Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.
Dreams, they slip through our fingers do they not? I wanted to be an actress, a writer, a journalist, a wife, a peace corps participant, a homeowner, a career woman.And yet, in time, those dreams vanish like mist and I find myself only wanting what I can have today: "I want waffles."
Where to find equilibrium? If dreams vanish like dust, shouldn't I take the opposite extreme, wanting nothing at all, so as not to feel disappointed?
Or is it good to dream? Without dreams, we may never have goals, seek accomplishment or feel any kind of gratification.
They say a part of growing up is "having your hopes dashed" and realizing your dreams may never come to fruition. Or maybe part of going through life is realizing that the dream you thought you had wasn't your dream at all. An easy thing to say in retrospect. But when you want the dream in the present, losing out to it in the present definitely sucks.
"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that."
But how does one not dwell on dreams? Aren't our dreams what get us through the day? The little specks of light in what could otherwise seem meaningless?
A dream is a wish your heart makes when you're fast asleep. In dreams you will lose your heartaches. Whatever you wish for, you keep.
But too often, I am slapped in the face with the reality: the unpleasant disconnect between what I yearn for, and the patterns that life consistently throw at me.
And then nihilism sets in and I let go completely. "If I can't have it, I don't want it...."
I see that both schools of thought lead to destruction. I therefore must reject both. And seek an answer that I'm not even sure I lack the cynicism to believe:
"Delight yourself also in the LORD; and he shall give you the desires of your heart."
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Some more random writings that don't turn into anything
As he reached the end of the sentence, the typewriter went “ding,” but the man didn’t hear it.
There was a girl down the hall who did hear the typewriter. She also heard the beautiful, un-earthly music emanating from the walls. It had begun quite suddenly that last Tuesday. Beautiful melodies vibrating through her, chains of score with no logical explanation. No one seemed to know where it was coming from either. That was the trouble with living in an apartment complex full of deaf mutes.
The man reset his typewriter. The knocking on the woman’s door grew louder.
“I’m coming!” the girl said, putting out her cigarette. Ironic, she thought, that her apartment complex be so full of noise. How then would she be able to file a complaint? She could already hear the pitiless landlord in her defensive voice, “No one else seems to mind the noise,” she would say, then smirk and be on her way with the checks. She was kind of a bitch that way.
It was the man down the hall. She knew him only as the one with a chin mole, because people around here didn’t have names.
“What is it?” the girl said. She didn’t have a problem with being rude because no one could hear the inflections in her voice. The man held out his hand, revealing a perfect, sunshine colored lemon.
The girl frowned slightly.
“I don’t suppose you understand that I’m completely alone here. I don’t have money, I don’t have friends, I don’t even have my sanity. I give up.”
The girl rummaged under her backpack, into the folder holding an article about the ways in which lemon juice could battle addiction. It was what mole man had given her a week ago. That is where she kept her pack.
“Here,” she said, opening the man’s fist and pushing the cigarettes into his paper Mache fingers, taking the lemon for herself. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where all that music is coming from? Unless I really am just going crazy. Then again, I’ve just asked a mute deaf man a question about music.”
The man turned around and gave her an empty smile. Then he was on his way.
The girl bitterly began tearing pieces of peel from the lemon. She would eat the lemon, she decided, the whole thing. But first, she would bite into it, sucking out all the juice, so that maybe her taste buds could feel as sour as she felt on the inside.
To her displeasure, it was delicious. She ate the whole thing, and then the music stopped.
“It sounded like a full orchestra and a woman’s voice,” the girl wrote in a journal, which she had dug out from under her laundry. It was bent in the middle and the ink had run in several spots throughout. But she could still see her name etched across the cover in golden letters: Persephone K. Potts.
“Full strings, definitely some trumpets, and an eerie voice that gets louder when the music gets softer. It sounds like she is calling for someone.”
A door down the hall slammed. That was the signal that meant skinny tall girl had returned home. Skinny tall girl weighed, in Persephone’s estimation, about 100 pounds, stood at least 5”11 in height, and was also very angry.
Persephone had gathered as much by watching skinny tall girl bash her head against walls, throw food out the window, and shout swear words at passer bys.
“Something about her parents not wanting her from an early age and then going deaf from the abuse of foster parents,” the landlord had explained nonchalantly. Of course the landlord had seen so many of these types pass through the walls that the stories of each tenant had all mixed into a giant grocery bag of memories labeled “Neglected freaks.” Persephone had almost started her own grocery bag with the same label, until she had realized that she was one of them.
SPLAT! Persephone looked out her window. A giant cantaloupe was flying through the air. Sometimes, especially on nights like tonight, she hoped for the food throwing, because it meant that some of the remains could be salvaged from the streets below.
There was a girl down the hall who did hear the typewriter. She also heard the beautiful, un-earthly music emanating from the walls. It had begun quite suddenly that last Tuesday. Beautiful melodies vibrating through her, chains of score with no logical explanation. No one seemed to know where it was coming from either. That was the trouble with living in an apartment complex full of deaf mutes.
The man reset his typewriter. The knocking on the woman’s door grew louder.
“I’m coming!” the girl said, putting out her cigarette. Ironic, she thought, that her apartment complex be so full of noise. How then would she be able to file a complaint? She could already hear the pitiless landlord in her defensive voice, “No one else seems to mind the noise,” she would say, then smirk and be on her way with the checks. She was kind of a bitch that way.
It was the man down the hall. She knew him only as the one with a chin mole, because people around here didn’t have names.
“What is it?” the girl said. She didn’t have a problem with being rude because no one could hear the inflections in her voice. The man held out his hand, revealing a perfect, sunshine colored lemon.
The girl frowned slightly.
“I don’t suppose you understand that I’m completely alone here. I don’t have money, I don’t have friends, I don’t even have my sanity. I give up.”
The girl rummaged under her backpack, into the folder holding an article about the ways in which lemon juice could battle addiction. It was what mole man had given her a week ago. That is where she kept her pack.
“Here,” she said, opening the man’s fist and pushing the cigarettes into his paper Mache fingers, taking the lemon for herself. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where all that music is coming from? Unless I really am just going crazy. Then again, I’ve just asked a mute deaf man a question about music.”
The man turned around and gave her an empty smile. Then he was on his way.
The girl bitterly began tearing pieces of peel from the lemon. She would eat the lemon, she decided, the whole thing. But first, she would bite into it, sucking out all the juice, so that maybe her taste buds could feel as sour as she felt on the inside.
To her displeasure, it was delicious. She ate the whole thing, and then the music stopped.
“It sounded like a full orchestra and a woman’s voice,” the girl wrote in a journal, which she had dug out from under her laundry. It was bent in the middle and the ink had run in several spots throughout. But she could still see her name etched across the cover in golden letters: Persephone K. Potts.
“Full strings, definitely some trumpets, and an eerie voice that gets louder when the music gets softer. It sounds like she is calling for someone.”
A door down the hall slammed. That was the signal that meant skinny tall girl had returned home. Skinny tall girl weighed, in Persephone’s estimation, about 100 pounds, stood at least 5”11 in height, and was also very angry.
Persephone had gathered as much by watching skinny tall girl bash her head against walls, throw food out the window, and shout swear words at passer bys.
“Something about her parents not wanting her from an early age and then going deaf from the abuse of foster parents,” the landlord had explained nonchalantly. Of course the landlord had seen so many of these types pass through the walls that the stories of each tenant had all mixed into a giant grocery bag of memories labeled “Neglected freaks.” Persephone had almost started her own grocery bag with the same label, until she had realized that she was one of them.
