"Dance instead."

I really like watching scenes that take place at balls in period dramas.

Well, really, I just like to watch the dances. The clothes are nice. The goings-on are interesting. But the dancing--that's what really gets me.

It's so different now from what it was then. Now, going out "dancing" is basically an excuse to move suggestively and rub up against strangers. It's so sexual--so intimate--in a public sphere. I understand that there's a certain appeal to just letting yourself go, especially when it's dark--it's easy to feel like there's no one else around. In Funny Face, Audrey Hepburn is in a dark sort of beatnik cafe in Paris, dressed moodily in all black with a little flip of a pony tail, and she tells Fred Astaire, "I rather feel like expressing myself now, and I could certainly use the release!" She then proceeds to dance solo in a wild expression of pent-up emotion for about five minutes straight. It's beautiful.

When it's done tastefully, dancing is such a gorgeous form of expression. Passion and grace and taste, especially when set to song, make for something sublimely beautiful. It can be so otherworldy, so ethereal. That's one of the main reasons I enjoy musicals, both on stage and in film--that combination of mediums make for something so powerful. Though, even when dancing's not tasteful, there's something to be said for the raw, primal emotion being expressed. But I think it's even lovelier when that emotion is expressed through restraint. And period dramas that have dancing scenes that totally do that. Haha.

James McAvoy and Anne Hathaway in Becoming Jane are my favorite. They fairly exude sexual tension through sideways glances and light touches through gloved fingers. Keira Knightley and Matthew McFayden are full of resentment and intrigue in Pride and Prejudice. And Jeremy Northam and Gwyneth Paltrow show this unrealized desire for each other in Emma--he knows he wants her and thinks she doesn't want him, and she doesn't know what she wants.

It's pretty masterfully done in all three films--the music helps, and the context, but a lot of it comes purely from the way the actors gracefully and dramatically move toward and away from each other, the way they steal glimpses at each other as they turn, the way they gently clasp each other's fingers. It's subtle, but so effective.

I'm with Philip Seymour Hoffman. I like subtlety.

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Now playing: The Decemberists - The Rake's Song

"Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal."

T. S. Eliot was pretty awesome. If for no other reason than for having written my favorite poem ever, and for having said that. That said, I stole this quote from a friend's profile the other day:

"Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversation, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery--celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Goddard said: 'It's not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.'"

- Jim Jarmusch

I like that. First of all, because I happen to enjoy devouring everything he mentions--including the random conversation, bridges, architecture (cathedrals!), bodies of water, and light and shadows. Light is my favorite part of photography. And I love it when I find other people who "devour" everything he mentions too. They pursue what makes them curious, what interests them, what they question. Secondly, the demand for "original" work is intimidating and doesn't so much inspire me as nurture feelings of inadequacy. Third, it reminded me of David Lynch and how he says you need clarity to create.

I was reading an article today on a New York Times Online blog called "Proof." One contributory, a novelist named Brian McDonald, wrote a post entitled "Under the Literary Influence," about how he used to be addicted to booze-addled authors: Raymond Chandler, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Eugene O'Neill. McDonald loved reading their works and reading about their lives. To him, there something romantic about seeing Hunter S. Thompson catching fire when downing flaming shots of Bacardi 151, that made him see "a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers … and a pint of raw ether" instead.

Now, I like a lot of these writers. I love Fitzgerald's lyricism, Chandler's tone and distinct dime-novel style, Kerouac's poetry, O'Neill's tragedy. I've read a little Bukowski, which I thought was alright, though outrageous, and I tried to get through A Farewell to Arms but I just couldn't do it. I respect that these guys wrote some great stuff, and I understand that a lot of it wouldn't exist without all the drugs and alcohol they took. At the same time, I wouldn't be able to do that myself.

I guess it's my stubborn pride (me? proud?), but I wouldn't be okay with taking responsibility for something born of a substance-induced inspiration. I think I mentioned this in my "Clarity" post too. It'd feel wrong--it wouldn't feel authentic, to me. I'm finding more and more that I'm not very adept at expressing myself in any medium. I have problems when I try talking to people, and I feel like I'm not a particularly sophisticated or notable writer. Screenwriting is showing me that it's not a great medium for me, and I'm beyond awful with poetry. I can't paint or draw and I just can't seem to grasp the technical aspects of photography. But what stuff I do write and plot and paint and photograph is mine. I can take a little pride in that it's authentic, it's real, and it belongs to me--it's my own expression, my own view, my composition. It doesn't belong to an altered state of mind--to the alcohol I drank or the drugs I took or any other crutch.

At the same time, that strikes me as extremely self-righteous and silly. If I feel like I would have to give credit to psychotropic substances, then wouldn't I feel like I owe credit to all sources of inspiration--everything from which I steal? "Old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversation, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows." Wouldn't my work belong to all of that, to everything that contributed to it? In that sense, I enjoy the idea that something created is the sum of everything that inspired it, and that it wouldn't be what it is without one of those parts. "J. Alfred Prufrock" wouldn't be the same without the opening from Inferno or the allusions to Lazarus, Michelangelo, or Hamlet. The Great Gatsby wouldn't be what it is were Fitzgerald not so influenced by the old Roman story of Tremalchio. Again, though, to me, interpretation and reinterpretation are creation, and to steal from all over and use those thefts to assemble something else is, in a way, creation, too.

