Merry Christmas! (Or, random thoughts about my dad)

Here I am, with my beautiful new laptop, having beautiful internet in my very own room at home, and sadly my phone has to be plugged in around the corner and so at the moment is more awkward to reach than my computer... but no one is online to talk to me!  

Well, that's not true... the automated moviefone thing is online, as is a person I only knew on the internet except for meeting once randomly in person, but with whom I have not spoken in any context for some time.  And some people have away messages up.

But that's ok, because I have a delightful public-private inner-thoughts-to-outer-world forum to keep me company until my phone gets more charg-y.  Or until I just get sleepy, and forget all the things I wanted to say, which seems to be happening right now.

It's been an interesting time so far.  I spent some time with my dad Saturday and Sunday, and that was good.  It's amazing how I can feel so connected to him in some ways, like when we talk about the big stuff of life and the spirit, which sounds, as such things often do, ridiculous to write down, except that I really mean it... and I feel like we're really sharing something important, and special, and we are... and then I try to tell him what I think about a movie, or what I'm doing next year, and it seems like we're communicating but suddenly he says something that has all the ingredients of what I've been saying, but isn't actually my point at all... and then I look at the picture we took together using Photo Booth, and our smiles do the same thing to our faces, our noses are the same, the stretch of our mouths... or I see him almost-sleeping on the couch and he moves his thumbs against each other restlessly like I know I do, or his feet, absurdly high arch tucked and rubbed against the top of the other foot, and that is just like me.  And somehow all these things, connections, disconnections, awkwardness, alikeness-- come from the same person, in not even 48 hours.  And he tells me he wants to know more about what I like and I am quiet, not knowing what to say.  (We are talking about music, should I give a list?)  And sometimes I think he creates an idea of me quite fully out of pieces of true things, and sometimes I think he knows me in ways I cannot know myself.  

This is ironic, since part of our discussion, a real heart of it, was how you cannot see yourself, how if you look for the self you cannot find it, that self-hood itself (ha) and everything around it is created... but if there is no self, created by whom?  This is one of those statements that should maybe come with warnings, like the Cloud of Unknowing: Don't read me or think about me unless you're way gung-ho about the whole spiritual path deal.  Or maybe I'm just posturing.  (Who is?  Ha.)

He can irritate me intensely, and I am terribly afraid of displeasing him in some small way.  He bought me beautiful shirts-- in size extra-large.  I take a stupid pleasure in being more educated than he is, in thinking silently that I understand more while he speaks.  Especially about eastern religions.

I can see now how crippled he has been, because he is not so big and full of power as he used to be.  When he hugs me, he is still the strongest person in the world, the whole world still goes away.  I think he is trying to protect me from his family, or protect himself through me.  I think he has systematically removed me from their reach... he may be fully conscious of this, or totally unconscious, or I may be incredibly wrong.

I love him.  I can't decide if that statement encompasses all of this I have said before, or not.

So, there's actually a lot more I have to say, about things other than my dad, like... my mom!  ;)  Well, and how Christmas Eve went and how it was singing at Mass and how my extended family is responding to my telling them about Charlotte with a wonderful outpouring of love and support so far... and how I got some cool presents at Jeff's family's party, and... well, but this will all have to wait.

In the meantime, the merriest of Christmases to you all!  I love you!  (Or I don't know you, but you can have some love too, if you want!)

I love Armistead Maupin!

This is just a celebratory post to delight in the fact that Armistead Maupin has written a new book, called Michael Tolliver Lives. Rachel caught sight of it on display in the window belonging to Porter Square Books during a midnight excursion, and we both got so excited and started jumping up and down. It's narrated by Michael Tolliver, as you might imagine, and he is now 55! And that's all I will say, in case anyone wants to read it. I read it! It's lovely! :-D YAY ARMISTEAD!