SPLAT! Persephone looked out her window. A giant cantaloupe was flying through the air. Sometimes, especially on nights like tonight, she hoped for the food throwing, because it meant that some of the remains could be salvaged from the streets below.
Monday, January 2, 2012
TWO blurbs
BLURB 1:
It happened a really long time ago. Someone spoke the forbidden word and the world has been doomed ever since. I don't know what the word is. Don't ask it of me because I don't know! Anyway, one guy did figure out the word and he said it over and over and over again because he hated the human race and he wanted to annihilate the whole thing. That was kind of stupid of him because he himself was human, and you would figure that any sane and decent human would not want to speak a word that would curse his own race--seeing as he as a human would have to put up with any curse inflicted upon himself.
But we all know that people are more liable to do something stupid than something clever--so the word was spoken and a lot of bad things began to happen. Buildings crashed, bombs were dropped, and families were torn apart. And all because of a silly word.
It just so happened that there was a word that could put everything right again and all anyone had to do was speak the word, but nobody seemed to want to do this either. In fact, the more and more the buildings fell, and the men murdered and the women left their children, the more people wanted to say the terrible word.
And then people started saying the word all over the place. The word itself became very common place. So common place, nobody even knew what the word meant anymore. The word was translated into every language and people stopped flinching at the mention of it. And soon, everyone forgot that the reason all the bad things were happening around them was because of a word and they started blaming the bad on other things like money and the solar system.
____________________________________________________________________________________
BLURB 2:
A woman was sitting by herself. Nobody could tell she was crying. This was because she sat alone. The amphitheatre where she sat had long been deserted, which meant that it made for a perfect place to go and cry by one’s self. The woman cried and cried because no one was there to stop her.
“Why are you crying?” said a man. The woman jumped at the sight of him.
“You scared me,” the woman said, looking up to see a man in a red petticoat. He looked to her like a ringmaster. She was smart enough to know that she was in a theatre, and not a circus tent, so she said:
“Are you an actor?”
“Oh,no. Are you?” the man replied with a smirk.
“Me?” the woman said. The thought of someone mistaking her for an actress was laughable, especially in her current conditions. Looking down at herself, she confirmed that she was indeed wearing the white linen dress that she had inherited from her godmother many years ago. It looked more like a potato sack than anything else.
“I am not,” the woman said.
“You sure are putting on a show,” said the man with a small smirk. He offered her a tissue.
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, blowing her nose. “I didn’t think anyone was in here. I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt you and your....thing” the woman stopped. Where had the man come in from? She had of course entered from the pit, a secret passage she had known about since childhood. But she had ceremoniously blocked off the opening. As far as she knew, all the other doors remained locked.
“I am a magician,” the man said, seeming to read her mind. “It is my job to appear out of nowhere.”
Before the woman could reply, the man had sat in the seat next to hers and taken her hand in his own. The woman drew in breath, realizing that it was ice cold. Looking into his eyes, the woman’s heart began to race. She knew this man from sometime very long ago.
“You are sad,” the magician said. It was not a question.
“I had been wishing, praying for it my entire life,” the woman said through choked breaths. “And now it is all ruined. Because it turns out, there was a mistake. And I have to give it back,”
“I helped you once,” said the magician. The woman’s heart raced faster. She was a little girl again, dancing circles around her father’s old friend. A man she knew to cast spells.
“I could say the words,” said the magician, “and no one would have to get hurt.”
“Would it hurt the baby?” the woman said, clutching at her stomach. Not even the bulkiness of the linen sack could disguise the bump where her stomach protruded.
“It would feel nothing,” the magician said. He released her hand. The woman didn’t speak, which seemed to mean an agreement had been made between the two of them.
“Aghata! Romancya! Eet beter vallence son agaust!” the magician cried.
The woman bent over crying.
“Stop it! STOP!”
It happened a really long time ago. Someone spoke the forbidden word and the world has been doomed ever since. I don't know what the word is. Don't ask it of me because I don't know! Anyway, one guy did figure out the word and he said it over and over and over again because he hated the human race and he wanted to annihilate the whole thing. That was kind of stupid of him because he himself was human, and you would figure that any sane and decent human would not want to speak a word that would curse his own race--seeing as he as a human would have to put up with any curse inflicted upon himself.
But we all know that people are more liable to do something stupid than something clever--so the word was spoken and a lot of bad things began to happen. Buildings crashed, bombs were dropped, and families were torn apart. And all because of a silly word.
It just so happened that there was a word that could put everything right again and all anyone had to do was speak the word, but nobody seemed to want to do this either. In fact, the more and more the buildings fell, and the men murdered and the women left their children, the more people wanted to say the terrible word.
And then people started saying the word all over the place. The word itself became very common place. So common place, nobody even knew what the word meant anymore. The word was translated into every language and people stopped flinching at the mention of it. And soon, everyone forgot that the reason all the bad things were happening around them was because of a word and they started blaming the bad on other things like money and the solar system.
____________________________________________________________________________________
BLURB 2:
A woman was sitting by herself. Nobody could tell she was crying. This was because she sat alone. The amphitheatre where she sat had long been deserted, which meant that it made for a perfect place to go and cry by one’s self. The woman cried and cried because no one was there to stop her.
“Why are you crying?” said a man. The woman jumped at the sight of him.
“You scared me,” the woman said, looking up to see a man in a red petticoat. He looked to her like a ringmaster. She was smart enough to know that she was in a theatre, and not a circus tent, so she said:
“Are you an actor?”
“Oh,no. Are you?” the man replied with a smirk.
“Me?” the woman said. The thought of someone mistaking her for an actress was laughable, especially in her current conditions. Looking down at herself, she confirmed that she was indeed wearing the white linen dress that she had inherited from her godmother many years ago. It looked more like a potato sack than anything else.
“I am not,” the woman said.
“You sure are putting on a show,” said the man with a small smirk. He offered her a tissue.
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, blowing her nose. “I didn’t think anyone was in here. I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt you and your....thing” the woman stopped. Where had the man come in from? She had of course entered from the pit, a secret passage she had known about since childhood. But she had ceremoniously blocked off the opening. As far as she knew, all the other doors remained locked.
“I am a magician,” the man said, seeming to read her mind. “It is my job to appear out of nowhere.”
Before the woman could reply, the man had sat in the seat next to hers and taken her hand in his own. The woman drew in breath, realizing that it was ice cold. Looking into his eyes, the woman’s heart began to race. She knew this man from sometime very long ago.
“You are sad,” the magician said. It was not a question.
“I had been wishing, praying for it my entire life,” the woman said through choked breaths. “And now it is all ruined. Because it turns out, there was a mistake. And I have to give it back,”
“I helped you once,” said the magician. The woman’s heart raced faster. She was a little girl again, dancing circles around her father’s old friend. A man she knew to cast spells.
“I could say the words,” said the magician, “and no one would have to get hurt.”
“Would it hurt the baby?” the woman said, clutching at her stomach. Not even the bulkiness of the linen sack could disguise the bump where her stomach protruded.
“It would feel nothing,” the magician said. He released her hand. The woman didn’t speak, which seemed to mean an agreement had been made between the two of them.
“Aghata! Romancya! Eet beter vallence son agaust!” the magician cried.
The woman bent over crying.
“Stop it! STOP!”
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Rollercoasters
When studying fiction, characters are revealed by a number of factors:
+Symbols
+actions
+What the character says about himself
+What other characters say about him
I am not alone in the quest of "finding myself." I believe it is something that we all have to do at one point or another. Me being a literary person, I often soul search by using these literary tools.
