How to have a truly melancholy day

1. Stay inside.

2. Watch Lost in Translation in your underwears.

3. Stare out the window for an hour. 

4. Listen to Dustin O’Halloran film scores. 

5. Fall asleep at 5 p.m. listening to the hail pelting your roof.  

Musings from the side of the road

I went for a walk last night in search of some relief from my dull couch-potato existence.

I head north, earphones in, filling my head with tunes to transport me to the Austen era (and to drown out the noise of gas guzzling trucks passing feet from me on the road).

It’s hard to be truly solitary, even out here. The constant stream of cars somewhat disenchants me.

So I pretend I’m a hitch-hiker, filthy, smelling of sweat, dirt, filled with courage.  

I see a pen of horses across the street. The setting sun is throwing a buttery cast on this portion of the world and setting it a-glow. My fingers twitch towards the camera I have slung over my shoulder. I hesitate, wanting to reach my destination ASAP. But I remember how I’m saying “yes” now and tear across the street, taking the camera out of its bag as I go. I try for the perfect picture, one that will adequately capture the scene and atmosphere, one that could be sold as a stock image and displayed on the walls of cheap hotels all across the country. But alas, no matter how many times I meter and re-meter and twist the lens, every photo comes out looking forced, mediocre, and boring. I sigh and give it up as a lost cause.

I remember that the lake is just past the blinking yellow light. The light is visible, but it doesn't seem to be getting any closer. I think about Jay Gatsby as I trudge on. Then I become semi-paranoid about ticks in the sagebrush and take notice of the trash and wine bottles strewing my path, wondering how they all got there and considering coming back another day and picking it all up myself.

I finally pass the light, but I don’t see the entrance to the lake and its getting dark now. I know mom will be hounding me soon, so I cast a forlorn look at the road ahead and quickly do an about face.

As I walk back, I come across a series of things that I imagine are artifacts from my past.

Bret’s cattails.

An empty Magnum Bar box that had found its way here all the way from Florence.

A horseshoe.

I pick up the horseshoe and take it with me, a token.

Perhaps it will bring me luck.

Sorry, Mr. Barrie.

I haven't written anything for months. Not even a grocery list. But tonight, this story popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down. I guess you could call it fan-fiction...but for some reason the words "fan-fiction" give me the heebie-geebies. They bring to mind asthma-ridden 40 year old men wearing argyle socks with sandals that live in their mother's basements and spend their days in front of the computer, playing World of Warcraft and typing up fantasies about themselves stepping through their screens and entering the world of World of Warcraft. Anyway: this, essentially, is a vignette from Peter Pan's life after the book has ended: the lost boys have left with Wendy, the Pirates are all gone, and Tinkerbell is dead. 

I'm a hypocrite, I know, as I have the compulsive habit of setting Peter Pan-knockoff-books on fire and feeding the ashes to whales so that they'll take them down down down to the depths of the sea, never to be seen again...but oh well.
Here goes. 

A great crowing rent the air as the rusty scabbard went "thunk!" into the heart of the tree. Peter wrenched it out again and stood back to look at his handiwork. Hundreds of notches from the scabbard peppered the bark.
Peter frowned up at the tree. "Fight back!"

He waited a moment for the tree to retaliate. The tree did nothing. Peter stamped his foot. "Fight back, you coward!" Again, the tree did nothing. Peter breathed heavily for a moment. Then the boy flung himself at the trunk and pummeled every inch of the bark that he could reach.

"WHY WON'T YOU FIGHT ME?!" he yelled over and over, delivering punch after punch after punch to his indifferent foe until his fingers were scraped and bleeding and his voice was hoarse. He ran back a few paces and dropped to his knees to rub his sticky scarlet hands in the mud before taking a running leap towards the tree, trying to grab onto the branches and tear them down.

He fell face first onto the wet ground and did not bother getting up again. Hot tears filled his eyes and he let them fall. Silent sobs shook him.
And then...

"Boy! Why are you crying?"

With a gasp, Peter lurched to his feet, whipped around and cried out "Who's there?"

There was no answer. He cocked his head to the side, listening, before he took off into the trees, running as fast as he was able, his eyes wide and moving furtively, his dirty hands outstretched. He knew he'd heard those words before, but he couldn't remember where. He had to find them. He chased the words.