Dreamtime in Examtime

First, I dreamed that I was a teenage girl in a big family with lots of aunts. I'm not sure which of these aunts if any was actually my mother. I think my parents might have been dead. But I kept being surprised at how many aunts we had, of all different ages, some with very unusual names. They were all sisters, I think, as opposed to marrying in or something. Anyway, I had this cousin, a boy my age, but he was in Charlotte's body. We might have even been performing, but it seemed much more real than that. So, this boy reminded me of Jesus, and also the narrator from The Life of Pi, he was just... wise, and kind of otherworldly and sparkling and he seemed to know everything. We went to some kind of public event and somebody there was speaking a Native American language, and he just jumped in and started speaking it too.

We were very close and always hung around together, and I was kind of crazy in love with him. And at some point for some reason things were getting more pressing... one of our aunts had died and there was a funeral, and I don't know if I thought he was going to be taken away or maybe actually harmed or what, but I decided I had to tell him how I felt. It was my suspicion that he wasn't actually blood related to us, but I cared more about that because of other people, not because I was personally terribly worried about the idea of incest. This suspicion arose out of the fact that he had been found in a field as an infant, and all of the aunts assumed he was one of theirs. (I'm sure this came from the Ramayana, in which Sita is found in a field.) But I took him aside and I told him how much I loved him, in this startlingly (to me, anyway) poetic way, and he just sort of smiled his beautiful smile, which I think I took as some kind of assent because I startled making plans for our escape together... I remember I kept going farther that I intended to, and was saying things like "when we're 40 or 50," which I was nervous about because I thought it was weird, but it felt completely instinctive because I was so passionate about him, and also so... natural, it felt so natural to be with him.

So, I don't really know what happened with that, because at some point it switched and I was more me, and Uncut Pages was putting on a show in a fitness club in Philly, except the room we were in was extremely nice and had beautiful wooden floors. And it was kind of a benefit/revue of various shows we'd done, although I think most of the stuff we were doing was not from any shows we have actually done. It had a lot of dancing in a line, sort of chorus numbers but with plot. The audience was really into it, and suddenly someone was like, "Where's Dilexi?" And we were startled and a little awkward for some reason even though Lilah and I were both there. I think this may have been because we didn't have the cape. I remember thinking that I had considered bringing the cape but then hadn't because it was too big to pack. But Lilah was wearing a shirt with fancy sleeves, and she stepped up and started playing Dilexi. And we were sort of dancing around her, and then she fell backwards behind some kind of tree or bush that was in the room (as part of the bit, I think), and she started crying like a baby... I don't mean a lot, as that phrase usually does, but I mean in the manner of a baby, with her mouth open enormously wide and stuff. And I was so impressed by what she was doing, both the acting ability and the symbolic choice I decided she was making about Dilexi's rebirth or something.

So I went over and was going to hold her head, like I would for a baby. I don't know why that was the thing to do, but she started freaking out because as Dilexi she didn't want to be touched. Anyway, the audience was really responsive, so after we asked them how many had seen Dilexi and/or were previous fans of our work. And a bunch raised their hands... It was like, 30-40% of this random group of people in the health club. I was impressed and sort of baffled, and thinking maybe we should have worked harder to perform in Philly again, because we apparently had such a fan base there.

And that's about when I woke up!

Get Well, Grandma

I found out today that my Grandma had a mini-stroke. She's doing much better now, apparently, but it really scared her and everybody else. Not much to say about it right now, but I just wanted to solicit some thoughts and prayers for her and my family, if you would be so kind.

Random people from other continents, that goes double for you.

I'm gonna give her a call tomorrow... I hope everything is still on an up-swing. I love you, Grandma.

An Old-Fashioned Journal Type Post, or Sickness and Then Some

Well, I know y'all are getting sick of surveys and quizzes and whatnot... or maybe you prefer those, in which case hang on and I'll get back to that eventually. But I've had a weird couple of days, and a weird day today in particular, and I thought I'd write it down and see what I thought about it then.