I believe my symbol is the rollercoaster. When I was young, I loved going to amusement parks (btw: I still love going to amusement parks.) I enjoy the most thrilling rides. The ones with the loop-de-loops, the towers that drop from hundreds of feet, the ones that flip you upside down and run backwards. The ones where you are on such a steep drop, you can't see what's waiting for you when they pull the lever. In other words: Anything scary and thrilling. The ones where you must face the "unknown." Tellingly, the "safe" rides make me sick. Don't put me on the swings, or the teacups....I will likely throw up.
In decoding the puzzle that is "self" I can't help but parallel this need for thrilling rides with need for a thrilling life. I need to know that I will be inched up at a slow and steady pace, before getting a bird's eye view of what's below me, and then dropped with sudden speed, without notice. I need to be sent through loop-de-loops, places where I don't know what is up from down. I need to be at the top of a U shaped drop, sitting on a mat, not knowing what I'm in for because I can't see what's ahead for me.
Of course eventually, I will get off the ride complete with exhilaration. Did I mention that I go to amusement parks with my best friends? Because when I get off, we laugh until our stomachs hurt. Because we know we just had the time of our lives.
I'm going to California at the end of January. I can't wait.
+Symbols
+actions
+What the character says about himself
+What other characters say about him
I am not alone in the quest of "finding myself." I believe it is something that we all have to do at one point or another. Me being a literary person, I often soul search by using these literary tools.
I believe my symbol is the rollercoaster. When I was young, I loved going to amusement parks (btw: I still love going to amusement parks.) I enjoy the most thrilling rides. The ones with the loop-de-loops, the towers that drop from hundreds of feet, the ones that flip you upside down and run backwards. The ones where you are on such a steep drop, you can't see what's waiting for you when they pull the lever. In other words: Anything scary and thrilling. The ones where you must face the "unknown." Tellingly, the "safe" rides make me sick. Don't put me on the swings, or the teacups....I will likely throw up.
In decoding the puzzle that is "self" I can't help but parallel this need for thrilling rides with need for a thrilling life. I need to know that I will be inched up at a slow and steady pace, before getting a bird's eye view of what's below me, and then dropped with sudden speed, without notice. I need to be sent through loop-de-loops, places where I don't know what is up from down. I need to be at the top of a U shaped drop, sitting on a mat, not knowing what I'm in for because I can't see what's ahead for me.
Of course eventually, I will get off the ride complete with exhilaration. Did I mention that I go to amusement parks with my best friends? Because when I get off, we laugh until our stomachs hurt. Because we know we just had the time of our lives.
I'm going to California at the end of January. I can't wait.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Bucket List
Travel is wonderful. I wish I could spend all my time travelling. It isn't even necessarily the destination that concerns me, it is simply the act. I love going to new places and trying to figure out how things/people work in strange and foreign environments. There are so many new things to learn when you travel. So many things to see, hear, witness. I love going from place to place, never having a home. Simply acting as a loan wanderer on the next adventure to who knows what.
I suppose travel satisfies some need in me to feel new. New places, people, things. Change. It is my greatest friend, but unfortunately, a friend that I don't see often enough...
Things on the bucket list that I have done
+Go skydiving
+Run a 5K
+Act in a play as someone truly inspirational (For me, this was Millie in Picnic)
+Work at a theatre (I will count both Vintage and Arvada Center in this list)
+Write something wonderful
Things yet to do
+Write a full-length something (play, book, ect...)
+Travel to distant lands and take loads of pictures and meet lots of people
+Help places and people in need with hands-on work
+Find a place to call home
+Marry a man who loves God
+Become financially stable and independent
+Have a good job
That's all I can think of for now...
I suppose travel satisfies some need in me to feel new. New places, people, things. Change. It is my greatest friend, but unfortunately, a friend that I don't see often enough...
Things on the bucket list that I have done
+Go skydiving
+Run a 5K
+Act in a play as someone truly inspirational (For me, this was Millie in Picnic)
+Work at a theatre (I will count both Vintage and Arvada Center in this list)
+Write something wonderful
Things yet to do
+Write a full-length something (play, book, ect...)
+Travel to distant lands and take loads of pictures and meet lots of people
+Help places and people in need with hands-on work
+Find a place to call home
+Marry a man who loves God
+Become financially stable and independent
+Have a good job
That's all I can think of for now...
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Reasons why I am crazy PART UNO
A writer writes what he knows. This is what I know: I am absolutely crazy, which is probably the reason my life parallels some sort of absurdist play. Thus I bring to you Reasons why I am crazy PART UNO:
1. About two weeks ago, I came home from a long day of work and utterly convinced myself that I was going to die from skin cancer in the immediate future. I googled stage four melanoma. I sat examining my body for oddly shaped moles. I lay in bed tossing and turning over the list of all the times I had ever been sunburned. WHY did I let myself get so tan in Mexico, I demanded of myself. Why did I not bathe in SPF 50 daily? Why had I let myself become so susceptible to such a grotesque and ugly disease? Whether my worry was unfounded or not has no matter. I do have rather fair skin and melanoma is one of the most common cancers among adults. What is crazy is that I woke up the next morning completely unconcerned about the matter and went about my day.
2. I am completely unsatisfied with everything that I do. If I am working, I wish I had a day off. When I have a day off, I think my time would better be spent working. If I'm with friends, I wish I were alone. When I'm alone, I wonder why I don't go out more. You can see what a dangerous and difficult cycle this is. Thus, the absurdity.
3. When I am particularly annoyed with the way my life is going, I always imagine that I am going to move to some exotic and exciting place within the year. Or that I'll invent something. Or that I'll finally finish that novel. Or that I'll fall in love one day, and none of this will even matter then.
4. Speaking of over active imaginations, here's another story. My freshman year of college, I had to perform a monologue as a final assignment that determined whether I would be allowed back to the acting program for another semester. I rehearsed the crap out of that thing, wondering if my inflictions were right, making sure I wouldn't trip in my heels as I walked into the room, mulling over the monologue selection itself. Then I thought, what if, while I'm performing my monologue, someone shoots a gun at the window? Should I just go on with my monologue? Should I duck? Or run from the room? What if I hit the floor and land on a piece of glass? Would they make me do my monologue again? "Calm down, Anna," I had to assure myself. Nobody is going to shoot a gun through the window. And if they do, just act like how a normal person would act if a gun were being shot at them....
Thus concludes Reasons why I am crazy Part UNO. Look out for Part II.
1. About two weeks ago, I came home from a long day of work and utterly convinced myself that I was going to die from skin cancer in the immediate future. I googled stage four melanoma. I sat examining my body for oddly shaped moles. I lay in bed tossing and turning over the list of all the times I had ever been sunburned. WHY did I let myself get so tan in Mexico, I demanded of myself. Why did I not bathe in SPF 50 daily? Why had I let myself become so susceptible to such a grotesque and ugly disease? Whether my worry was unfounded or not has no matter. I do have rather fair skin and melanoma is one of the most common cancers among adults. What is crazy is that I woke up the next morning completely unconcerned about the matter and went about my day.
2. I am completely unsatisfied with everything that I do. If I am working, I wish I had a day off. When I have a day off, I think my time would better be spent working. If I'm with friends, I wish I were alone. When I'm alone, I wonder why I don't go out more. You can see what a dangerous and difficult cycle this is. Thus, the absurdity.
3. When I am particularly annoyed with the way my life is going, I always imagine that I am going to move to some exotic and exciting place within the year. Or that I'll invent something. Or that I'll finally finish that novel. Or that I'll fall in love one day, and none of this will even matter then.