Plus, that's just the way that I feel about it. I don't have a problem with other people writing through hazes--clearly, since I love Fitzgerald and Kerouac--it's just a personal thing. I've gotten pretty decent at not judging others by my own standards for myself--most of the time.

...

I had more to say but I'm sticking it in a separate post because this one is already absurdly long and incoherent and lacks any semblance of unity whatsoever. It's just all been on my mind and I had to get it out before I forgot. This just took over two hours. Yikes. Way past sleep time now.

Edit 2/22/09: I split it up. This was just too damn long.

"To me, a voice without soul is not a voice worth listening to...

...I don't want to waste my time just listening to technique or gorgeous high notes. It's all great if it's there, but if it doesn't have a raw, soulful emotion behind it, it just isn't worth it."
- Matt Doyle

There are a few things that you need to know in order to understand me at all. One is that I believe in a lot of things that are difficult to verbalize because they're very ambiguous--I'm not big on absolutes. Another is that, like any remotely complex person, I'm full of contradictions. Another is that I'm very intuitive in nature--I know how I feel and what I think, but I don't always have good explanations for these feelings and thoughts. Writing is frequently how I search to express what I mean. Thank god for the backspace key. Me in a nutshell is pretty much any INFJ description you find.

Because of my ambiguity and dislike of extremes, I find myself feeling torn about a lot of things. One of these things is art. Many of my friends are intellectual and artistic snobs, in the least offensive way possible. They have higher standards for "art" than many, and don't throw the term around lightly. I'm pretty sure they'd look at a lot of modern art and wonder why it's art.

I do that too, sometimes. I think there are many works that I would concede have artistic qualities but are, on the whole, not art. And really, why is Jackson Pollock considered brilliant? I'm sure Wikipedia would tell me, but I don't think I care. What I do care about is Andy Warhol's belief that art is for everyone.

I can't decide to what extent I agree with him. On the one hand, I do believe that something need not be "high art" for a person to enjoy and appreciate it, and I don't believe that a person has to recognize that something is art or understand why they like it in order to appreciate it. I also understand that something can be technically bad, but still evoke reactions from some that high art would evoke from others. I can appreciate Warhol's notion of "corporate art" and why Pop Art is important. On the other hand, though, so much enters the mainstream that just isn't good. I just read a post on Entertainment Weekly's PopWatch blog entitled, "Lil Wayne's 'Prom Queen': Make it go away!" that has the tag, "Ouch! That was my ear!" I haven't heard it and I really don't want to, but it's the 9th most downloaded song on iTunes right now, which angers me.

I indulge in my fair share of music that is varying degrees of cheesy and dubious in quality. I'll admit it: I listen to Fall Out Boy. Yep. And when the mood hits, I listen to old-school Celine Dion. (But NOT "My Heart Will Go On.") So what? I'll be the first to admit that I don't have the ear for music that I deeply wish I had. I don't have the understanding of the theory aspects of music, I have no rhythm, and my attempts at piano and cello were technical failures when I was younger, even if my parents and teachers thought otherwise. I don't have a sophisticated ear, and I occasionally enjoy unoriginal sequences of power chords and over-processed, unexceptional voices. Or, I excuse those if I react to the sappy or silly lyrics. I'm okay with that. That used to embarrass me, but now I don't really care. I like what I like and that's that. This is an even sillier reference than my Devil Wears Prada one, but it fits--that chick flick Music & Lyrics. The musician defends himself to the doubtful lyricist, claiming that a three and a half minute pop song can do more to cheer up a person than any novel or film can do in three and a half minutes. I suppose he's right.

At the same time, though, I completely agree with the quote I opened with. "Fun" music is great. I like to sing it at the top of my lungs in the car on my way to and from school. Sometimes I'll even dance to it alone in my room. But at the same time, any music with soul is so much better. And by "soul," I mean passion--I love hearing a song and feeling instinctively that it was a product of passion, something that the singer and writer really believes in. I love Tapestry because I feel like Carole King really feels every word she sings. I love Chris Ayer because I feel like he believes in everything he writes. And The Cure's "Pictures of You" gets me every time.

There's a Pericles quote that I really like: "All things good should flow into the boulevard." They should. But of course, they don't. Not always. If we're going to go Warhol, "You don't decide what's good." And in our world you can't really dismiss the "bad", anyway--it still has a significant impact on the mainstream audience, which is huge. The good stuff's there, though. You just have to find it.

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Now playing: The Airborne Toxic Event - Sometime Around Midnight

Sometimes when I see a great movie or a great play I think, Being human means you’re really alone...

...So many things I’m interested in come down to the subject of regret. That’s Capote alone on the plane at the end of ‘Capote,’ the priest and the nun in “Doubt” who make judgments they may wish they hadn’t and Clint Eastwood [in Gran Torino]. I try to live my life in such a way that I don’t have profound regrets. That’s probably why I work so much. I don’t want to feel I missed something important...

I still get wide-eyed... It’s true that I’ve made a lot of movies, and I know there’s a microphone over there and a camera back there, but when you see something great, you lose all that. I’m sitting forward, and I’m being moved, and I have no idea how he did it. I don’t know Clint Eastwood, but what’s amazing is that you have the sense that he’s doing exactly what he wants to be doing. He’s so committed. In this film, he keeps the action going, and the people don’t ever behave against their true nature. That’s what I look for in my work: when a writer can deftly describe the human experience in a way that you didn’t think could even be put into words. That doesn’t happen often, but it gives me something to play inside. Too much of the time our culture fears subtlety. They really want to make sure you get it. And when subtlety is lost, I get upset...