The most pressing matter is that I've been sick. It started Sunday night (como siempre!) with a sore throat, but then I woke up sometime in the night freezing, just completely freezing, and with wildly aching legs. So I got up and took some medicine, and put on three pairs of pants and three sweatshirts, turned the heat up, and huddled under two blankets until I finally fell asleep.

Monday morning, as you might expect, was not the most fun time ever. I was feeling really determined to go to work, though, because we have a show this week, so I dragged myself there. But I was really spaced out the whole time, and really did next to nothing. Todd even came into my office and said to stay home on Tuesday if I felt horrible. So... I did. Even though Tuesday is opening night and I really wanted to be there. I decided I would sleep awhile and try to go in for the afternoon. I did; in fact, I rode the bus all the way there, and then felt so yucky and disoriented that I turned around and came right back. That was hard for me. I realized I feel inordinately insecure about my work. I never think I'm doing enough/a good enough job, and therefore I feel called upon to make up for it by extending myself whenever I get the opportunity to do so. It's really strange... I mean, a strange feeling. I think I became more aware of it because I was reading this book my mom got me called Radical Acceptance (book post to follow! :) ), which is basically about using Buddhist principles and meditation practices to open yourself to awareness and acceptance of everything you feel. So I was more conscious of what is going on beneath the surface, and I realized I just have this frantic feeling about work sometimes, like I'm going to be caught as a not-good employee and thrown out. Kind of like the feeling I used to have as a student, in fact. Or the feeling I sometimes have in my personal relationships, even, that if people know/understand such and such about me, or see that I feel this or that, they won't like me anymore. I also tend to think that sickness somehow says something bad about me... maybe because there have been times when I welcomed it so that I could rest. I think it's also because my mom used to get mad at me when I was sick, because she was frustrated at not being able to "fix" me.

It was fascinating, in this book, when the author talked about how all the feelings we hate about ourselves, all the petty things and the weird things and the jealousy (spelling?) and anger, aren't signs that we're spiritually deficient or missing the boat or something. It was a new idea for me to regard feelings in general as not "belonging to" or "becoming" me, but rather something experiential that I move through. Of course, then there's the whole "I" thing, the whole not having a self thing, which I have heard plenty of times, but I'm not sure I get it. Does it relate to the times when I have been looking at something, a very ordinary thing like my hands or whatever, and suddenly my perspective shifts, and there's a voice saying, "I'm alive," and it both is and isn't me? It used to happen to me fairly often as a child... less so now, but maybe different things happen now.

Anyway, so this morning as I was debating whether or not to get out of bed and go to work this morning, there was a moment of clarity when I realized there really was no right or wrong decision. It may sound simple, but it took a lot for me to see that! Or, it didn't really, it just happened. But it hadn't really happened in this matter before. So, I decided to stay home, and it felt very kind, to me. A kind thing to do for myself. I went back to sleep, and was awakened close to noon by a phone call from my dad.

I had been reminded yesterday of the CDs I made for him for his birthday, and called to ask if he'd gotten them, and he called to say he had, and he really liked them. And also to tell me that my grandma (his mom, will be 90 April 15th) is now in a nursing home and has dementia, and that my aunt Lisa (his sister, substantially younger than he, adopted from Korea) has had an operation on her spine for some kind of tumors. He also said that my aunt Susan (also adopted from Korea, and, I think, the youngest) is handling everything well, meeting with lawyers and everything. She's been taking care of my grandmother this whole time, in fact. It's amazing, because it would be for most people, I guess, but also because Susan is mentally ill. Also, his older brother Richard (12 years older, in fact) is having some trouble with his sciatic nerve. But apparently other than that he's ok.

And then he asked me if I wanted a laptop for grad school, which I think is incredibly generous of him. And then he had to get off the phone and get ready for work. (He works evenings, as a nurse's aide, and his floor is mostly patients with dementia.) So he did.