4. Speaking of over active imaginations, here's another story. My freshman year of college, I had to perform a monologue as a final assignment that determined whether I would be allowed back to the acting program for another semester. I rehearsed the crap out of that thing, wondering if my inflictions were right, making sure I wouldn't trip in my heels as I walked into the room, mulling over the monologue selection itself. Then I thought, what if, while I'm performing my monologue, someone shoots a gun at the window? Should I just go on with my monologue? Should I duck? Or run from the room? What if I hit the floor and land on a piece of glass? Would they make me do my monologue again? "Calm down, Anna," I had to assure myself. Nobody is going to shoot a gun through the window. And if they do, just act like how a normal person would act if a gun were being shot at them....
Thus concludes Reasons why I am crazy Part UNO. Look out for Part II.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Fast Food Nation
It is true that our country has an obesity problem and everybody seems to have a quick solution. Diet pills, tummy wrapping, liposuction. But perhaps our problems go alot deeper than food. How can they not, when our lives have become like fast food.
Never talk to someone longer than it takes than to figure out what they want. Give the customer what they want, whatever they want. Give them a product that looks great on the outside, but contains no real substance when you really get inside of it. Get in. Get out.
Is this not how we sometimes treat our relationships? Our money? Our religions? Our selves? Life is not a burger joint. If you really want to get to the heart of the problem, you have to be willing to cut out the fat.
Never talk to someone longer than it takes than to figure out what they want. Give the customer what they want, whatever they want. Give them a product that looks great on the outside, but contains no real substance when you really get inside of it. Get in. Get out.
Is this not how we sometimes treat our relationships? Our money? Our religions? Our selves? Life is not a burger joint. If you really want to get to the heart of the problem, you have to be willing to cut out the fat.
The near-life experience
Congratulations "You just had yourself a near-life experience, fellas."--Tyler Durden, Fight Club.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Idina Menzel
Shows I have seen since last update: A Chorus Line (Union Colony Dinner Theatre), Hairspray (Arvada Center), Grey Gardens (Vintage Theatre), Moonlight and Magnolias (Vintage Theatre).
Update: Last night, I was lucky enough to have procured two FREE tickets to Izina Menzel. I have a friend who works at the symphony and graciously offered two great seats for my enjoyment. My friend Sara had already purchased tickets in the general admission seating, but we pulled some strings and WALA! She got upgraded tickets sitting next to me and my friend.
For those of you who need a musical theatre lesson: Idina Menzel is hugely popular in the Broadway world. She originated the role of Elphaba in Wicked and also played the original Maureen in Rent. Most recently, she began appearing on Glee.
Anyhow, it was my first time being at Red Rocks, and now I feel completely over-due because the space is beautiful. The Colorado Symphony opened with numbers from A Chorus Line and moved onto My Fair Lady.
Idina didn't come onstage until Act II, which wasn't a disappointment at all because the first act only lasted about 20 minutes. She ended up singing quite a few numbers by John Denver, then moved on to Broadway numbers (Don't Rain on my Parade, No Day but Today, and of course, Defying Gravity)
The biggest surprise of the evening for me, was that I laughed about as much as I would have watching a good comedy routine. Idina told funny stories, from being slightly ignored by Barbara Streisand, to making up rap songs for her newborn. I particularly liked the one about her recent appearance on Glee (which I actually know nothing about). She mocked the ridiculousness of singing Poker Face as an entrance for her mother character. Apparently, it made no sense within the story. She then went on to sing Poker Face.
Idina came on for two encores. For the first one she sang, The Way we Were. The second, Tomorrow.
All in all, an uplifting show. Made me want to do the same thing the next day. Watching the sun come out tomorrow would have been a beautiful backdrop against the carved boulders and the terrific music.
Update: Last night, I was lucky enough to have procured two FREE tickets to Izina Menzel. I have a friend who works at the symphony and graciously offered two great seats for my enjoyment. My friend Sara had already purchased tickets in the general admission seating, but we pulled some strings and WALA! She got upgraded tickets sitting next to me and my friend.
For those of you who need a musical theatre lesson: Idina Menzel is hugely popular in the Broadway world. She originated the role of Elphaba in Wicked and also played the original Maureen in Rent. Most recently, she began appearing on Glee.
Anyhow, it was my first time being at Red Rocks, and now I feel completely over-due because the space is beautiful. The Colorado Symphony opened with numbers from A Chorus Line and moved onto My Fair Lady.
Idina didn't come onstage until Act II, which wasn't a disappointment at all because the first act only lasted about 20 minutes. She ended up singing quite a few numbers by John Denver, then moved on to Broadway numbers (Don't Rain on my Parade, No Day but Today, and of course, Defying Gravity)
The biggest surprise of the evening for me, was that I laughed about as much as I would have watching a good comedy routine. Idina told funny stories, from being slightly ignored by Barbara Streisand, to making up rap songs for her newborn. I particularly liked the one about her recent appearance on Glee (which I actually know nothing about). She mocked the ridiculousness of singing Poker Face as an entrance for her mother character. Apparently, it made no sense within the story. She then went on to sing Poker Face.
Idina came on for two encores. For the first one she sang, The Way we Were. The second, Tomorrow.
All in all, an uplifting show. Made me want to do the same thing the next day. Watching the sun come out tomorrow would have been a beautiful backdrop against the carved boulders and the terrific music.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Theatre Reviewer: Paper Bird
As Megan and I sat in anticipation on the lawn of the Arvada Center's amphitheatre for Paper Bird and Ballet Nouveau, we had no idea what to expect. Neither of us had heard of the band, nor had we ever seen the ballet performers. What we did know was that we were holding two very cheap tickets (thanks to the employee discount, they cost next to nothing) and that we were prepared to enjoy ourselves (Megan having bought herself a beer and for myself, a vodka lemonade).
The eclectic group of audience members seemed a bit more clued in as to what we were about to witness, though who knows, maybe they were just excited for the first concert of the summer. Either way, the band was greeted with uproarious cheers and applause and there seemed to be a hushed suspense as the first dancer walked gracefully onstage.
Me in front of the Ballet Nouveau tent.
The band (consisting of, among other things, a banjo player, a trumpet player, and three female singers) has a real indie feel to it. Think The Decemberists with a little bit of Regina Spektor. Their harmonies blended beautifully and I found myself enamored by the sing-song lyrics and intricate compositions.
Complimenting that folk genre, the ballet dancers were dressed accordingly. The men in fall colored argyle, the woman in flowy, tea length dresses.
What really made the evening "genre defying" (as the advertisement so eloquently put it)was the pure imagination in composing such a show. Folk music and ballet aren't two things that you are likely to see combined, so to see such a professional group of dancers paired with the folky/alternative band was truly unique.
Recognition should be given to the choreographer of the numbers, who mixed classic ballet with a little bit of country flair. The formations were unique and eye-pleasing, blending an even balance of quick movement and more flowing,vulnerable numbers. I especially liked when the dancers synchronized their clapping with the band's intermittently between powerful dance poses.
All in all, the evening's entertainment was refreshing and feel-good. Listening to the final encore performance "Carry On," pleasantly reminded me that summer had surely arrived.
Megan holding her ticket
The eclectic group of audience members seemed a bit more clued in as to what we were about to witness, though who knows, maybe they were just excited for the first concert of the summer. Either way, the band was greeted with uproarious cheers and applause and there seemed to be a hushed suspense as the first dancer walked gracefully onstage.
Me in front of the Ballet Nouveau tent.
The band (consisting of, among other things, a banjo player, a trumpet player, and three female singers) has a real indie feel to it. Think The Decemberists with a little bit of Regina Spektor. Their harmonies blended beautifully and I found myself enamored by the sing-song lyrics and intricate compositions.
