Fueling Up

Needed a little something to get my brain going.  What better than to write emo poetry in Anglo Saxon?

Ic limgesið gierman gehwilc andhangne niht þu þaccian ingemynde

þu éages léoht neoðane

þu liðe héafodwóð ábifian giefend

Ic áswerian, galdorcwide

ac gelegered nú gén

þu æsceda ætgeændung gamen

The grammar is horrid as it has been a few years and I don't have my notebook so I'm going off my rubbish memory and translating from a terrible source anyway (my own crappy writing).  Somehow, writing it like this makes me feel less like a teenage Hot Topic loving loser.... in reality, this is probably much much worse...

Right... Catch Up

Well, nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened, I got internet and here I am. Okay it was a little more complicated than that, but I mostly feel like recapping my everyday's activities is a completely masturbatory practice. Not far behind that is recording my thoughts on various things in my life but, as I think I have stated before, my use of the word 'masturbatory' illudes to the fact that it is somewhat pleasurable (if only to me), so I will do it anyway. Besides, it is something I can do to keep my brain functioning long enough to watch that last 24 minutes of 'House' that Megavideo cuts you off of when you watch more than one episode.

Lately, I have been questioning my education. Not the general merits of it, but more my own investment in it. This isn't the first time I have wondered why I have always been so bent to have pretty upper-case letters follow my name. Usually, I am the one to call people out on this sort of thing and I have recently discovered that I hate hypocrisy beyond all else (including cockroaches, anything with limbs in multiples of 8, and the way Jello feels going down your esophagus), so... uh... self? What are we trying to prove?

I meet people every day who just decided to travel the world, something I have always wanted to do and something I had grown convinced was only possible if I achieved a good education. I meet people my own age, hell, people younger than me who have seen so much, who have made real mistakes and still recovered. I feel like I took the safe route... I went to uni, studied things that made me happy but will ultimately do me little to no good in the 'work place' and got to travel with the safety blanket of a masters program... built in friends, built in lifestyle, built in loan that I will never be able to pay back...

Now I am caught. Wanting to see the world, knowing that while Sallie Mae can find me anywhere, I can't pay Her back without a steady income and possibly *gasp* a grown-up job. I am twenty five with a masters degree and no real idea of what to do next except panic because the bills are about to start rolling in and I'm still struggling to pay off our council tax.

Maybe I never would have gotten here without my education. I might have been one of the many who never left Scappoose; preferring the familiar comfort of my small town to the possible failures of the outside world. So, the real merit of a university education for a creature of habit like me is to knock you on your ass a few times until you figure out how to cauterize your own wounds (while still having paramedics at hand so you aren't so afraid).

So I'm a slow learner. Now to play catch up...

Treading the Water...

Seriously, you would think I would learn.

How many times do I have to jump into the middle of an artistic ocean without a lifejacket before I realize just how terrible of an idea this is?

Then again, I read somewhere that sharks are more likely to attack a person floating with a life jacket than those wildly flailing about on their own...

meh.

sleep is for the weak.

Exactly

English Men

Actually, the fact that I am wanting to write about the damn things says it all.

Aw

This is my first full day home in Oregon. I visited Wal-Mart to purchase the new South Park set and while driving home some redneck in a truck passed me with its passenger doing the licking vag motion. I flipped him off. My little brother suggested that I follow him until he stops somewhere, get out and say 'so you would like to suck my pussy?' and kick him in the junk.

They grow up so fast.

Take Me Home... Country Roads?

I try not to just post diary pages here, and I swear this day-recap has a point at the end.

First, though, I need to bitch for a second.

The day started out fine. I didn't want to get out of bed because I knew I had a long day ahead, but, heyho, you live. Once out of bed, life was pretty smooth.

Until I left my flat. Isn't that always the case? I sometimes wish I could be a homebody. Nothing bad happens when I stay in bed. It is a happy place. (and, yes, you can take that however you want. and, yes, that is what she said. and, yes, I went there. It is 3 am)

Surprise, surprise, the tube was delayed. No big except for the freaky hairy fat man who had his armpit in my face for most of the ride between King's Cross and Heathrow. Lucky for me, I have very little sense of smell.