I heard that Eastwood is saying that this will be his last film as an actor... There’s part of me that feels that way during almost every movie. On ‘Synecdoche,’ I paid a price. I went to the office and punched my card in, and I thought about a lot of things, and some of them involved losing myself. You try to be artful for the film, but it’s hard. I’d finish a scene, walk right off the set, go in the bathroom, close the door and just take some breaths to regain my composure. In the end, I’m grateful to feel something so deeply, and I’m also grateful that it’s over... [smiling] And that’s my life.

-- Philip Seymour Hoffman

I want that life.

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Now playing: Simon and Garfunkel - The Only Living Boy in New York

One of the more upsetting things about New York...

Excerpt from an interview with Raul Esparza, one of my other latest favorite Broadway actors. Saw him last February in The Homecoming, which was extremely weird (and speaking of which, Harold Pinter died the other day...), but he was brilliant in Speed-the-Plow, and a real scene stealer, which says a lot--he was up against two popular TV stars, Jeremy Piven and Elisabeth Moss.

You've been so prolific in the past six years in New York. Have you come across any stumbling blocks in getting the parts you want to play?
I've been really, really blessed. And I've been able to do projects that I've been excited about. The biggest thing that I worry about is the lack of new writing and the ability to create new work. I haven't had a lot of opportunities to do that. We seem to be in a time where there are so many rules, or where shows are trying to make music that is really great—I mean who doesn't love Abba?—serve a story. But then you're not really dealing with acting; it's sort of a wink and a nod, and everybody's having a great time going, "Isn't this funny that we're trying to make these songs dramatic?" That trend in New York does worry me: "Let's go with properties that we already know." It's not giving writers a chance to have a voice and make mistakes.

Yeah, for musical theater fans, it's a little scary.
I think it is. I'm sure the pendulum will swing back. It's just so expensive, I can understand why producers are afraid to take chances. If you think about it coldly, I think that Sondheim would have a tough time starting his career now. You know? Who's going to take a chance on a musical about lunatics like Anyone Can Whistle? People would be like, "Are you crazy? No. We're going to adapt Mr. and Mrs. Smith.'"

Love him. This is from back around 2006, 2007 when he was in Company, which was supposed to be great, though I've heard firsthand that it was pretty dull. The following question after this was if he'd seen Spring Awakening yet. Haha. He did and said he liked it. Really though, it's so rare now that something new and original dramatic pieces come out, and it's scary. It's scary that no one's taking chances, though understandable, and it's a huge threat to Broadway, and even off-Broadway. Especially for people my age looking for futures in it. Thanks to Andy Warhol and Marc Jacobs, I can accept that popularity is not necessarily a bad thing, and it isn't always terrible that art and commerce are so permanently linked, but it is still stifling. There are voices to be heard that are getting lost in the shuffle, I think, because no one thinks anyone wants to hear them.

Though, the LAByrinth Theater Company in New York is always supporting and producing new plays. It's the pet project of John Ortiz and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who was featured in a great article by the New York Times recently.

While movies typically require an elaborate and expensive mechanism, plays can be relatively simple to produce. Every year, LAB has a two-week “summer intensive” workshop during which 35 to 40 plays are rehearsed and read. Company members — there are about 100 — offer their critiques and the artistic directors then select the 10 or 15 plays they would like to see go to the next step. “Most of us liked ‘Philip Roth in Khartoum,’ ” Hoffman said. “Some of the women had problems with it, but I asked my mother to come to a reading, and she thought the female characters rang true.” Hoffman lit another cigarette. “People only want to invest in a play that they think will do well. They are not interested in risky theater. But even more traditional theater is pure risk, which is what I love about it. You roll the dice for the thrill of rolling the dice.”

LAB is the company that produced a number of Stephen Adly Guirgis's plays, including one of my favorite plays ever, The Last Days of Judas Iscariot. I wish I'd gotten the opportunity to see it performed. It's this amazing dissection of the actions of Judas against Jesus, and it shows his trial in limbo. The NYT article mentions him--Stephen Adly Guirgis’s play, “Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train,” directed by Hoffman in 2000, cemented LAB’s reputation as a theater company committed to significant new voices. “I used to think I was Catholic until I met Stephen,” Hoffman joked. “But I am not Catholic the way he is. He is tortured and haunted by that religion, and you see it in his work.” I've read Jesus Hopped the A Train and two of Guirgis's other plays, Our Lady of 121st Street and In Arabia, We'd All Be Kings. They were all good, but not as good as Judas Iscariot. I'd wanted to see his latest, The Little Flower of East Orange, when it was playing last spring, but I didn't get a chance to.

These men are fierce. There's no other way to describe them. They write, act, direct with incredible intensity. Bennett Miller, who directed PSH in Capote, first met him at a theater camp in Saratoga over twenty years ago, and said that everyone liked him because he was serious about acting.

Haha, it's funny...this Times article...I think I mentioned that theater is my first love and you never get over your first love:

...It is easy to forget that Hoffman is a major movie star with an Oscar on his mantel. He appears not to have a trace of ego. “That’s why I wrote the character of the saintly nurse Phil Parma in ‘Magnolia’ for Phil,” said Paul Thomas Anderson. “Phil is that good — he’s committed to art and not in a phony, grandstanding way. He really wants to live a life in the arts that means something.” There are few other Academy Award-winning actors who have devoted themselves to the full-time running of a theater company. “It sounds noble, but it’s really not,” Hoffman said. “I do this because it gives me a home, a place where I can come and work. The movies are great, but they require a different kind of concentration, and then they’re over. Theater was my first love, and it’s been the biggest influence on my life. The theater is why I got into acting and why I’m still in acting...I’m happy here,” he said, sounding surprised at his glee. “You never forget your first love.”