Complimenting that folk genre, the ballet dancers were dressed accordingly. The men in fall colored argyle, the woman in flowy, tea length dresses.
What really made the evening "genre defying" (as the advertisement so eloquently put it)was the pure imagination in composing such a show. Folk music and ballet aren't two things that you are likely to see combined, so to see such a professional group of dancers paired with the folky/alternative band was truly unique.
Recognition should be given to the choreographer of the numbers, who mixed classic ballet with a little bit of country flair. The formations were unique and eye-pleasing, blending an even balance of quick movement and more flowing,vulnerable numbers. I especially liked when the dancers synchronized their clapping with the band's intermittently between powerful dance poses.
All in all, the evening's entertainment was refreshing and feel-good. Listening to the final encore performance "Carry On," pleasantly reminded me that summer had surely arrived.
Megan holding her ticket
An Awesome day
Yesterday began promptly at 9:00 a.m. with the techno tune of my cell phone alarm clock (I need a new phone). I was reminded by Megan that I had to meet at her house at 10 a.m. as we were carpooling to Littleton, meaning I was running late ( I still had to pick up orange juice from King Soopers).
I quickly straightened my hair and headed out the door, stopping to get orange juice on the way. From there, Megan and I headed to Littleton. I-70 was extremely backed up due to construction, so we ended up taking Kipling.
Upon arriving at Lauren's house for book club, we deposited our orange juice and champagne and hungrily eyed the table's delicious offerings. Fruit and yogurt parfaits topped with whip cream, fruit salad, bagels with cream cheese and muffins. I lathered some cream cheese on a plain bagel, made myself a mimosa, and then sat down to discuss this month's book, Water for Elephants.Admittedly, I had only read about half of the book. However, I found that some of my most interesting feedback came from reading the interview with the author from the back of the book. This probably spawned from my most recent trend toward reading, nonfiction. The journalist in me screams with joy for anything biographical, factual, timelined (The book Columbine by Dave Cullen being a great example of this kind of journalistic piece.)
After some good laughs and non-related book talk with the girls, Megan and I were off for our next gathering: Jordan's bridal party. Tom-Tom ended up leading us to a gated community that we obviously couldn't get through, so we drove in circles for a little while before finding our way. Again, greeted by a big group of ladies, we were at once prompted to load up our plate with finger foods: veggies with artichoke dip, strawberries, Hershey kiss cookies, and chips. Food in hand, we sat down to enjoy the protocol bridal games. Megan and I did not know what color the groom's eyes were, and guessed wrong as to what the word bride meant in old English (cook), so did not get to take home any of the prizes. We got over our losses quickly and watched as Jordan began pulling the multi-colored tissue paper from boxes and bags gathered at her feet.
Her mom then passed out mini angel food cakes covered in Strawberry whip cream frosting. Belly full at this point, most of the ladies began saying their goodbyes. Megan and I hung back so as to catch up with Jessica and Jordan, the latter having spent the last 6 months in Nicaragua. We had a good time meeting Jordan's four chickens and talking about the anticipated wedding.
Again, Megan and I had places to be so we said goodbye to our friends and were on our way again. Finding ourselves laden with hunger was surprising considering the bombardment of food we had experienced at the day's social gatherings. Still, we decided to stop at Ruby Tuesdays where I enjoyed a trip to the salad bar and a mini turkey burger.
Then it was time for Paper Bird. For Theatre Review see above.
I quickly straightened my hair and headed out the door, stopping to get orange juice on the way. From there, Megan and I headed to Littleton. I-70 was extremely backed up due to construction, so we ended up taking Kipling.
Upon arriving at Lauren's house for book club, we deposited our orange juice and champagne and hungrily eyed the table's delicious offerings. Fruit and yogurt parfaits topped with whip cream, fruit salad, bagels with cream cheese and muffins. I lathered some cream cheese on a plain bagel, made myself a mimosa, and then sat down to discuss this month's book, Water for Elephants.Admittedly, I had only read about half of the book. However, I found that some of my most interesting feedback came from reading the interview with the author from the back of the book. This probably spawned from my most recent trend toward reading, nonfiction. The journalist in me screams with joy for anything biographical, factual, timelined (The book Columbine by Dave Cullen being a great example of this kind of journalistic piece.)
After some good laughs and non-related book talk with the girls, Megan and I were off for our next gathering: Jordan's bridal party. Tom-Tom ended up leading us to a gated community that we obviously couldn't get through, so we drove in circles for a little while before finding our way. Again, greeted by a big group of ladies, we were at once prompted to load up our plate with finger foods: veggies with artichoke dip, strawberries, Hershey kiss cookies, and chips. Food in hand, we sat down to enjoy the protocol bridal games. Megan and I did not know what color the groom's eyes were, and guessed wrong as to what the word bride meant in old English (cook), so did not get to take home any of the prizes. We got over our losses quickly and watched as Jordan began pulling the multi-colored tissue paper from boxes and bags gathered at her feet.
Her mom then passed out mini angel food cakes covered in Strawberry whip cream frosting. Belly full at this point, most of the ladies began saying their goodbyes. Megan and I hung back so as to catch up with Jessica and Jordan, the latter having spent the last 6 months in Nicaragua. We had a good time meeting Jordan's four chickens and talking about the anticipated wedding.
Again, Megan and I had places to be so we said goodbye to our friends and were on our way again. Finding ourselves laden with hunger was surprising considering the bombardment of food we had experienced at the day's social gatherings. Still, we decided to stop at Ruby Tuesdays where I enjoyed a trip to the salad bar and a mini turkey burger.
Then it was time for Paper Bird. For Theatre Review see above.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Theatre Reviewer
I am proud to bring to you a portion of the Intelligent Nut that I am very excited about: The Theatre Reviewer
I go see a ton of theatre. It is probably the most interesting part of my life. I decided to blog about it. So without further ado...
This past weekend I went to Heritage Square Music Hall. My friend Sara runs the ticket booth at the little dinner theatre located in Golden and gave me the "friends and family discount," making my experience all the more enjoyable.
Me (left), and the actors of the show
It had been awhile since I had been to that theatre, so stepping through the door felt like I was walking backward in time. The ambience was just how I remembered it; cute, homey and greeted with a feeling that you had just walked into a saloon from the 1800's.
This evening's show was a review. I am not usually a fan of reviews, but was excited for this one as I thought it the perfect space to accommodate a fun, laid back night of popular songs.
They started out the evening with "'Ol Man River" from Showboat. The rendition wasn't the most moving I had ever seen, which was somewhat disappointing considering that the piece lends itself well to a powerhouse performance. Luckily, the actors move quickly from one song to the next, so we were able to forgive and forget as the actors segwayed into a more fun, company appropriate number. The players hit the Mommas and the Papas right on the dot and also did justice to several of the past 50 years' television show themes (my favorite number of the evening).
Overall, the night was a pendulum balance of hit and miss. The company would be much better off by cutting out the "bring down the house numbers" such as "Seasons of Love" from Rent and sticking with the more humorous numbers such as "Atheists have no songs." When the company starts cha chaing through the audience, pulling an unsuspecting "piano teacher Magillicutty" up onto the stage, you begin to remember why you walked through the curtain-drawn door: To sit back, have a good old shirley temple, and sing along. Not because it's the cool thing to do, but because it's fun.
I go see a ton of theatre. It is probably the most interesting part of my life. I decided to blog about it. So without further ado...