After a time, his pace slowed and his arms fell. Then he stopped altogether.

He was alone.

"Converting all your sounds of woe into hey nonny nonny." -Much Ado About Nothing

Today, I HURRRT.

The entire day I felt like I had a great big furry rabid raccoon inside my stomach, and the only way to keep the raccoon from escaping and tearing innocent bystanders to pieces, I had to trap it inside me by gritting my teeth tight and allowing it to tear me to pieces from the inside out.

And it HURRRRT.

***

Alright. I'll give it to you straight. I didn't get the part I wanted in a play I auditioned for. "Much Ado About Nothing".

...yeah. I know what you're thinking...

"Are you KIDDING me?! What the heck is wrong with you?! I thought your mother had died or something! Yeesh! You no good, melodramatic little bleeder!"

I know. I know. It sounds silly to me, too. I mean, there are so many worse things that could happen to a person. That are happening to people. And I choose to get pouty over a play while there are millions of people walking around without shoes or food...

But...this still SUCKS.

I love Shakespeare. My love of soccer came and went, my passion for ballet flickered and died, my dream of becoming a world famous bagpipe playing-unicyclist-underwater basket weaver lost it's appeal, but Shakespeare...oh, baby. That boy is here to stay.

A few years ago I saw my first Shakespeare play. Macbeth. I intended to go, sit in my chair, promptly fall asleep, wake up to clap at curtain call, then go home and sleep some more.

I was in for one helluva night.

Never before had I been so shaken by a play. By the time it was finished, my whole body was pulsing with electricity. That night, I laid in my bed for hours, looking into the darkness and wondering "what the crap is happening to me?!" The madness, the injustice, the pain, the grief, the honesty, and the beauty of all that had been portrayed came together to...oh, I don't know. Reshape my soul or something. I couldn't believe the effect that a PLAY was having on me. But I knew it was good. And I knew that if theatre were ever to have a place in my life, it would be to do for others what Macbeth had done for me. I wanted to show people something real and make them feel alive and change them.

Shakespeare had given me a buzz, and I wanted more.

And so the frenzy began. Romeo and Juliet, Twelfth Night, Much Ado, The Merchant of Venice, a Midsummer Night's Dream, Hamlet, etc...all these stories had that same magic, and the more I read, the more I wanted to do it, to be in a Shakespeare play.

So you can imagine my delight when my drama director announced he would be putting on a Shakespeare play this year.

Long story short, I let another play in before Shakespeare. One of my favorites. Harvey. I played Veta. It was wonderful. I auditioned for Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice. My audition rocked. I got a callback. My callback rocked.

I didn't get a part.

I suspected I would not get Beatrice. I knew I could cope with that. I had not suspected that I would get nothing. I simply loved Shakespeare too much. Laura ending up with nothing was unthinkable. Incomprehensible! Heresy!

But it happened.

So, yes. It sucks.

But if I really love Shakespeare as much as I say I do, am I really going to let this be the end?

Really?

I'm not going to be bitter. I'm going to be envious for a while yet, and I'm sure there is going to be some more pain...

But I WILL not be bitter.
For Will.

Fin.

"Let's take a look. A book look." -Strong Bad

(Picture courtesy of Pinterest. Oh, Pinterest.)

For the past 3 months, I feel like I haven't done any reading for myself, not really. I mean, Lord of the Rings was marvelous, My Antonia was rather beautiful, and Harvey was fun to read over and over...

and over...

...and over...

...and...

ooo-vvv-eee-rrrrrrrrrrr...

But I decided I needed a break from reading the required stuff and just the required stuff. I decided to celebrate "Read A Couple Of Hype-ey Books And Just Hope They Don't Completely Suck" week with The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern and The Fault in Our Stars by John Green.

And I am pleased to say that I was pleasantly surprised.

I mean, for one thing, the John Green book was autographed by John Green.



I seriously considered stealing the book and giving it to Sister-in-Law-Liz for keeps. Maybe I ought to. Hmm...all I'd have to do is buy another copy of the book, switch out the covers, peel off and relocate all the stickers, duplicate the signature...

Holy crap. It's totally doable.

