wondered what the man across the way is thinking of us. Does he think I am a good person? Does he think I am a foolish person? A little white girl who thinks she's some kind of angel?

I am afraid of these things... I am afraid I am a fool. I am afraid I do not understand the world, or that I understand too much. I never know what to do, and I do not approve of other people nor of myself.

But I am trying to see him. Because he said he would be there. And I am afraid, I am afraid of leaving him on the street, alone, because he was wearing pink feathers and had sores or a crazy drugged brain. I am afraid that I am already like them, already crazy. I do not consider that I too have that face within my face.

I see you hungry all the time. I see you mad and frightening, with your signs all full of words. I am full of words too. I am frightened of you, and of myself.

O Lord come back, and this time...

Redemption? I kept the cornflakes with bananas. I too am a child of God.

Does anybody else think about this stuff?

Hippodick Day

Things that sucked hippodick about yesterday:

1. 93 degree weather (probably about 10 degrees hotter in the apartment, or so it feels. I was literally short of breath from sitting in one place, and my very light weight dress was like a skin-burning suit of armor!)

2. Being told that as of next week, my fellow phone operator and I will be uncerimoniously cut to half-time, given that the theater is not busy enough to support us both full-time. This apparently is a routine thing, which was never mentioned to me before. I can't afford this now... I've worked hard to save a little money for NY, and if they go through with this, I will be forced to use it, when what I really need is to save more.

3. Having NO information WHATSOEVER about the PR job I applied for, which I was supposed to hear about on Tuesday.

4. 93 degree weather (and having to eat in it)

5. No more visiting twins.

6. Being told that my job performance has somehow gone from "great" and "wonderful" to "ok" in the last several months, without any further explanation. Perhaps it's because I am less desperately needed.

7. 93 degree weather (and having to do laundry in it)

8. Not being able to get ahold of a single living person actually connected with a venue... and trying to get ahold of 20.

9. 93 degree weather (and having to sleep in it)

Things that did not suck hippodick about yesterday:

1. My new stuffed panda bear, proud supporter of Variety Children's Charity.

2. Rachel

3. Patrick Stewart

4. Cold showers

5. Having food and lots to drink, and I suppose a place to live, though it is very much like the pit of hell and less like a home at the moment.

Standing Out!

So, I definitely want to follow up on the morality comments I got, from my two faithful readers. Guys, is it silly that we have one more way to communicate between us(and apparently mostly exclusively so), or is it nice? I think maybe it's nice. And I don't have time to say much else right now, so the rest will have to wait...

But I'm wearing excessively colorful clothing today in really loud patterns, and I was thinking about how one minute this makes me more confident, and the next I feel like everyone is criticizing my appearance. Which brings us back to the questions of standing out and fitting in that I also think are at the heart of the morality thing. But I've gotta go, so two parting thoughts:

1. I am a riot of summer color today.

2. The Talented Mr. Ripley still completely captivates me.

Goodbye Heather!

Yesterday was Heather's last day at work. I shall miss her! She made working at the office so much more fun, and made me realize that it is NOT unreasonable to expect normal, fun, warm interaction with co-workers. Heather-- thanks for the games, the blunt opinions, the tarot cards, and the genuine interest in what I said and did! I hope you sell a million pools. :)

Morality Play

Things got kind of strange at work today... Tall young Michael made some comments about women, how he thought women should be subordinate to men or some such, and it all sort of went downhill from there. Heather countered him, mentioned my name, and the next thing you know we're embroilled, eventually getting all the way to gay marriage and religion. I feel rather odd about the whole thing. On the one hand, I feel like if I'm going to go around with a very good opinion of my own articulation of ideas, and support for my positions, I can't really avoid these kinds of conversations. And to a point, they can be very interesting. But it's hard with tall young Michael, because he's so naive and definitely uneducated in many, many ways... but somehow he also strikes me as sort of innocent. He says terrible things, really not ok... but I feel, ironically, that I should be gentle toward him, because he is still, in some fundamental way, a little boy. He wouldn't thank me for that, I know. And it's hard because I express myself in such measured, qualified prose, which at this point is natural for me in matters of import, but doesn't seem to be natural for anyone else there, so I'm not sure if they understand what I am really trying to say. I think the really difficult thing there is that I have adopted such phrasing because I have been taught that it is in some ways essential to clear communication, and yet often it hinders my ability to communicate in situations where people have not been so trained. So that kind of defeats the purpose right there, doesn't it? I have an inordinate love for linguistic care, and I don't know if this makes me a more precise communicator, as I would wish, or not. And Heather is so forceful and convinced that it is hard to disagree with her. Or maybe it's just that now we are on a "side" together in the argument, but in actual fact I do not agree with all the conclusions she draws.