This past weekend I went to Heritage Square Music Hall. My friend Sara runs the ticket booth at the little dinner theatre located in Golden and gave me the "friends and family discount," making my experience all the more enjoyable.
It had been awhile since I had been to that theatre, so stepping through the door felt like I was walking backward in time. The ambience was just how I remembered it; cute, homey and greeted with a feeling that you had just walked into a saloon from the 1800's.
This evening's show was a review. I am not usually a fan of reviews, but was excited for this one as I thought it the perfect space to accommodate a fun, laid back night of popular songs.
They started out the evening with "'Ol Man River" from Showboat. The rendition wasn't the most moving I had ever seen, which was somewhat disappointing considering that the piece lends itself well to a powerhouse performance. Luckily, the actors move quickly from one song to the next, so we were able to forgive and forget as the actors segwayed into a more fun, company appropriate number. The players hit the Mommas and the Papas right on the dot and also did justice to several of the past 50 years' television show themes (my favorite number of the evening).
Overall, the night was a pendulum balance of hit and miss. The company would be much better off by cutting out the "bring down the house numbers" such as "Seasons of Love" from Rent and sticking with the more humorous numbers such as "Atheists have no songs." When the company starts cha chaing through the audience, pulling an unsuspecting "piano teacher Magillicutty" up onto the stage, you begin to remember why you walked through the curtain-drawn door: To sit back, have a good old shirley temple, and sing along. Not because it's the cool thing to do, but because it's fun.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
And Some more...
I don't know if anyone ever even reads this stuff, but if you do:
Here is another blurb from a story I've been working on. Notice how much I borrow from other things that I have written:
“One day, I was lying in my father’s haystack blowing bubbles with my gum and thinking about how terribly bored I was. My father, a hard working man, yelled at me. “Quit lying around and dig some dirt!” he said and I lashed out against him. “You dig and dig and nothing comes of it!” I yelled at my father. “Why you could just as easily sit around and blow bubbles in haystacks and the sun would rise just the same!” Well then my father did something that shook me to the core. You see, he was a tough man who barely wore expression. You can imagine my shock when the man began to cry. He was sobbing and sobbing and tears were running down his face. It terrified me. Probably more than if he had thrown the shovel at me. And then he said something that I had never heard him say to anyone. He said, “you’re right.” After that, I knew that I couldn’t stay. We both knew the lie we were living and if I were to stay, we would both be in on it. I packed my bags and headed out the door the next morning."
“The next two years were a mixture of deception, cunning and cheat. I could lie and manipulate myself into any situation. It was my one talent. The foundation of my magic act. In the towns I wandered into, I could be sure to meet a girl deceived by appearance. I would lure her into the box, assure her of my honesty, and when she least expected, WALA! I would pull the magic curtain and her legs would be sawed in two. Not literally of course. A hundred dollars here, a train ticket there. Luxuries that I was able to conjure out of nothing. You must see how a magician was beginning to form? The power consumed and fascinated me all the same. Even now I’m not sure that I understand it.”
Here is another blurb from a story I've been working on. Notice how much I borrow from other things that I have written:
“One day, I was lying in my father’s haystack blowing bubbles with my gum and thinking about how terribly bored I was. My father, a hard working man, yelled at me. “Quit lying around and dig some dirt!” he said and I lashed out against him. “You dig and dig and nothing comes of it!” I yelled at my father. “Why you could just as easily sit around and blow bubbles in haystacks and the sun would rise just the same!” Well then my father did something that shook me to the core. You see, he was a tough man who barely wore expression. You can imagine my shock when the man began to cry. He was sobbing and sobbing and tears were running down his face. It terrified me. Probably more than if he had thrown the shovel at me. And then he said something that I had never heard him say to anyone. He said, “you’re right.” After that, I knew that I couldn’t stay. We both knew the lie we were living and if I were to stay, we would both be in on it. I packed my bags and headed out the door the next morning."
“The next two years were a mixture of deception, cunning and cheat. I could lie and manipulate myself into any situation. It was my one talent. The foundation of my magic act. In the towns I wandered into, I could be sure to meet a girl deceived by appearance. I would lure her into the box, assure her of my honesty, and when she least expected, WALA! I would pull the magic curtain and her legs would be sawed in two. Not literally of course. A hundred dollars here, a train ticket there. Luxuries that I was able to conjure out of nothing. You must see how a magician was beginning to form? The power consumed and fascinated me all the same. Even now I’m not sure that I understand it.”
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Scene
I wrote this scene nearly two years ago and have been thinking about it recently. I have thought about doing a companion piece, but know that it is a finished story and that any continuation would only take away from its power.
I have decided to post it again because I've been very concerned with Gilbert lately. I've just been thinking about him alot. I can't understand why he ripped up the letter. When I wrote this, I remember that more than anything, I wanted him to open it.
Daily Mail COPYRIGHT ANNA BURKEY 2010
Dan-A friendly mailman
Gilbert-A poet who has given up
(Dan knocks on the door of Gilbert’s home repeatedly. Gilbert finally opens the door.)
DAN
A package and a letter from your friendly neighborhood mailman.
GILBERT
I hate mail. I don’t sign for it. I don’t accept it. I have no need for it. Please don’t come here again. I am moving to Texas.
(Gilbert slams his door. Dan knocks on the door again. Gilbert opens it again.)
DAN
I’m sorry to hear that you hate the mail. But I have to deliver this, sir. It’s my job.
GILBERT
I will take the package. I have no need for the letter. (Signs for the package) Good day to you.
DAN
(Looking at the signature) Wait a minute, you’re Gilbert Dugburn?
GILBERT
Unfortunately.
DAN
Dan Fitz. I’m a huge fan. (Reciting) “Oh summer, Oh spring. What love I sing. I yearn for Autumn, the joy it bring.” You’re the reason my wife fell in love with me!
GILBERT
Congratulations. I am overjoyed to hear that my worthless prose has impacted the lives of two like souls and brought them together in merriment for as long as you both shall live.
DAN
(Not catching the sarcasm) I have all your books! Poems for the Eastern Plains is my favorite. Say, I haven’t seen any of your new stuff. When is it coming out?
GILBERT
Never. I haven’t been published in nearly four years.
DAN
Oh, I see. Writers block is a nasty predicament. I know. I used to write myself. Don’t worry. It’ll come back to you.
GILBERT
I have no need for it to come back. I am moving to Texas where the rejection letters can’t find me anymore.
DAN
(Glancing into his house, seeing that only a suitcase and box remain) You sure travel light.
GILBERT
All a man needs is the clothes on his back. That and the fish tank that Myra hated. Nothing to remind him of the woman who left.
DAN
Oh, I see. I’m sorry.
GILBERT
Don’t be. It’s my own fault. She hated this house. I told her it gave me inspiration, the view cleared my mind. This house was surely conducive to my writing. Turns out it wasn’t the house, it was her.
DAN
Does she know that?
GILBERT
Wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken in four years. Thought I couldn’t live without poetry, turns out the poetry couldn’t live without her! (Takes from behind him a stack of rejection letters) Rejection after rejection. This one was my favorite: “Dear Mr. Dugburn, I don’t know how you lost your sense of rhyme, but maybe you shouldn’t waste my time. Retirement is really not so bad. Perhaps your poems were just a fad.”
DAN
Harsh.
GILBERT
Bah, no use in mulling it over. I’m moving to Texas and leaving it all behind me.
DAN
Hey, don’t listen to those publishers. I’m gonna read your poetry to my children some day.
GILBERT
Thank you. (Gilbert slams his door. Dan stands for a moment, processing the fact that the door has just been slammed on him. Dan begins to exit with a sense of loss, he looks down at the letter that he did not deliver. He reads the name on the address.)