I used to be on the fence about how I felt about PSH--I still haven't seen Capote, but I think I slightly resented him for beating Heath Ledger for the Oscar in 2006--but ever since Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, I've been warming up to him. Now I'm definitely a fan...

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Now playing: Gin Blossoms - Hey Jealousy

Equus and yet more theater musings.

Yep, got stage seating for the day before Spring Awakening closes. I couldn't help it. I got the email as I was sitting at my desk about to do some work, and so I got first pick over the seats. The timing was perfect. I couldn't pass it up. So worth it. I'm so excited.

I went to see Equus yesterday. Well, the day before, now. I wasn't sure what to expect, but it was truly excellent. Weird, but excellent. I was deeply disappointed that the theater was half empty. Granted, it was a matinee the day after Christmas, and it was a pretty dark, eerie play. But still. It must be so demoralizing to perform for such a weak crowd.

I picked up the play today when I was at the library; I want to look it over again. I dozed off during a slower part in the first act, and either way, it was a little confusing: the set was extremely bare, and there were several parts that were supposed to be flashbacks, so it wasn't the easiest to follow. Plus, Richard Griffiths's character, Dr. Martin Dysert, went off on a lot of long asides to the audience, which was kind of obnoxious. But of course, he was brilliant, so it didn't matter.

The story is, Dysert is a child psychologist in a hospital in England. The magistrate frequently sends hims headcases who are sentenced to psych treatment instead of prison. He's dissatisfied with his life--he's been working there for 9 years, helping kids isn't fulfilling him, and his marriage stalled a long time ago. At the beginning of the show, the magistrate comes to him believing he's the only one who can help her latest case, who she just managed to get off of the jail charges--Alan Strang, who has blinded six horses with a spike.

At first, Alan refuses to speak, and responds only with jingles from commercials. Dysert slowly manipulates him into speaking, and it both fascinated and terrified by the boy, who was raised by an atheistic father and deeply religious mother, and has somewhat transferred his worship of Jesus to a horse figure, Equus. He works during the week in an appliance shop, but through a girl named Katie, he has gotten a job at a nearby stable on the weekends. Horses have always fascinated him, and he loves working with them, but he refuses to ride them. Instead, once every three weeks, he sneaks into the stable and takes out one in particular--Nugget--and rides nude through the fields, screaming his passion. Dysert is torn between pity and sympathy: while he recognizes that Alan is miserable, he envies the passion, the worship he feels, that is absent from his life. He also realizes that if he "cures" the boy, it is quite likely that the boy will fall into an inescapable numbness. He points out to the magistrate: the boy is ardently worshipful, full of spirit and a vivid (though, yes, agonizing) liveliness, yet he's the one who's "insane"?

In the end, Dysert gives Alan a placebo, getting him to tell the full story at last. The boy tells how he found himself attracted to Katie, and though he tried to and wanted to make love to her, he couldn't, when she took him to the stable, because all he felt was horseflesh. All he could feel, see, smell, was horse, and he could do nothing because Equus was watching him. Dysert makes empty promises to the boy, swearing that he will make the nightmares end and help him, knowing that he can't deliver. The play closes with Dysert covering Alan with a blanket and letting him sleep.

I had had my doubts about seeing Daniel Radcliffe as Alan. I know there had been a lot of talk about "Harry Potter" being naked on stage, but honestly? After the first few minutes, I forgot it was him. He was quite good--very intense, and clearly dedicated to the role. Alan must be such a draining character to play eight times a week, and twice on Wednesdays and Sundays. So emotionally taxing. And uncomfortable. I think I'd be very uncomfortable, becoming Alan Strang eight times a week for six months. It was uncomfortable enough, watching him. And the horses! They were played by people wearing creepy giant wire head-pieces, and horseshoe-shaped, elevated foot-pieces--they weren't really shoes as much as platforms. Their six stalls were the major set pieces, along with a square platform with four rectangular blocks and a circular brick walkway on it. The lighting was dim, and served to create a lot of the setting--rearranging the blocks and changing the lighting signified a different or multiple scene and time. It was definitely one of the most interesting pieces of ever seen, and even though it was extremely strange, creepy, and unsettling, it was satisfying.

That sounds odd, but it's true. I enjoyed the second act more, particularly Dysert's musings to himself and to the magistrate about which was better: his own responsible, satisfactory life in which he "helped" children, or Alan's life--tortured and painful, but passionate and emotional. I completely sympathize with him. The magistrate argued with him, that there's more than one way to feel passion, and Alan's way lacks maturity and also is extremely difficult--like the way Nick Ray "refused to mature if that meant feeling less." Dysert wishes he hadn't done that, in a way. The magistrate's is the Bridge of San Luis Rey argument--the "passion" exhibited by Alan is self-interest; it exists for itself. I'm not quite sure how I feel about it. Well, I know how I feel about it--I sympathize with Dysert. But my brain tells me the magistrate is right. I'm not sure if I want to feel that way though.