Maybe the point is that I am really, really, really confused about morality, and it preoccupies me to an extent that even my closest friends don't always understand the mixture of intensity and trepidation with which I approach the subject. Because intellectually it is clear that morality is a relative, culturally detirmined thing. But my heart wishes for a standard against which I can hold my own actions and those of other people, and therefore... be justified in judgement, I suppose, be it good or bad. I know judging is a trap, but it is so incredibly hard to avoid, and to be honest I like it. When I can make a judgement I feel safer, more certain about the world.

And it's easy to question morality when those around you have a different point of view, but it's not something we even think to question when we are all making a moral judgement in consort. For example, later in the day we watched Oprah, and there was no debate over whether the mother who gave her children Xanax to sedate them was morally wrong to do so-- we were all certain that she was. And I am certain. But what if this was a highly contested issue? Would I remain certain?

I think one of the bottom lines I come to is that morality can be detirmined situationally rather than generally. Take the issue of gay marriage, or marriage at all. There definitely may be couples where it is morally wrong for them to marry, and couples where it is not wrong (I don't know if marriage is morally "right," since to me that carries a bit of a compunction to commit a right act). This has nothing to do with their respective genders. Are there actions, then, that are always or almost always wrong? It's interesting to get to this point, because I think that murder is essentially worse than rape, however I would say that rape is always wrong, while killing may not be. It's so CONFUSING!

Also, I'm often nervous about expressing my views in a company where people disagree with me, and I don't like this about myself. I am morally scrupulous, but I'm not sure that it makes me essentially better as a person.

Then there's the fact that I love shady characters and antiheros, and can forgive in fiction what I would condemn in life, and especially in myself.

WHAT IS MORALITY? Is it relevant? Is it absolute? Is it relative? Is it the essence of what makes someone a "good" person, or is it merely an attempt to codify compassion? Does it actually relate to compassion directly? Now accepting submissions on all of these questions!

Ooh... and if anyone really thinks that women are inferior to men, I think your opinion is the intellectual and moral equivalent of horseshit.

I'm a bundle of contradictions. Love to my faithful readers, if you happen to exist... sound off! Inquiring minds want to know.

Dear Katie

I can't post in your blog either, without signing in to whatever service you have. But I think I should have fixed the problem on my end. This post is just for you. :)

Mayday, I'm on the fringes...

Wow... what a strange couple of days it has been. Before I say anything else, I want to say this: WE GOT INTO THE NY FRINGE! And it's my play, and the admission is based purely on our merits!! Though the news is still hitting me, that's helping make life a lot better right now. "We" for the uninitiated, is The Uncut Pages Theater Company. www.uncutpages.org. Please go, and donate money. ;)

The news about the Fringe couldn't have come at a better time, literally right on the heels of May Day, my first May Day as an alum. I had a really good time for most of the day. For some reason I decided to get very drunk in the afternoon, but not (I hope) obnoxiously so, or to the point where I got sick or could not speak or walk. I hope I continue with the record of never getting to that point, because I would not like to see the scorn I tend to have for other people who do (more the obnoxious than the sick) turned on myself. But... it was a beautiful day, after a coldish and cloudy beginning. The sun came out right in the middle of the May Hole dance, as the vigorously shaken purple parachute launched flower petals into the air and everyone danced around in giddy feminist circles. (Sometimes I am struck by how much of what we do/have done at Bryn Mawr seems like the kind of thing that only happens in movies or books. But it's real. These things do happen. Does everybody have such moments in their lives? What does it mean that the cinematic or literary creations, mirrors, and takes on reality become the reference points for our real lives? Especially interesting since so many, many people commented on how the events of September 11, 2001 felt like a movie, or they thought they were actually watching a movie. Anyway. Bryn Mawr is like this in a much more lovely, idealistic kind of way.)

The rest of the day was lovely. I went dancing and skinny dipping about, and generally did all things appropriate to May Day.

I did not see my flower fight girl, who I have had a flower fight with every year since I came to Bryn Mawr. Katie told me she was there, but, superstitiously, I did not seek her out. I guess it felt like a cycle had come to an end, and I should not interfere.

That feeling is probably also why I felt so strange at the end of the night. Like the cycle of being at Bryn Mawr and leaving Bryn Mawr had completed its course, and now I was really and truly gone. Sometimes I hate so very very much that I have been out of college for a year and I'm still afraid of leaving college, which, after all, I have already done. I feel so inept whent that fear comes over me...

But this entry has been going on forEVER, and it's time to end it before I get kicked off here as has happened about 500,000 times when I tried to finish it.