DAN
Myra?
(Dan goes back to the door excitedly. He knocks with purpose. Gilbert opens the door.)
GILBERT
What now?
DAN
I think you’ll want to read this letter. (He hands him the letter)
(Gilbert rips up the letter without looking at it)
GILBERT
Don’t you get it? Acceptance or rejection, published or not, I don’t care! The only reason poetry was worthwhile was because I had someone to read it to! I am moving to Texas! You inform that Post Office of yours that this house will not accept any more mail!
(Gilbert slams his door)
END OF SCENE
I have decided to post it again because I've been very concerned with Gilbert lately. I've just been thinking about him alot. I can't understand why he ripped up the letter. When I wrote this, I remember that more than anything, I wanted him to open it.
Daily Mail COPYRIGHT ANNA BURKEY 2010
Dan-A friendly mailman
Gilbert-A poet who has given up
(Dan knocks on the door of Gilbert’s home repeatedly. Gilbert finally opens the door.)
DAN
A package and a letter from your friendly neighborhood mailman.
GILBERT
I hate mail. I don’t sign for it. I don’t accept it. I have no need for it. Please don’t come here again. I am moving to Texas.
(Gilbert slams his door. Dan knocks on the door again. Gilbert opens it again.)
DAN
I’m sorry to hear that you hate the mail. But I have to deliver this, sir. It’s my job.
GILBERT
I will take the package. I have no need for the letter. (Signs for the package) Good day to you.
DAN
(Looking at the signature) Wait a minute, you’re Gilbert Dugburn?
GILBERT
Unfortunately.
DAN
Dan Fitz. I’m a huge fan. (Reciting) “Oh summer, Oh spring. What love I sing. I yearn for Autumn, the joy it bring.” You’re the reason my wife fell in love with me!
GILBERT
Congratulations. I am overjoyed to hear that my worthless prose has impacted the lives of two like souls and brought them together in merriment for as long as you both shall live.
DAN
(Not catching the sarcasm) I have all your books! Poems for the Eastern Plains is my favorite. Say, I haven’t seen any of your new stuff. When is it coming out?
GILBERT
Never. I haven’t been published in nearly four years.
DAN
Oh, I see. Writers block is a nasty predicament. I know. I used to write myself. Don’t worry. It’ll come back to you.
GILBERT
I have no need for it to come back. I am moving to Texas where the rejection letters can’t find me anymore.
DAN
(Glancing into his house, seeing that only a suitcase and box remain) You sure travel light.
GILBERT
All a man needs is the clothes on his back. That and the fish tank that Myra hated. Nothing to remind him of the woman who left.
DAN
Oh, I see. I’m sorry.
GILBERT
Don’t be. It’s my own fault. She hated this house. I told her it gave me inspiration, the view cleared my mind. This house was surely conducive to my writing. Turns out it wasn’t the house, it was her.
DAN
Does she know that?
GILBERT
Wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken in four years. Thought I couldn’t live without poetry, turns out the poetry couldn’t live without her! (Takes from behind him a stack of rejection letters) Rejection after rejection. This one was my favorite: “Dear Mr. Dugburn, I don’t know how you lost your sense of rhyme, but maybe you shouldn’t waste my time. Retirement is really not so bad. Perhaps your poems were just a fad.”
DAN
Harsh.
GILBERT
Bah, no use in mulling it over. I’m moving to Texas and leaving it all behind me.
DAN
Hey, don’t listen to those publishers. I’m gonna read your poetry to my children some day.
GILBERT
Thank you. (Gilbert slams his door. Dan stands for a moment, processing the fact that the door has just been slammed on him. Dan begins to exit with a sense of loss, he looks down at the letter that he did not deliver. He reads the name on the address.)
DAN
Myra?
(Dan goes back to the door excitedly. He knocks with purpose. Gilbert opens the door.)
GILBERT
What now?
DAN
I think you’ll want to read this letter. (He hands him the letter)
(Gilbert rips up the letter without looking at it)
GILBERT
Don’t you get it? Acceptance or rejection, published or not, I don’t care! The only reason poetry was worthwhile was because I had someone to read it to! I am moving to Texas! You inform that Post Office of yours that this house will not accept any more mail!
(Gilbert slams his door)
END OF SCENE
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
A continuation
This piece is a continuation of a speed writing exercise I did a few weeks ago. I used a passage that I had written while speed writing to write a "what happened next."
Next night, the man wrote the letter to himself again, only this time, when he finished, he began pulling at the sections of his hair until they came out. The man screamed in pain as a rather large clump at the back of his head was extricated. After which, he calmed down and put the clump of hair in the trash can. He then began again, pulling at his head, hobbling around the basement until the hair released.
Pulling at a rather difficult piece, the man screamed and fell against the side of the boxes in agony. This was a mistake. The box in the very center of the pile shimmied and shook until it fell from the pile. Like a Lou Goldberg machine, each box stacked on top followed, always releasing its bit of paper before falling to the ground. As the man looked up to the top of the pile, he was hit over and over again with the phrase “Am I happy?” and then the answer “yes” “yes” “yes”. This happened several times until almost all the boxes had fallen.
Peeking over to see what hid behind the boxes, the man screamed. It was a truly terrible sight. So terrible in fact, that the man passed out. This also was a mistake.
Written on the whiteboard in his basement was another note he had written to himself: “Never pass out without a dumbbell.”
Next night, the man wrote the letter to himself again, only this time, when he finished, he began pulling at the sections of his hair until they came out. The man screamed in pain as a rather large clump at the back of his head was extricated. After which, he calmed down and put the clump of hair in the trash can. He then began again, pulling at his head, hobbling around the basement until the hair released.
Pulling at a rather difficult piece, the man screamed and fell against the side of the boxes in agony. This was a mistake. The box in the very center of the pile shimmied and shook until it fell from the pile. Like a Lou Goldberg machine, each box stacked on top followed, always releasing its bit of paper before falling to the ground. As the man looked up to the top of the pile, he was hit over and over again with the phrase “Am I happy?” and then the answer “yes” “yes” “yes”. This happened several times until almost all the boxes had fallen.
Peeking over to see what hid behind the boxes, the man screamed. It was a truly terrible sight. So terrible in fact, that the man passed out. This also was a mistake.
Written on the whiteboard in his basement was another note he had written to himself: “Never pass out without a dumbbell.”
Monday, September 27, 2010
As promised, another one
This was the speed writing exercise for the night. I wrote about a page and this is just a small excerpt. I have no idea what the story is about, so I just posted the part that made the most sense.
And then Fimble showed the girl where the stairs were taking her and she understood why she had to leave him. So she tied her shoelaces, and straightened her back and prepared to walk the staircase.
Again putting out her foot, the girl stopped. She understood why. Of course she understood why. She had always understood why if she really came to think of it. But there was one final question. A question that loomed so certainly in her head, she knew she had to ask it of him. And looking at him again, she saw that he understood what she was about to ask him. And then she knew that he wouldn’t tell her. But she said it anyway.
“Will I be happy?”
And then Fimble showed the girl where the stairs were taking her and she understood why she had to leave him. So she tied her shoelaces, and straightened her back and prepared to walk the staircase.
Again putting out her foot, the girl stopped. She understood why. Of course she understood why. She had always understood why if she really came to think of it. But there was one final question. A question that loomed so certainly in her head, she knew she had to ask it of him. And looking at him again, she saw that he understood what she was about to ask him. And then she knew that he wouldn’t tell her. But she said it anyway.
“Will I be happy?”