Equus just reaffirmed my latest thought that perhaps theater work is for me. I don't know though. It also reminded me of Albee's declaration that all playwrights should be experimenting and pushing limits, because I definitely feel that Peter Shaffer did that with this. Though I like the notion that art is for everyone, pieces like Equus is definitely not the kind of thing that would be popular, but I like that: it takes an open mind and a certain sensibility and taste to enjoy and appreciate Equus.

I was also reminded of an interview I read with Matt Doyle. (I swear I'm not a creeper/fanatic. I just happen to agree and react to a lot of what I've read about him. And I happen to have read this recently, so it's fresh in my mind.) A Spring Awakening Fan Club member asked him, "When you lived in London, were there any West End show [sic] you saw that you wished would come over to the US?" He responded:

I saw a lot of theatre when I lived in London. I'm not sure if I want anything to come to Broadway from the West End. And I don't really think Broadway shows should go to the West End. They are two completely different worlds. Broadway is a much more commercial theatre world that runs off of the big budget musicals and London is a much more open place for theatre that has a lot of funding for straight plays and classical theatre. I love both worlds for what they are. However I do wish there was more classical theatre in New York! It's a shame how little there is.

Ugh. Of course American theater is much more commercial and big budget; it's American. Art and commerce are inherently linked here; more now than ever before. I fully appreciate that and all, but at the same time, part of me wishes it wasn't true. Jeremy Piven walked out of Speed-the-Plow the other night, and audiences were [rightly] furious. He's being replaced, I heard, by another big name--William H. Macy, a Mamet veteran. Big names are practically essential for straight plays these days. Equus ran in London before moving to Broadway, taking Griffiths and Radcliffe with it, and I feel like without those two names--especially the latter--it never would have made it. The half empty theater proved it. Broadway is so expensive now--regular orchestra or front mezzanine seats run around $125 now--and I almost feel bad going to see Spring Awakening again when there are a ton of others I want to see, and I have no money. It's rough, and because of the economy, Broadway is taking a huge hit.

So many huge shows are closing in a few weeks: Hairspray, Spamalot, Spring Awakening, Gypsy, Grease. I just saw a NY Times article that said both Equus and August: Osage County have been running with 54% attendance, which is positively criminal; Avenue Q, with 69%. Rent closed in September, and hyped shows American Buffalo and A Tale of Two Cities were barely open before shutting down. It's horrible, and largely because of the economy. Family-oriented shows are still open--the Disney stuff is still going strong, and Shrek just opened. Guys and Dolls is set for another revival, along with West Side Story and Hair, and they'll probably do well for a while with big names and their status as classics, but what about everything else? The Roundabout has a huge slate of plays that sound great set to open this season, and I hope they all do. But who knows. It's the shows that don't have the most popular appeal and potential for commercial success that are taking the biggest hit, and I hate that.

That comment above, about how Broadway is so much more commercial than the West End, is doubtlessly true, and between that and these economic problems--it's crippling theater, and other artistic mediums as well, I'm sure. Theater, though--Broadway is so much less accessible to the general public, and has a much smaller audience than other mediums, which is a shame. Sure, the film industry and music industries will suffer, but theater--half of Broadway is closing, it seems, and it hurts to think about that. It's like that Billy Joel song, "Miami 2017"--"I've seen the lights go out on Broadway."

I'm going to move to Europe.

I have more to write about (including another Matt Doyle thing, haha), but I'll do it another time. It's 3:06 and I'm beat, and I didn't mean to write this much, at all. The whole Broadway situation is just breaking my heart, and I couldn't help a bit of a tangent. Silly blog posts should really not be this damn long. Haha.

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Now playing: The Decemberists - The Crane Wife 3

'The Bridge of San Luis Rey' again

I posted two excerpts from the novel a while ago but never got around to writing about them. Well, now I finally am. In reverse order.

The second passage talks about death, memory, and love. Through Madre Maria, Wilder presents the idea that when a person dies, all that remains is the living's memories of him, but love transcends this to exist even when all memories of a person cease. I think that's such a difficult concept to embrace.

In that way, I can understand why someone might want to be famous. I can understand why someone would want to change the world dramatically, would want to do something that people will remember. It's easy to feel that once you die, if no one remembers you, it's almost as though you never existed. Frank Capra counters that with It's a Wonderful Life, showing how a person's life has probably influenced countless people and consequently has shaped the way things are, and without him, nothing would be the same. Still, though, we really have become a society that practically requires instant gratification - we like things to be tangible, we like to be able to see the fruits of our labors. I guess that's one of the many difficulties of love - it's not often present in such a physical sense.

And that leads me to the first passage, which talks about how passionate love is love in self-interest. Wilder pulls the Our Town trick - Our Town is surprising and unusual in that it paints a picture of mundane, unextraordinary life, and then shows how it's extraordinary and how you shouldn't take a moment of it for granted. Likewise, I found it unusual that a man of literary talent - genius, even - was arguing against passion. A writer. Giving a negative connotation to passion. To passion - the inspiration of so much great art. Except, he's right. To me, at least.

I was reading a pleasant novel by one Stephen King the other day, in which he writes that,

"True love, like any other strong and addicting drug, is boring--once the tale of encounter and discovery is told, kisses quickly grow stale and caresses tiresome . . . except, of course, to those who share the kisses, who give and take the caresses while every sound and color of the world seems to deepen and brighten around them. As with any other strong drug, true first love is really only interesting to those who have become its prisoners.

"And, as is true of any other strong and addicting drug, true first love is dangerous."