At check in, my bag was overweight. Bah. So, in front of everyone, open up suitcase and tear things out to stuff in my purse and laptop bag. Lesson learned: always pack your undies on the bottom of your suitcase.

Onward to security. Which I set off. And after the lady gave me a rather invasive pat down and still couldn't determine why I set off the thing, I was escorted to a little room where I was instructed to remove my clothing. How sweet of them, they didn't watch while I undressed. I think the lady just wanted a chance to see my boobs. I can't blame her, but I really would have happily just flashed her and saved myself the half an hour and humiliation of being strip searched.

Continuing to the gate, things look like they will be uneventful. 9 hours to Chicago then two hours of chill time then another 4 to PDX where my family waits to take me to my beloved Taco Bell.

Wait... what is this? Delay?? How long??? Oh, an hour. I can live with that.

Tick....Tick....Tick....

What do you mean it will be another hour? I have a connecting flight to get on! Well, I guess we will be okay if we don't take off for another hour. It will be tight, but there are worse things in the world than running through airports (like being strip searched, for instance).

Tick... Tick... Tick...

Well, there go my connecting flight hopes. Oh well, they have to pay for it. OH! They are going to let us board the plane!

Things seem to be fine at this point. I get to my seat, the lady sitting next to me is a cool high school English teacher who wants to talk about Frankenstein with me. Rad.

I watch Monsters vs. Aliens. I don't suggest it unless you are delirious. After that I watch a bit of Desperate Housewives (why do so many people watch that trash?) to pass the time before the next session of the abomination Watchmen is to start and the plane hits a little turbulence. Suddenly the captain interrupts my judgment.

We are turning around.

Something about an auxiliary power thingy and them not wanting to continue over the ocean without it.

So, we get back to London, which looks amazing at night from air, stuffed into busses and taken to a rather swank hotel where i am supposed to sleep and wait to find out what they are doing with us in the morning.

Right. Well, now that I have my growling at my day done - here is my 'point.'

All this time has allowed a little spark of thinking. Not much, cause I really don't have the brain power, but something that I might expand on later.

Maybe this is where I belong. I mean, I have always wanted somewhere I feel like I fit. And I think I do here. I love the country roads of home, but I miss Finchley Road more.

Our take off was set to Oasis 'Slide Away' and it was just so beautiful. The sun was setting over London and I just felt this torn feeling in my chest. I miss my family and my friends from home. I can't wait to get back to Oregon and hug my little brother, see mountains, eat Tillamook cheese, get tackled by my best friend... But my heart is here.

I have been stolen, Oregon. I hope you understand.

England 2009

I was informed last night that I had many "cute"  american traits.  Somehow, my strange nerd habits like collecting and posting my theatre tickets make me American.  The giant Oregon flag over my bed didn't phase my friends in the least, but tickets to shows I've seen since arriving does...

Still working on that one...

Last night was the last show in our festival of new work.  The show was about the current culture of England and the experience of the MAATP class of 2009.  We were broken into companies and given a place in England.  The next morning (9:30 when the Jubilee line was down.  I wanted to cry) we were given boxes with video, sound and photographs.    About 7 hours later, we performed.  The interesting thing about my group, the Dover company, was that we had no English people.  Oddly, our group seemed to be well received.

Is this England? Is this England? Is this England?

In other news, other than cutely American, apparently my friends think I am beautiful, creative, kind and a "great big lesbian."  When I stopped laughing, I asked why.  No one could give me an answer.  To be fair, they don't actually think I'm a lesbian, they just think I'm greedy.

Perhaps.

But, if the frustration with English men gets bad enough to turn me lesbian, I think I will just go home.

"The Savage Attack on April's Wall" by Jenn and Melissa

April Alexander, you are about to get double-posted!

Ring-a-ding-ding!

Ring-a-ding-ding!

April Alexander, you have just been double-posted!

THAT'S WHAT HE SAID!

Or maybe she said? A he can be double posted as well

With strap-ons?

We are in the theatre and literature worlds. Not porno you sicko.

Some of us want to go work in film. And we all know that porn is when you fail at getting into the movie business.

"Just don't get it in my eye!"

It burns us, it burns us!

*head turns a 360* and *spits pea soup*

*refuses to masturbate with a crucifix*

oh, dude, you are so missing out. let yourself be penetrated by the spirit of the lord

I will not be Jesus' mother!