More when we fix the internet at home. :(

Normal

No matter what font I choose, this font happens.

I'm reading a book called Normal, by Amy Bloom, whose name is inexplicably familiar to me, though I am not certain I have read anything else by her. It's about Female-To-Male transsexuals, heterosexual male crossdressers, and finally, the intersexed, commonly known as hermaphrodites.

Endless fascination. I could do about a hundred riffs on the subject(s), but I'll try to limit myself to some hopefully cogent thoughts, as the endless toil of phone answering again beckons. I'm also still pondering a talk I went to with Rachel last night about GLBT issues and religion.

I think perhaps a good entry point, therefore, would be the conversation I had with Randi, a Male-To-Female transsexual where I work. It wasn't really even a conversation. The box office was crowded and loud, and people were sort of going back and forth shouting things, as happens occassionally. Randi was across from me at Albert's (the treasurer, my de facto boss, and another story) chair, and one of the noisy men I have trouble keeping straight was saying some noisy thing with a lot of swearing in it. And Randi, a very slim, tall, well-but-a-little-tartily dressed African American woman (ok, tartily is not quite right. I say tartily because she's thinner than I am, and there's something about her sexuality that is sharp and metallic and therefore threatening, therefore to be distrusted), Randi looks up and says something to the effect of "Don't use that language, there are Christians in here, myself among them."

Without thinking about it, I look up, and catch Randi's eyes, and smile. I know the kind of smile it is, it's a sly one, a little grin, a you-and-me-are-in-this-joke-together smile. I get good results from that smile. People like to be together, and people like to be together at the exclusion of those who are not in the together at the moment. Jokes are the best for this. Jokes, between friends, are like a clannish sort of love. I like this smile, too. I feel worldly-wise and smart when I wear it, fun, my insecurities just a jacket that this keen minded, sharp, sparkling eyed person wears from time to time. Randi, however, does not appear to like this smile.

"Why're you laughing?" she says, smiling back in an uneasy way I am not used to from her; she always seems so confident. "I am a Christian." She's laughing too, but something in our exchange has gone wrong. "Don't laugh at me, you'll hurt my feelings."

"I know," I say, or "I believe you," or something, backpedeling as fast as I can. I know there is still a sly bubble of laughter in my voice, as much protection as her smile, I now see, may be. She looks suddenly vulnerable, her eyes want my approval, but don't want to ask for it. Oh no, I think, I've done something wrong. I, who wrote my whole thesis on religion and gender-crossing, do not even have the necessary skills to have a normal social exchange with the only real gender-crosser I know. What, exactly, I wonder, is the joke? What did I assume Randi and I were sharing, that we clearly were not?

First of all, I should admit that from the beginning, Randi made me nervous. There is really nothing masculine about her, in any overt sense. Yet, before I knew her history, every time she came into the office, something inside me said, man, or at least, not a woman like you. I thought I was being ridiculous and crazy. So her voice was a little deep, this was clearly unwarranted. But I couldn't relax. I was on tinterhooks every time she was in my presence. Of course, this could partially be explained by her outspoken, politically incorrect, and, in my ever-so-careful, academically-trained mind, often incoherent opinions on everything from race to sex to the war in Iraq. (She voted, if anyone is interested, for Bush, and she indicated this by gesturing to her hard-won genitalia.) However, whether or not this was a factor in my discomfort, I have to say that I felt a good deal of relief when it was finally stated clearly that she is a transsexual. I also felt clever, and intuitive, and generally grand about my own perception, especially when I just learned that Heather, a co-worker who I think is generally on top of things, did not know she was a transsexual at all.

All right, so, my always very limited relations with post-revelation Randi were, in my mind, a bit more comfortable than those with pre-revelation Randi, and gave me fodder with which to ponder (Do you ponder with fodder? Well.) all sorts of questions of femininity, hers and mine, and where they intersected and did not intersect. Apparently to the point where I had invented, completely unconsciously, a secret understanding we could inhabit together.

I'm worried about this, though not in a terrible way. After all, I doubt that Randi has given this moment a second thought. Just yesterday she made a comment to tall young Michael (explanations later) about how nice it was to have a "real man" in the office, that women "got nervous" without one and "these two foo-foos," (meaning, I assume, Albert and short older Michael) did not count. So, while I would still hate to be offensive to her, I assume that political correctness is not high on her list of priorities.