I'm inclined to agree with Sai King. (And apparently I'm inclined to pick up his phrases and dialect.) And having heard Sai Wilder's argument, I'm inclined to agree with him as well. Like King says, true love and especially true first love is a strong and addicting drug, and those bound by it are its prisoners. (Whether or not it feels like that while you're in it, that's something else. Either way, it's true, and it's impossible to know how difficult it is to not let it take over everything you are until you're in it. It sweeps you away. "Ka like a wind." But I digress.) True first love is also, like Wilder says, love as passion - and therefore, it's an expression of self-interest. It's fleeting and impermanent and unstable and exists for itself - not for others. To become what Wilder hints at is lasting, mature love, he say sit must pass "through a long servitude, through its own self-hatred, through mockery, through great doubts" before it can "take its place among the loyalties."

I Corinthians 13:4 sounds almost cliche to me by now, but I still like it. "Love is always patient and kind. It is never jealous. Love is never boastful or conceited. It is never rude or selfish. It does not take offense and is not resentful. Love takes no pleasure in other people's sins, but delights in the truth. It is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and to endure whatever comes." If that's so, then love as passion - love in self-interest - cannot be pure love.

The wonderful Mrs. Smith taught us the three words the Greeks used for love: eros, agape, and philia - love as passion and attraction, a more general and mature love, and a sort of virtuous and platonic love. If I remember right, ideally, it is thought that a marriage should comprise all three. Eros is in self-interest, but I like what Wilder says - it can transform itself through a series of arduous motions to become agape.

In that passage, Wilder is describing a character named Camila, who was a beautiful and talented actress who suddenly abandoned her art and then fell ill and faded from public view. As he said, "she had never realized any love save love as passion." This reminded me of a book I read about the making of Rebel Without a Cause. It was a long, tumultuous process involving all sorts of problems and difficulties from before the script was even penned. Many of these were due to the director, Nick Ray. Near the end of the book, the writers talked about how much of Ray comes out in the film:

"In some ways, Ray was the Melville hero that actress Betsy Blair saw in him back in the days of her great Hollywood parties. He became his own Romantic figure, flinging himself recklessly through time, creating and destroying all along the way. He maintained an intense, self-dramatizing regard and respect for his feelings. If Rebel aches like kids ache, that's because Ray ached that way. He worked off his pain, struggled against authority and refused to 'mature' if that meant feeling less."

I love that. One one level, I pity him for never knowing mature love, but in some ways, I can't help but respect him for actually succeeding in that. "Refused to mature if that meant feeling less." Part of me would want that. I don't want to "mature" if it means growing numb. At the same time, I'd kind of welcome it. Feeling things intensely is exhausting. But what does it mean, to "mature" and grow numb and stop feeling so much? I feel like you lose something if you let yourself grow numb enough that you don't feel any more. Lester Burnham in American Beauty-style. You become more capable of getting through life without growing weary and cynical, but still. In theory, I'd rather be cynical and angry than indifferent. Indifference is poison to me. If that's what it means to mature, I think I'd rather not.

Don't hold me to that, though.

Counting Crows lyrics:

I don't want to feel so different

But I don't want to be insignificant and

I don't know how to see the same things different

Now...

Haha. Adam Duritz, the epitome of self-interest. I can sympathize mostly though, if not empathize. Reconciling the desire to not feel alienated and alone and all that angst-y teenage-y stuff, with the desire to not be the same as everyone else = not easy. (Excuse the split infinitives, please.)

I guess that's all. I gotta finish up my work for class in the a.m. anyway.

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Now playing: Jason Mraz - I'm Yours

'The Bridge of San Luis Rey,' Thornton Wilder

Like all beautiful women who have been brought up amid continual tributes to her beauty she assumed without cynicism that it must necessarily be the basis of anyone's attachment to herself... This assumption that she need look for no more devotion now that her beauty had passed proceeded from the fact that she had never realized any love save love as passion. Such love, though it expends itself in generosity and thoughtfulness, though it gave birth to visions and to great poetry, remains among the sharpest expressions of self-interest. Not until it has passed through a long servitude, through its own self-hatred, through mockery, through great doubts, can it take its place among the loyalties. Many who have spent a lifetime in it can tell us less of love than the child that lost a dog yesterday...
(102)

Madre Maria stood with her back against a post; the sick lay in rows gazing at the ceiling and trying to hold their breaths. She talked that night of all those out in the dark (she was thinking of Esteban alone, she was thinking of Pepita alone) who had no one to turn to, for whom the world perhaps was more than difficult, without meaning. And those who lay in their beds there felt that they were within a wall that the Abbess had built for them; within all the light and warmth, and without was the darkness they would not exchange even for a relief from pain and from dying. But even while she was talking, other thoughts were passing in the back of her mind. "Even now," she thought, "almost no one remembers Esteban and Pepita, but myself. Camila alone remembers her Uncle Pio and her son; this woman, her mother. But soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left the earth, and we ourselves will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning."
(123)

I'll get around to writing about this and about the Interview stuff one of these days. Swear.

Apathy is a heartless beast.

Sometimes I feel like I spend too much time being angry, but honestly, I'd rather be angry than apathetic. So many people I see are filled with this meaningless apathy, this emptiness and complete lack of desire to do anything or be anything. They have no passion, no spirit, no vim. It's the worst in today's youth, the people who have the most to care about, the most energy, the most potential - they have their whole lives in front of them.