I feel confused about all of this information. I did actually hear a brief outline of it from my mom on the answering machine, before, but I just got all the details. I don't know what to think. I haven't really been close to my grandma in years, though I liked her very much as a child. I feel guilty that I didn't make more of an effort to stay close to her. And I wish I had more time to get her stories. I know she was an actress and a storyteller, like me. I know my father was very ambivalent about her, probably still is. He got the impression from her that a man was a bad thing to be, and that's a rather hard thing to put aside. And my aunt Lisa was always my favorite. When I was a child, she seemed like a dazzling personage. And last summer she was very kind to me when I needed a place to stay in NY. And this summer she came to see my play. But she seemed... different. Distractable. Ill. Old. On the phone, her voice sounded like my grandma's, actually.

Memories about each of them:

Grandma: She promised one year to take me to Wendy's for my birthday, but for some reason she couldn't. But for years she remembered that she owed me a trip to Wendy's. She got on well with my other grandma, and they did a big puzzle of the Smithsonian Christmas tree together. She sent me a tape about boxes tied with silver ribbon, and not dying with the music still in you. I often did not know how I was supposed to relate with her. She got me a beautiful nativity when I was small, piece by piece. She seemed to care a lot about making herself available to me, if I needed help or anything. I wondered if she was remembering her own life as a young woman, but I don't know. She came up for my graduations, from high school and college.

Aunt Lisa: She seemed like the coolest person ever. When we went down to Florida for my grandpa's funeral, she gave me an anklet. I treasured it and kept it on until it broke. She always wanted me to visit her in NYC by myself, but my mom said no. She was sort of wild and had boyfriends and was thin and pretty. She sent me pictures from Italy. I like her boyfriend now, Martin, and I hope he does well with all of this. She seemed less and less shiny every time I saw her, lately, but always kind to me.

Uncle Richard: He was sort of a little scary, and said things that hurt my feelings, like calling me slowpoke and laughing when I was nervous about the cows in the meadow, but I knew he liked me. He used to come up every year for the Fair, and I liked that. He would always get a shirt, and that's why I started to get them, too. He was big, and he would pick me up and say, "I know you. I know you." At the time I knew it was supposed to be special but I didn't know why. But the best story about Uncle Richard was how we went to Disney World together, and he was late coming out of the Mickey section, and we were waiting for him in the little train, and he came out all breathless and said that Mickey had called him back, and asked about me, and given him Mickey Mouse ears to give to me. That was the best. I felt so special.

Aunt Susan: I was a bit nervous around her for a long time, but very curious once I realized she was sick. She is a great artist, I mean truly excellent, but she hasn't done art in a long time. She grins and laughs and talks to herself, and engages in odd behavior around the house, but apparently she can keep it together in front of strangers. Once, they tried to have her in an institution and she escaped and walked home! It was a long way, too. She always calls me "Beck." Her Korean name was Rosanhi. I thought that was just beautiful and fascinating as a child, and I named a doll I had after her. I still think it's beautiful.

Well, that's all for now. That side of my family hasn't been very close for awhile, really. So, if you pray, say some prayers for the Fullans, and if not, just wish us all well.

Overwhelming (Also Happy Birthday Dad)

So... there's really a lot to update about, as I feel that this weekend/week has been pretty eventful, but let me start by saying happy birthday to my dad, who is 59 today, who does not read this blog or really use the internet too often, but who is a most beloved father nonetheless.

Now the overwhelming part... I got home last night and there was a message on my machine from a person named Jen saying that I needed to call her about my friend Cristina, and that Cristina had asked her to call me. I assumed that something was wrong, and I figured maybe Cristina had been hurt in some way, and was in the hospital. I was trying to figure out if she was in Philly or at home, and when I could visit her, all of this stuff. So I called this random person, and after some confusion over who I was supposed to be talking to and who I was, the people there figured out that I was the Becky that I am, and that I didn't know anything about what had transpired... which I didn't.