But I want to know. What was the joke? Is it (and should I be ashamed of this, if it is so?) that she is a sexual deviant, socially speaking, and therefore occupies a transgressive space in religion. I, on the other hand, am not a sexual deviant, or not in any obvious way, and not in any obvious way a deviant at all. The church has been happy to have me. Nonetheless, I am a mental deviant, and in some ways a spiritual deviant, from some of the doctrines of the church. So, somehow, her public and visible transgression enrolled her in a transgressive Christian club, we might say, which I myself am enrolled in, though without my consent, no one need ever know. And that was the joke, which somehow she was supposed to get? I think maybe I expected her to get it because her incongruity with mainstream Christianity is so obvious, and that... well, I'm not pleased about that. I would like to not make such assumptions, even if my society does (as though that is a breezy sort of task.)

I think it's something like that. That her difference is so public, and so others (namely me) can project a shared differentness, or use her as a place to locate difference.

I'm not sure this is readable, but I do think the ideas are interesting, so ask me if you don't get it and I'll try again.

Time to post this, since it is several days after I began.

Missing Things

I don't know why the font will never stay the way it was in my first entry. I liked that better.

I realized that my last entry was April 25, my uncle Alan's birthday. I do not remember for sure anymore how old he'd have been. Not 50 yet, I don't think.

Uncle Alan, I miss you. I imagine that you would teach me how to drive (maybe even standard or a truck), and sort out my romantic life or lack thereof. But that's just because you're missing, so I imagine you would fill in all my missing skills/needs.

What I really want to know is whether you would have liked the woman I've become as much as you liked the girl I was. You gave me the best compliment of all in valuing my opinion. I only wish you could hear my thoughts now. I miss yours, and your big hands shoving a pickle in my mouth when I least expected it.

Goodbye again. I wish I thought of you more, but sometimes it's strange how often I do. They're making a movie of Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy. More on this later. I love you.

Not Irrelevant and Boring

Apparently the sight of a clock ticking away my lunch time does not make me a prolific blogger. It's rather more difficult to try to come up with coherent, thematically organized ideas when I'm sitting here at the keyboard than it is when I am just wandering around in my own brain. Perhaps it would be better if I simply posed a question, since after all I have to be back at the strenous task of phone operation in a mere five minutes. All right, let's see... this relates to something that's obsessing me lately, and I'll tell you more about that later. (Wow... it's weird how as soon as I write "you" I feel more comfortable, more as though my thoughts have grounding... but that was last post's topic, wasn't it?) My question, then: Why do we feel compelled to judge feelings and states of mind as more or less real after we have had them? I think you know what I mean... you're in love, perhaps, and then a year or so later you decide that could not have been actual love. Or you get mad, furiously, blind-with-rage kind of mad, and in a day or so you dismiss that feeling; something must have been wrong with you, hormonally out of balance or whatever. But other feelings of the past we cherish as involiable fact. I adored my babysitter; I was devasted by the death of a loved one. I wonder if this judgement is simply based on what is acceptable to your current self-image. It's a bit disturbing, and the kind of thing I tend to get bogged down in whenver I'm feeling uncomfortable with anything I'm feeling. Do you think this is something that matters, or is it just a way to avoid reacting as immediately to things as I might, were I not so concerned with the reality/validity of what I was feeling? I know that when I do react impulsively it always feels good at the time, but may be followed by intense guilt if the results are not so good.

Perhaps I should call this blog, Tell Me I'm Not Crazy After All Please, and That You're Like Me but Not So Like That I Am Irrelevant or Boring.

Perhaps everybody should.

(But not really really everybody... that would be too generic.)

;)

With a Little More Substance

I suppose it's time to make a real post to this journal that as of yet no one really knows exists. Nonetheless, I feel some amorphous obligation to say something beyond how much time it took to set up this blog. I'm mostly sort of curious as to why I have actually decided to set one up, or... what kind of space this will turn out to be. Like, will I be seduced into laying bare all sorts of dark and hidden secrets, because of the illusion of privacy laid over a very public forum? Or is it the very fact that it is not private but not... with any direct, specifically intended recipient that makes it appealing? I think that may be the case. I can be more forthright than I actually would be to a specific face... or, even if not more forthright, at least more.... long winded! And yet it isn't just me, there's at least a charming possibility of communion.

*chuckles* Which brings us straight back to my web address name, doesn't it? Transubstantiated chicken... named in honor of the fact that as a child I assumed that if I simply knew the words the priest said over the host at Mass, I too would be able to transubstantiate any food into the Body of Christ. I was quite captivated by the idea of presiding over entire dinners all made of the Real Presence, perhaps keeping this a secret from the other guests.

So that's a good place to end the beginning, I think. Welcome to my charming possibility. Tell me what you find, what you think. I can be the amorphous partner for you also. :)

Dear Heaven, that was complicated

But I can't tell you about it now, because I've spent so much time attempting to set this up that I am about to be late getting back from lunch. So I hope you will await my continuation with baited breath.