No, you can't be because I cast Heidi and I think I'm done doing religious satire for, like, the rest of my life

Can I be the dinosaur that's being fed?

You would have to audition. Impress me. Astonish me!

RAWWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!

I liked the live version better. I'm sorry April, Jenn can't seem to express her inner T-Rex in text

It is very difficult to express facial expressions and stomping around in text.

It goes like this: *clears throat* RAAAAAAAAAAWR!!! *stomp stomp* GRRRRRRR >:O

There are not enough interesting keys on the keyboard to properly capture my amazing velociraptor impression that was perfected behind the scenes during Wild Oats.

Oh, I don't know. I have seen people with too much time on their hands do some pretty amazing things with slashes and whatever this is called: ~

That, my dear, would be called a tilde. And I may have looked that up on Wikipedia, but I'm not admitting to it.

brilliant! I was trying to google search that and failing

Always try Wikipedia first. And, I do what I can.

April can back me on the English school's hatred of Wikipedia. I can't tell you how many lectures we got. OMG the random function is AMAZING!!!

Seriously. I'm a little sad though. This is my last post on April's wall today. That makes me a sad panda.

Good game.

We were wrong! We need one more. And it's mine! This is like going into extra innings!

I Like Lions

The old lady next door gave me a pamphlet about her religion this morning. In her beliefs, all animals in heaven are cuddly and loving-even the lions.  

For a moment i was jealous.

I Won't Do What They Told Me

Went out last night.  Seemed like a good idea.  It is the first weekend of what is looking to be a horrificly busy term and this might be one of my only chances to get out to my favorite club in London and really party up.  

While drinking and sweating and singing at the top of my lungs I noticed something worth laughing at.  I couldn't have cared less about what the people around me thought of me.  I was jumping around like an idiot, pumping my fist in the air, cheering on Sheffield where appropriate, and even had a head-banging moment (see post title).  Between what we will loosely call dancing and the rockin' side poney-tail, I was in my happy place.  

The girls around me, however....

All they could do was swing their hips suggestively and watch the people around them.  It was pretty sad.  Here were were in a club playing music about being young and alive and all they can do is be afraid that no one would find them sexy.

What a fucking waste.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I like it when someone is deranged enough to find me attractive.  I am just not going to sacrifice my good time for it.  I like to think that my 'what you see is what you get' attitude will eventually lead me to someone who actually likes me.  If I just dressed up and dance all over my girlfriends, that would be false advertising.  I mean, I do that once and a while and there are pictures to prove it, but more likely is that I am in a tank-top and jeans, drunk and jumping around like a fool and I do both because they make me happy, not because I want to suggest to some stranger in a club that I am sexy.

Well, I had a great time last night.  Sorry to those who were too busy being sexy to enjoy themselves.

(ps - get over yourselves!)

Bloody Knackered Mate: An Update

In a drunken stupor last night I decided to try saying 'cheers' to the bartender when he handed me a beautifully poured french martini.  While this action caused my adrenaline to pump enough to make my ears burn, he just smiled and watched me turn to go back to my friends, completely unaware of the turmoil he had just witnessed. 

Oh yeah, personal barrier broken.  One step closer to not being an awkward yank.

In other news, I now happily drink beer, know the words to most Oasis songs and actually said 'reyt' in a conversation.  So, really, I'm not only loosing the awkward yank, I'm turning Northern.  

And I think I like it.

I Had to Start it Somewhere

So it started there...

Or here, rather:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSXWWrIxSB4

I have been listening to this song non-stop for months now.  Almost every day, I pick up my iPod and if it isn't the first thing I go to, it is in the mix I am listening to or eventually I start craving that strange whisper-singing that usually bothers the hell out of me.  I assumed that it was a combination of the great beat, the catchy hook and the amazing memories that I associate with it, but after I listened to it for the who-the-hell-knows time on my way home today something else hit me.

I get it.

I understand what she was looking for.  My parents aren't exactly 'loaded' but I have never had to worry about anything, so I've never really had something that was completely my own.  It always seemed like I got by based on who my family was.  Even if I fail miserably, my parents are able to pick up my pieces.