I met with Cristina last week on Tuesday, catching up and finally getting together after several months of living just a few blocks from each other but never seeing each other. We talked about how her brother was going to leave for a semester in Sevilla that Thursday, and she was debating going to see him off Thursday night, or not. I don't know if she went. And just last night, at dinner, I said to Rachel how Cristina's brother must be in Spain now, and how neat that was. But apparently he went to Spain, and then somehow fell out of a window, and died.

I was so completely stunned. I'm still so completely stunned. He was going for his semester abroad and now he's dead... it doesn't make sense. I almost started crying on the phone, even though I never met this boy. His name is Nick. And I feel so, so badly for Cristina and her parents. I just keep thinking about it. And the thing with him going out the window makes me think of what happened to my cousin... and how no matter how hard it is for him to keep recovering, I am grateful he's alive and walking, now.

At the same time, I never knew this person. It's not a personal grief, it's a grief for my friend. And this makes me sort of restless and confused, because I keep going away into normal things and coming back to it again, and I don't quite know how to... fit it, in my emotional landscape, you know? Because it's so horrible that it can't help casting a shadow over everything today, and yet there's nothing I can do, really.

Oh, Cristina, I love you so much. I wish I could do something to make it better...

It's funny how things become instinctive at times of turmoil. I was in the shower shortly after I heard, saying Hail Marys before I really realized that I was, and it's funny because I never liked the rosary much.

I went to bed at the phone rang at 1:30 or something, and I nearly had a heart attack, but it was Lilah. I talked to her for longer than I should have given my morning appointment with work, I guess just because I was relieved no one else was dead or hurting.

And then of course this morning was just hellish and surreal, and it was pouring rain and I was running late so I had to take a taxi, and I forgot the cds I made to mail to my dad for his birthday, and now I'm here not working even though there's lots to do, but everything feels weird.

I guess there's nothing to say, really, but I hate that. I want there to be something to say. Because I want there to be something to do, and there... isn't.

I'm so, so sorry, Cristina!

Questions from Katie

1. You've finally been able to become a full time novelist (or playwright; whatever you wish!). Only one of your novels/plays wins critical and popular acclaim. Would you rather have that one be your first novel/play, or your last? Why?

Hard one! A conflict between my ego and my... non-ego? Or my ego and my ego? *laughs* But I think in the end I would want it to be my last. Although, if it were my first, I could live a more comfortable lifestyle while writing the rest, which is a serious consideration. But, assuming this is not too relevant to my bank account, and I have a decent source of income either way... then my last. I just hope I would have the stamina to keep writing without any acclaim! And hopefully I wouldn't pen my last work and then die immediately, so I'd have some time to enjoy it. I guess the thing is that I would want to see myself as always progressing and improving as a writer, not peaking right away and never doing anything of note again. I guess it's all ego stuff, though. I mean, in theory what should matter is my own work, the work itself and how I feel about it... though it also matters if other people respond and share what I've done. I guess what it boils down to is that I have to find the strength in myself to do my work because I want to do my work, and let everything that comes with it... success, or not, acclaim, or ridicule, be part of the game of living. Easier said than done, and being said, I'll stick with last, so I could feel like I climbed a mountain and made it to the top, instead of slid down a slide. Except that slides are easier. But I like the view from the mountain. Hehe, I'm not gonna win any prizes for these tossed off analogies, am I? Guess I'll get my wish. ;)

2. What do you think your life would be like if your baby brother had lived, by some miracle, with perfect health? How would you be different? What if he had lived, but with serious health problems?