Anyway, felon-ous contemplations aside...these books really didn't suck. They took me two days a piece to finish, each a lovely, easy breezy read. Both were pretty well written (The Fault in Our Stars is so clever. John Green writes some of the wittiest dialogue I've ever read) and were darn good stories. I realize they are far from perfect. I had several issues with The Night Circus (mostly with the romance aspect. 'Twas much too fluffy. It practically ruined the whole book for me. However, the parts that weren't nasty love bits were so magical and fantastic that I could forgive and forget and keep reading). The real appeal was how easy it was to get completely sucked into these little worlds. I didn't have to think hard to understand what I was reading. Hours would pass without my notice. The escapes were absolutely mindless.

Sometimes it's good to be without your mind for a bit.

Oooh. How Proverbal.

Dam.

Angsty rant alert.

I think that I am overthinking this.

Part of the reason why I’m stuck is because I keep saying it to myself, over and over and over. “I am stuck, I don’t feel real, I am lost.” And instead of trying to fix it, I feel helpless and sad.

This has got to stop, obviously. But how?

I wish I could go somewhere for a while. Just me. I wish I could drop everything and hole up in a cottage in the Lake District with nothing but books and some vinyls and a stocked pantry of food. I’d go for walks and write and maybe paint things…and somehow figure myself out. And learn to be a pleasant person. But no. I’ve got to finish Harvey and school and everything and learn to be pleasant here and now. In Icetown.

Bleh. Fire and brimstone.

Hmph. Maybe I should really curse. Out loud. Loud and long and clear. Ala Hugh Laurie. Would that make me feel better?

...Maybe. It's worth a try.

Damn. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn. Damn.

Well, look at that. A dam of damns. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I'm dammed up. There's just too much going on inside of me and it is building and building and building and the pressure is becoming too much and soon I'll explode in a big nasty mess all over everybody.

But maybe, just maybe...an explosion would be a good thing. It would mean I could rebuild. Start from scratch. Like a blank piece of paper, "fresh with no mistakes in it" as Anne Shirley would say.

But...how?

Dammit.

Lady, this isn't what it looks like...

*Ahem.*

Today, my body said "Hey! It's getting too quiet around here. I'm gonna feel like crap for no reason at all! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!!" My stomach was doing a conga dance, my head had a wind-up-cymbal monkey inside, and my eyes had balloons inflating behind them. I tried to brave this all the way through church, until finally I could bear it no longer. I hunted down my mother, got on my knees, and begged her to take me home. "I can't, I'm sorry," she said. I hung my head in agony. "Here, take this to the kitchen and get a glass of water." She reached inside her purse, pulled out a Tangerine Emergen-c packet, and thrust it under my nose. I balked and gagged (Emergen-c=The Devil's Juice. It is akin to drinking a combination of club soda and perfume. Except worse). She bribed me with a Werther's Original. I went to the kitchen, Emergen-C packet in hand. Once there, I raided all the cupboards and could find nothing but some tupperware and a bottle of whipped cream (expired, gosh dang it). I took out the smallest tupperware I could find, filled up my cup, and poured the packet in. The water quickly yellowed and fizzed ominously. My nose wrinkled in disgust. It looked like...well...how can I say this politely...urine. I closed my eyes and said "Werther's Original, Werther's Original" like a mantra before taking a big 'ol swig. I'll spare you the gagging and heaving that followed...sufice it to say, it was not my cup of tea. I kept sipping away, praying for the end, when a woman walked in the kitchen door. She looked at me, then at the tupperware of yellow fluid in my hand. Her mouth opened slightly. I looked from her face to the tupperware. "Oh. Oh, no." I thought. But I didn't try to explain. I simply said "Uh...Hello!" and continued to sip the conspicuous beverage. The woman looked away, grabbed a pitcher, and filled it up at the sink, avoiding my eye. She shuffled out as quickly as she could once the pitcher was full, almost forgetting to shut off the water. I watched her go, still not saying a thing. I polished off as much of the drink as I could muster before returning to Mother and reciving my much deserved Werther's.

That poor woman...she'll think of me every time she passes a kitchen. Or a bathroom.

Moral of the story: Things are not always what they seem.

Or

Don't ever drink Tangerine Emergen-c where anyone can see you. Ever. Better yet, don't drink it at all.