We in the upper-middle class wrongly, sickly even, romanticize the working class.  There is nothing great about wondering where your next meal is coming from, but at the same time, how fucking great to know that you are surviving on your own merit.  The strength of will that takes amazes me.  

I think of so many of the people I knew back home and everything they do is based on networking.  When I am at Waverly's, the posh golf course back home, all I see is falseness.  You have a hard time finding who your friends are because everything is based on social-politics (and when it isn't, you are paranoid as hell and often end up pushing them away with your neurosis).  You are always watched because heaven forbid you do something that would embarrass your family name.  You have a box that you are supposed to stay in and you better have a smile on your face while they fold it in on you.

When I moved here, I moved away from all of that.  I wanted what I saw the 'common people' with - a feeling of abandon, of liveness that only can come when you have nothing to loose.

I know I am just a tourist.  I always will be.  While I moved here to get away from the J-Crew crowd, I came here on a visa provided by a prestigious theatre school.  Talk about pretension.  

If things went completely wrong and the roaches were climbing the walls, I really could call my dad to stop it all.  Well, maybe not all of it, but he would certainly pay for the exterminator.  

I don't think they had it right.  I don't think poor is cool.  I think it must be hard, but rewarding and real.

How amazing to know that your daily actions actually count.  I just spent eleven hours working on a presentation about clowns.  I mean, I love what I do, but really?  What good am I doing?  Who the fuck cares?

Who am I kidding?  I care.  And worse is that I actually believe I can change things through theatre, for now starting with these clowns.

I am hopeless.  

Procrastination... Or Cool Bartonian Exercise?

You know when someone says something and you just have nothing to return with?  Or maybe you returned just fine, but you thought of something better later?  And you wish you could go back and say this one thing because somehow that would fix something?

In this class I took called Lyric Performance we had this exercise called something like "the spirit of the stairs," but it sounded cooler because it was in French.  The entire class was about being vulnerable onstage when portraying a character and somehow giving us a chance to reenact the moments where we had previously failed was going to open up some part of our desperate-for-attention little heads and make us really feel onstage.  Usually, I was totally happy to go with our teacher on his sometimes indulgently bazar exercises, but somehow, this one just rubbed me wrong.  I think I slacked it off and just made up a situation with my mother.  (Sorry Bob)

I have a point.  Not really, more that I would rather let my mind wander than do what I should be doing.

I was called a snake a few days ago.  Not in a really mean way, but a half serious joke made by a friend hinting at the condition of the female species.  While I generally agree with him (not about myself, thank you), I retorted that men were kittens.  It seemed that was game point.  Cool.

But I have something else to say.  Out of desire to procrastinate, I will try Bob's exercise.  And this is perfect because the original conversation was in text!

snakes, the lot of you

kittens the lot of you

Touche.

and besides - spinelessness being your problem and if i'm a snake, being nothing but a spine would be mine... sounds like we could help each other, yeah?

HEY-OH!  Game, Set, MATCH.  I feel so much better!  And there is even an added element of danger since this blog is connected to my facebook profile --- oooo, what if he finds out! 

I'm sure this is how bad pick up lines are created.  "Hey hot stuff, can I be your spine?"  Yeah, that is so hot, how do I keep 'em off me?  Good thing I left the conversation where it was.

Oh well, being indulgent is way more fun than trying to write a script.

Oh, Grow Up

Go with me on this one...

When someone tells you to 'grow up' it is most often a request for you to stop doing something.  With me so far?  For instance, when my mother finds me playing with the box of Lego I found in my closet she says 'grow up,' but what she means is 'stop embarrassing me in front of my imaginary jury panel.'  What is wrong with the joy of creating something?  Even if it is a mismatched color attempt at a truck or a really freakin awesome fortress (two walls makes it a fortress, not a castle), why should I not occupy my time building?  Oh, right, I will be 'normal' and go spend my afternoon in front of a television watching Friends.  

I take a more... I donno, awkward teen drama view of this 'growing up' thing.  

Don't stop playing with Legos.  You will get boring.