This is a completely fascinating question. I think about it... not necessarily a lot, but frequently enough, given that it happened when I was three and half. I think that growing up... I always imagined him as a protector, I guess an idealized older brother, even though he would have been younger. I wonder a lot about how we would have related. Would we have allied together against (or at least as a buffer to) our parents? I can see that as an option... I can see us being very close, me and Patrick against the world, even if we didn't always get along. In that version of things he's a confidant, this other part of me that is out doing other things, but always close in spirit, I guess. But I can also see us being radically different. The odds are good, given the situation and family dynamics, that one of us would have been a rebel. I want to say probably him, but who knows? When I don't picture him as my symbiotic sibling, I tend to imagine him like another Pat I knew once... sort of lost and probably on lots of drugs and academically unsuccessful, though smart... and sincere, and deserving of better. Which is interesting, because that Pat was in fact the oldest sibling. And I've seen other examples where it's the oldest sibling that flounders (founders?) the most... my mom's family being a good example. So would I, then, have become more rebellious? Or rebellious at all, let's be honest? I think in some ways it would have been good for me, maybe, knocked a little of the terminal uniqueness out of me. So much of my identity, at least my self-concept and self-presentation, is wrapped up in being one, the one, the only, with all the good and bad that that implies. I think shaped the way I relate in many, many ways. I assume I would still centrally be the same, but the trappings might have been very, very different. I feel like we would have tried to create some balance with each other, and a quadrilateral is never really much like a triangle. But maybe I'm overestimating the whole thing, I don't really know. And I'm very curious about how it would have changed things when my parents split up. Would he have gone to live with my father? Would I? Or would my mother's attachment have been as fierce to both of us? Probably the last, I guess. And would we have visited my father together? Would I have attained the same level of (hard-won) honesty in that relationship? Probably it would have been totally different from all of these things, but it sure makes me think about what is constructed in our identities and what is "real." Is anything? Does it matter?

As to what it would have been like if he were seriously ill... I never considered it before now. So I have less speculation. Except that I'm sure that would have changed me substantially... not only would I be the only top priority (and the only one in the pressure cooker), now, by necessity, I would have been not the top priority at all. I don't know how we would have afforded that... clearly I would have lost whatever monetary opportunities I had, probably including SCC and Beginnings and trips and classes and stuff... I bet I would have formed more solid bonds with friends, dating and such from an earlier age... though it's also possible the opposite would have happened, that I would have retreated more solidly within the walls of my family, and taken on a rather absorbing care-taker role. I mean, it's possible that things would have worked out well for all of us, that it would have been expansive, somehow... but given the relationship between my parents, it seems like this would have been a fairly intolerable situation. Or maybe things would have stayed more sane on the surface. Who knows, but the concept is mostly scary.

I had a dream when I was in Kindergarten, about a cartoon (as in drawn, not stereotypical) African-American family, which I was part of. And we had a baby in the family, and it was accidentally put in the washing machine. (I realized later I had been sitting on the washing machine that day, talking to my father about Patrick). The dream stopped right when we opened the washing machine, and were about to look at its horrific contents.

I often think I was introduced to the concept of death with Patrick, that he made death seem more real to me than to some children. Not in a complete way, though. It makes me think of a story my dad tells, where he and I got on the elevator in the hospital to visit my mom, and somebody, seeing that we were going to the maternity floor, asked if I was going to see a baby brother or a baby sister... "Our baby died," I said. Apparently the ride was very quiet after that. It's an awful story, but it's also hilarious. At least to me. Imagining my chirping little child voice piping up with such a terrible sentence, but one that seemed reasonable and informative to me.

I was always fascinated by him. I never saw him. I don't think I was taken to the funeral; they decided I was too young. And there are no pictures. At some point in my childhood, pretty early I would guess, I was looking at a photo album with all my baby pictures. And I pointed to a blank spot and said, "That's for Patrick." My mom explained that there weren't any pictures of Patrick. And I looked at her like she was missing the point and said, "Make a picture with your mind."

I also, once, was in my room alone, much older, and thinking about Patrick. And I imagined that he was with me, and we were dancing together. Waltzing, I think. He was teaching me to dance. I liked that very much.

I guess another question would be, how would my life have been different if he'd never existed at all... because, oddly, that too would have made a difference in my concept of myself and of others.

I guess I just made a picture with my mind.