Oh the places I want to go....
The need in me to travel is burning. With every floor I mop, I remind myself that I am one step closer to getting out of Arvada, and out of the country for that matter.
PLACES I WANT TO GO:Haiti
I know, it's a mess. It's dangerous. And for these reasons, I feel it all the more important that I go there.
Russia: I just think it would be cool to go. How many people can say they have been to Russia, after all.
Thailand, maybe because my mom went. Or because Jessica and Jordan went.
And then there are a million other places I want to go: try all of Europe, parts of Mexico, Canada, Australia. Why must traveling cost so much??!! And then it hit me: Peace Corps. Worth looking into??? Perhaps. Perhaps.....
PLACES I WANT TO GO:Haiti
I know, it's a mess. It's dangerous. And for these reasons, I feel it all the more important that I go there.
Russia: I just think it would be cool to go. How many people can say they have been to Russia, after all.
Thailand, maybe because my mom went. Or because Jessica and Jordan went.
And then there are a million other places I want to go: try all of Europe, parts of Mexico, Canada, Australia. Why must traveling cost so much??!! And then it hit me: Peace Corps. Worth looking into??? Perhaps. Perhaps.....
Monday, September 13, 2010
Fable
I usually stay away from fables because my biggest flaw as a writer is that it can border on corny. (I should note that lately, I believe my biggest flaw is that it borders on boring)...
Anyhow, for this reason, I stayed away from fables for a long time because I believed them to be a perfect lure for cheesiness. However, I was inspired recently and wrote one. I don't hate it. The beginning is below:
Many years ago, in a country that no longer exists, there lived a very rich nation that flourished in everything it did. The inhabitants of this place enjoyed their lives, and shared their blessings with everyone they knew. Food was abundant, crimes were nonexistent, and life itself was generous and peaceful. There weren’t many problems, because everyone seemed to get along.
It just so happened that none of the people who lived in this land had eyes.
Eyes had been heard of, of course. But at this point in time, they were merely something to be murmured about. Someone would bring it up at passing, or while out to dinner with friends. “Have you heard about this new invention?” “Sounds like a right nuisance to me.” It was rumored that the trend had begun in the neighboring country, though only the elites had used them.
These people didn’t need eyes, after all. They heard with their ears, smelled with their noses, touched with their skin. Their biggest problem used to be that they were constantly bumping into each other, but that had changed with the invention of the energy sensor, an object that attached to the hip and buzzed the skin in the direction of oncoming energy. It could also give direction, record the location of objects, and warn of things in motion. While it may now sound archaic, the people had become quite well adjusted to walking in this manner. In fact, watching them walk, a person of today might be fooled into thinking that these people did in fact have eyes.
For this reason, most in the country felt that eyes were best left alone.
Anyhow, for this reason, I stayed away from fables for a long time because I believed them to be a perfect lure for cheesiness. However, I was inspired recently and wrote one. I don't hate it. The beginning is below:
Many years ago, in a country that no longer exists, there lived a very rich nation that flourished in everything it did. The inhabitants of this place enjoyed their lives, and shared their blessings with everyone they knew. Food was abundant, crimes were nonexistent, and life itself was generous and peaceful. There weren’t many problems, because everyone seemed to get along.
It just so happened that none of the people who lived in this land had eyes.
Eyes had been heard of, of course. But at this point in time, they were merely something to be murmured about. Someone would bring it up at passing, or while out to dinner with friends. “Have you heard about this new invention?” “Sounds like a right nuisance to me.” It was rumored that the trend had begun in the neighboring country, though only the elites had used them.
These people didn’t need eyes, after all. They heard with their ears, smelled with their noses, touched with their skin. Their biggest problem used to be that they were constantly bumping into each other, but that had changed with the invention of the energy sensor, an object that attached to the hip and buzzed the skin in the direction of oncoming energy. It could also give direction, record the location of objects, and warn of things in motion. While it may now sound archaic, the people had become quite well adjusted to walking in this manner. In fact, watching them walk, a person of today might be fooled into thinking that these people did in fact have eyes.
For this reason, most in the country felt that eyes were best left alone.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Hadn't tried this one before
Here's an interesting writing excersise: Open a book, any book, and find a random passage. Then use that passage as inspiration for a few paragraphs.
I opened Cyrano De Bergarac by Edmond Rostand. I chose it precisely because I had never read it and have no idea what it is about.
The drums are beating, and the regiment arms for the march.
Secretly, I remain here in the convent. I have disobeyed
I shall be with you soon. I send this first by an old monk
As simple as sheep. Who understands nothing of this.
Your smile is more than I can bear, and seek no more.
Be alone tonight, waiting for one who dares.
To hope you will forgive.
The resulting paragraph:
I should like to think that guilt sounds like a beating drum. Infact, I don’t just like to think this, I know this because as I stand here, my heart feels like someone is beating a club against my chest. The man holds up a bible and I am told to swear by it. The man reminds me of a sheep. He is wearing an ugly wool coat and he follows the ugly bailiff as if drawn to him like magnet to metal. I try not to think of the letter remaining under my rucksack as I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God, and I mean that part.
So help me God, that maybe by some miracle, the letter was burned. So help me God, my perspiration be attributed to the heat and not to the lie kept so vulnerably at the forefront of my brain. Thy will be done, if only Jemeny comes back to me. On earth as it is in heaven, where my poor and foolish father no doubt looks down on me shaking his head.
Curse my father! I almost shout as the judge hits his gavel to the wood. If only by faith able to move mountains, I could move the swinging pendulum of the clock, and go back and kill my father before he muttered those fateful words that changed everything: “Esau have I hated!”
Interesting results. Like I said, the random passage is meant purely to inspire words to come to you. It is not meant to necessarily make a story right away. Nothing can do that. Except for pure, unadulterated magic.
Check back for the next blog...I had an inspired idea about pink flamingos as I was about to go to bed last night. Haven't written comedy in awhile. Excited.
I opened Cyrano De Bergarac by Edmond Rostand. I chose it precisely because I had never read it and have no idea what it is about.
The drums are beating, and the regiment arms for the march.
Secretly, I remain here in the convent. I have disobeyed
I shall be with you soon. I send this first by an old monk
As simple as sheep. Who understands nothing of this.
Your smile is more than I can bear, and seek no more.
Be alone tonight, waiting for one who dares.
To hope you will forgive.
The resulting paragraph:
I should like to think that guilt sounds like a beating drum. Infact, I don’t just like to think this, I know this because as I stand here, my heart feels like someone is beating a club against my chest. The man holds up a bible and I am told to swear by it. The man reminds me of a sheep. He is wearing an ugly wool coat and he follows the ugly bailiff as if drawn to him like magnet to metal. I try not to think of the letter remaining under my rucksack as I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God, and I mean that part.
So help me God, that maybe by some miracle, the letter was burned. So help me God, my perspiration be attributed to the heat and not to the lie kept so vulnerably at the forefront of my brain. Thy will be done, if only Jemeny comes back to me. On earth as it is in heaven, where my poor and foolish father no doubt looks down on me shaking his head.
Curse my father! I almost shout as the judge hits his gavel to the wood. If only by faith able to move mountains, I could move the swinging pendulum of the clock, and go back and kill my father before he muttered those fateful words that changed everything: “Esau have I hated!”
Interesting results. Like I said, the random passage is meant purely to inspire words to come to you. It is not meant to necessarily make a story right away. Nothing can do that. Except for pure, unadulterated magic.
Check back for the next blog...I had an inspired idea about pink flamingos as I was about to go to bed last night. Haven't written comedy in awhile. Excited.
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