Growing up is not, or perhaps should not be, a process by which you systematically give up on things that you enjoy.  It is the slow and often agonizing process in which you experience things that alter your personality. It is as simple as when you figure out that wearing sandals to the 4th of July BBQ where there will be loads of open flames is not a good idea or as complex as when you are daft enough to apply to a prestigious drama school thousands of miles from home.  The sad part of this process is that it often tells you that to become normal you have to give up on things like hopes and dreams and fantasies and replace them with cold hard 'facts of life.'  You stop taking risks and even entertaining those daft ideas because now that you are all grown up, you know that risks sometimes carry consequences and you wouldn't want anything to shake your comfortable, albeit boring, life.

As we 'grow up' we build this wall of confidence and self-assurance around us.  I am more well-adjusted if my wall is higher than yours.  Within that wall are all the things we need to live a comfortable life.  A job that is well within my abilities where I get praise for my well-doings.  There is a decent house in a decent suburb with a dog.  I am a woman, so there should be a couple kids in there and a husband who my friends introduced me to and we 'just clicked.'  No need to risk anything by going outside the confidence wall.  The higher your wall is, the more convinced you are that you have it all and have no reason to want to see over the wall into the safety abandoned theme-park craziness that those of us who refuse to 'grow up' get to play in.

What is so wrong with scraping your knees a little?  Why can't adults climb a tree just for the sheer fun of it?  For the sense of kingship and accomplishment you get when you reach your goal?  Because 1.  we might fall and it would hurt and 2.  because someone might see us and judge us.

Pain and judgement.  Yeah, it is human to want to avoid those.  They suck.  Epically.

Except, you know that feeling when you shoot for something totally unreachable?  It is a feeling of exhilaration that cannot be matched by anything.  Well, maybe skydiving, but I haven't done that yet.  (Yet)  And then how much more do you appreciate it if you even graze the handhold of your goal?  

I have fallen on my face a lot.  Especially recently.  But that is okay.  Why not fail?  Why should I give up on my dreams, 'grow up' as they say, and move back to Oregon, get back with my ex, get married and become the good little lawyer's wife that everyone seems to expect me to be?  I shouldn't.  I should be where I am right now, sitting on my bed, single and typing to millions of people who will never read this, nor should even care.  But I am happy.  Happier than I have ever been in my life.  Because I jumped.  I didn't exactly land on my feet, but I would rather have a sprained ankle in Disneyland than perfect health in a box.  

I'm not growing up any time soon.  In fact, there is a tree right outside my flat block aching to be climbed.

I'm Bloody Knackered Mate

When will it be okay for me to use Brit slang?

I have noticed that us yankees have picked up certain words... twat, I think, has become a favorite.  Things like "mate," or "cheers" seem almost taboo for us.  We will say them to each other, but not in front of a Brit.  

What are we so afraid of?

The Silent List

there is a list I keep

that means nothing to you

although you may judge me on it

the names you have not heard 

are carved in the notches on my soul’s bedpost (pretentious, but it stands)

these names brought me a little joy

or better yet a lot of pain

all gave me the most amazing gift one person can give another

something to learn. (cheesy, but I believe it)

maybe sometimes I need to learn the same one a few times

but,

try to think of sexual relationships like math problems

complex, frightening, tons of little signs you aren’t quite sure about…

how many times did you have to attempt for x?

math I get, but being completely attached and satisfied in love?

I will figure it out.  (eventually)

Hello Cyberland

It is me again.  Remember?  

I used to bother you all the time with my problems and concerns because I found it easier to talk to you than to talk to live people or ignore the problem.  I suppose you are that middle ground.  

You are a sort of narcissists diary.  

I spill my guts in the dark of the night, never wanting my mother to find out, but with the secret hope that someone will read and understand or think I am cool, mainly because I understand and think I am cool but still need someone to reaffirm my belief.  

Like leaving my journal open on a table at Starbucks and watching people who read it's reaction from across the lobby.

Why am I always more honest with you, my dear Cyberland?  It isn't that you don't talk back -- you do, and in fact, I want you to.  I don't understand why, but your little notes left under the names of people I often don't know or haven't actually seen in years, warm my heart.

Perhaps, at four am, in a person's brain that is constantly keeping things to itself, there needs to be some relief.  

Thank you for being the blood thinners to my constantly thought pulsing brain.  And thank you for being worldwide, so that at least you have not changed since we last met in the little computer alcove in Scappoose when I was 19.  

Perhaps our reuniting proves that I haven't either.