3. A strange irreversible affliction overcomes you! Would you rather become color-blind, or tone-deaf? Why?

Color-blind, I think, because I could still see beautiful things, I just wouldn't be positive if they were red or green or whatever. Not that such a thing would be irrelevant, or easy, but I love to sing and I am pleased to have a good voice, and those things would be lost to me if I was tone-deaf.

4. You've finally gotten into Narnia. Who do you want to meet first?

I don't know if I covered this in answering Alex's questions, at all... but I'm going to answer without checking. :) Mr. Tumnus, just because he is the first Narnian we ever meet. Or Aslan, because he's Aslan. Or... but if I keep on I will name them all. (Or Lucy or Edmund now I will stop).

5. As you may have noticed, the cow is now stalking you online! How do you get rid of it?

MOO-BE-GONE! (I've sprayed my blog with a liberal amount. If it doesn't work, I'll have to think of a new strategy.)

Five Questions From Rachel

All right, here are my answers:

1. If you had to choose one food that you like a lot now but would suddenly dislike, what would it be? Why?

I would pick... um... that's hard, I like foods I like! Maybe I would pick peanut butter so I wouldn't have to sneak it around Julia anymore. ;) Or... onions, because a lot of people don't like onions and therefore don't want onions in their food and it would make things easier when cooking in a group? Actually, maybe I would pick meat. Then I wouldn't have to worry about participating in cruelty to animals, and I'd probably eat healthier. But I would have to worry about getting enough protein. Ok, that's about 25 answers, so let's move on.

2. If you had to pick only one author whom you admire to meet in person, who would it be and why? If you had to pick one author whom you admire that you would be forever unable to meet, who would it be and why?

Only one to meet... Maybe Madeleine L'Engle, because, out of living authors, she's probably influenced my thinking the most, and from the earliest age, and I do truly admire her. Only one to forever be unable to meet... I think Armistead Maupin, not because I don't want to meet him, but because if I really did travel on the bus with him from NYC to Philly without seeing him, I sort of think it would be interesting and ironic if I continued to have near-miss encounters all the time. Also it sounds like something he might write about.

3. What is your strongest sense memory other than sight? If you get really into it, pick a different memory for each sense.

Touch: I remember holding your hand, Rachel, that night at the health center, and the way your bones felt against mine.

Smell: I remember fall smells, the leaves, the crispness of the air, the smell of snow coming. (I know, these are current smells, but I do remember them.)

Sound: I remember the thrill of playing the Phantom of the Opera really, really loudly in middle/early high school. How it echoed in my mind and my pubescing body.

Taste: I remember my Uncle Alan suddenly sticking a pickle in my mouth at this restaurant we went to after seeing Antz. I remember the sour suddenness of the pickle and the feel of his big, brown finger against my lips.



4. If you were placed under a spell that caused you to be turned into a marine animal every full moon, what animal would you pick and why?

I think I would be a walrus, because then I would be big and tough and I could survive out of the water and in the cold and stuff. I don't know if that's really a good choice. It just came to me.

5. If you had to have one sexual partner for the rest of your life, and said partner had one fetish, what fetish would you most want them to have? What fetish would you never put up with? Just answer the latter if the former is too personal for a blog.

Ok, let's assume that this fetish is not exclusive; that is, while they really like it, they do not require it to get off. Said assumption made... the safe answer for number one is a foot fetish, because I love to have my feet rubbed and touched and generally paid attention to. What's the dangerous answer? I wouldn't necessarily be against some power play, as long as it wasn't exclusive, out of control, or used out of the bedroom. Ooh, wait, I have another one. Cross dressing. I would totally be into cross-dressing, by either one of us, for fun or profit. Well, maybe not profit, but you know. Number two... well, there are lots, but let's elimiate illegal/immoral (pedophilia, bestiality) and unsanitary (anything scatological). All right, that being said, I WOULD NOT TOLERATE: all that amputation crap, absolutely not, nor that feeding bullshit. There is my very intolerant attitude about that.

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.

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.

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.