I love meeting people who are hungry for life, in any way, especially creatively, or even intellectually. "Intellectually curious," haha. People who challenge me, who inspire me, who show me new ways of thinking or of seeing things. People who make me feel free.

Yesterday I wrote that it bothers me that so many people feel the need to hide themselves and act like someone they're not, yet at the same time, it amazes me that there are any people who are fully and wholly just themselves, or even remotely close. There is so much in this world that binds and restrains us, that holds us back and prevents us from embracing ourselves. It's one of the things I love about the arts. Art is liberating. So many people who are inhibited in the practical world are free to be themselves in their art, be it painting, sculpture, photography, music, theater, dance, writing, or anything else. I guess that's one reason I couldn't stay away from writing - here, there are no rules, no boundaries, nothing stopping me from just being myself, no matter how flawed and imperfect and contemptible. I suppose I could keep it to myself, but I guess by posting it in what is technically a public forum, I don't feel like I'm hiding as much as I really am, and as much as I tell myself I'm upfront and unaffected among others, I know that truly, I'm never as free with most of the people I know as I am in my writing. I hate it, but I'm working on it.

Though I hate that I keep coming back to Venice, one thing I truly loved about being there is that I felt freer in waking life than ever before. I was accepted and loved and it was easy to just be myself, to love myself, and to love others. Even though others tend to see me as anti-social and not fond of many people, it's really pretty easy for me to find the best in people and love them for it, and as much as I don't like a lot of people, I love the people I do like even more. I'm a lot more passionate than I let on, I think. Which, I guess, makes life even harder. Someone once told me you can't be loved if you can't be hated. I 'd rather be hated that dismissed completely. Indifference and apathy are worse than hatred. So I've gone full circle - bottom line: do whatever it takes not to be apathetic. To me, it's pretty much the worst thing you can be.

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Now playing: John Mayer - Bigger Than My Body

Haha. I just realized that apathy is the last thing I wrote about in May before I stopped blogging. Clearly I'm paying attention to what I'm writing about.

Theater - Musical and Dramatic. And Joan.

Every time I see a great play or musical performed well, I contemplate completely abandoning my American Studies and Contemporary Arts majors to study theater management. Seriously. There is nothing quite like the experience of a good show. Les Mis, Thoroughly Modern Millie, Hairspray, Wicked, and Spring Awakening really aren't overrated in any way, shape or form, when you see them live, and Peter & Jerry and August: Osage County make up for five of the most enthralling, and mentally and emotionally stimulating hours of my life.

I was just thinking about this because I went to see Spring Awakening again today, with my mum. I didn't fully appreciate or enjoy it the first time around, and I'm so glad I got to see it with Jonathan Groff and Lea Michelle before they leave next week, even if John Gallagher Jr. has left already. It's an utterly brilliant show that I wish everyone I know could see. Not just hear the music from it - see it, live. It's such a different experience, hearing it and seeing it. You get so much more from seeing it, seeing the emotion in front of you. All the kids in that show (plus the two adults) give amazingly intense, energetic performances that are so emotionally draining for the audience, I can't imagine what it must be like to be in or work on the show what, eight times a week? I don't think I could ever really get tired of working on a truly brilliant show like that, though. The performers' dedication and passion are contagious.

Speaking of passion. Isn't it sad how apathetic people are? Including myself, though I finally seem to be finding a way out of that. How wonderful would it be if more people were enthusiastically passionate about living a good life? I like people like that. The people who challenge me, who rile me up and make me reaffirm my beliefs and reevaluate myself, who just unconsciously remind me of why everything is worthwhile in the end. I like that. I need that.

Lastly: 2 Joan quotes! : D

Joan: Why are you running away? You don’t seem to mind getting in people’s faces except for when it matters.
Grace: Oh, save it.
Joan: You hide Luke! Which yeah, okay, I kind of understand, but you hide your mom, you hide all the important stuff, Grace. Look, I’m not Jewish, but it seems to me this whole bat mitzvah thing is about standing up and declaring yourself! Getting in people’s faces for real.

Grace [at her bat mitzvah]: I know we’re all bonding here with the singing, but seriously, that is a bad song. [laughter] Anyway, me and my dad have been fighting about this day since I hit the double digits, and uh, I won’t go into it . . . It was a political thing, and a daughter of a rabbi thing, but finally, I gave in and indulged them in one last empty ritual before I’m outta here. But then, um, not to get all gooey, or anything like that . . . [turning to look at her father] When you handed me the Torah, and I read those words, it hit me: this is a genius way of attacking adulthood. I mean this scroll – there are no easy answers in here. It’s basically a book of questions, something that makes us keep searching for a way to make sense of this mess. And just dealing with a lot of questions, that takes a lot of guts when there’s no guarantee that there will be answers. And, uh, I just hope I’m up for it. So, fire up that cheesy music and let’s eat!

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Now playing: Bbmak - Miss You More

Life really bugs me.

Well, no.

What really bugs me is the realization I made at the beginning of freshman year that, for the rest of my life, I'm going to have to keep proving my worth to everyone I meet. I realized that, in a way, everything I did in high school, I did in part for the wrong reasons. Partly, I was so involved and worked so hard because that's who I am. I tried doing the non-involvement thing last year, and it was miserable. Now I'm over my head in activities and such again, and as rough as some days are, it's infinitely better than not doing anything and not being involved at all, though, I had probably needed that downtime given how burnt out from high school I was.

But part of the reason I was so burnt out in high school is because I kept thinking I had to. Getting into college is so competitive, I needed to keep doing all this stuff, to be such a perfectionist, so I could have the privilege of choosing a college, and not depend on a college choosing me. In the end, I probably went to the least selective of all of them. But also the cheapest. But that's neither here nor there.

At the beginning of last year, I was thinking about double majoring, and I didn't know what to do. I thought I might want a writing-based career, but then I realized that a) I didn't think I was good enough a writer to succeed or even live by writing, and b) I didn't want to spend the rest of my life submitting my work to someone else to have them tell me whether or not it's good enough. And to make a living by writing, that's what you need to do. Whether it's an editor telling you whether or not it's good enough, or the public telling you whether or not they like it, writers make a living not by enlightening through their works, but by being judged whether or not it's good enough, and I don't think I could live like that. I don't write for anyone else but me. It's my thing. I don't think I could do that. The only way I possibly could, I think, is as a critic, but a) that's such a difficult field to break into, and b) I don't think I could be okay with a life of writing about other people's work. I mean, I could, but only if I kept creating myself, and I don't think I could do both.

Notice any trend throughout all of that? Yeah, the whole me thinking thing kind of keeps getting in the way. But what happens if I don't think about that? I don't know. I've got too many interests to devote myself to just one. Maybe I'll hope one of my friends gets really rich and gives me the capital to write and publish myself. Muahaha. I'm going to have to marry rich. Except I'm mildly certain I'm not going to marry at all, which kind of throws a wrench into that plan.

So I keep thinking about all this stuff, and then stopping and realizing, wait. I should just stop thinking and worrying about everything. Whatever happens, happens, and as long as I don't just sit around on my ass waiting for things to happen, everything should just fall into place. Everything works together for good, right. (Though I can't get rid of the nagging suspicion that that's the kind of idealistic assumption that's going to be my downfall. Damn being a worrier by nature. Damnit.)

"Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul.
If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.
For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.
Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion, that it may sing;
And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes."
- Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

"Unconditional" Love, 'Mansfield Park,' 'The Jane Austen Book Club,' and Marriage.

Okay. So our parents are supposed to love us unconditionally, and I suppose, vice versa. I mean, they literally give us life, whether by bringing us into the world or raising and teaching us, or both. And I feel like that's a big line with parents: "You know you can always come to us with anything. We'll always love you no matter what." And so on and so forth. Just unconditional love. Though on some level, I feel like that's kind of redundant, because if love really is pure and true and all that, then wouldn't it be unconditional, and if it wasn't, then wouldn't it not be love? At least, in theory. But anyway.

Rereading Death of a Salesman made me think about that state of unconditional love between parents and their children, and how desolate a person must feel without that. I mean, you have Willy Loman, who thinks his son Biff has been spiting him for 15 years, and breaks down in the end when Biff cries on his shoulder, and Willy realizes that, despite everything, Biff really does love him. Then, you have Willy's wife Linda, who takes his side over her sons', and actually kicks Biff out and agrees that he shouldn't come home or write back ever again. And I don't want to spoil the ending for anyone who hasn't seen it, but Before the Devil Knows You're Dead... Albert Finney's character...he must decide between his love for his wife or mercy for his sons. In Mansfield Park, the Prices have no qualms shipping off their 10-year-old daughter Fanny to live with her aunt, uncle, and cousins, and are not in contact with her for 8 or 9 years. When she is able to visit and they finally see her again, they welcome her with indifference - at the most. Then at the end, Sir Thomas pretty much disowns his daughter when she enters a scandalous affair with the guy trying to court Fanny (even though she is thoroughly repulsed by him). I don't know. I just think it's incredible that there are people who can choose not to love their children like that. Even in putting her baby up for adoption, a mother is showing more love than these characters. It makes me wonder, though, is there even such a thing as truly "unconditional" love? Wouldn't unconditional love be eternal? So if all love is finite, if it all can end or learned to be dissolved, then can it ever really be unconditional? Yet I suppose one might argue that no love, when it's true, is finite, because it transcends death, etc. etc.

But anyway. Back to Mansfield Park real quick. Apparently Jane Austen wasn't too big on the whole subtlety thing. She spells out pretty much everything out for you. Fanny is good because she has sound principles, high moral character, and modesty. Maria and Julia Bertram, and Mary Crawford, are bad because they do not. Edmund is good - everything Fanny has learned is from him. Henry Crawford is bad because, even though he shows reform and is positively influenced by Fanny's goodness, he is inconstant. Edmund ends up marrying Fanny because he realizes that she is wholesome, pure, principled, sweet-tempered, and he knows this: "Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no half-concealment, no self-deception on the present, and no reliance on improvement in the future...she was of course only too good for him..."

I suppose you could say this directness makes her stuff weaker than more modern stuff that has more subtext and ambiguity and all that. But I like it. It works. Just because she states it plainly, doesn't mean that her insights on the human condition aren't just as sharp. Or that her writing lacks humor or irony. One bit I particularly liked in the conclusion of Mansfield Park is her remark about purposely not giving dates as to what happened when:

"I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that everyone may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and become as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire."

I like how Austen kind of mocks the fact that Edmund had said he could never love anyone as he did Mary Crawford, but does so gently, because she realizes that it's not unusual at all for him to stop loving her and fall in love with Fanny. In doing that, she also is making the simple statement that even "unconquerable passion" can end, can learn to be forgotten. I also like that she doesn't give dates because it would be different for everyone, and there should be no judgment in how long it takes someone. She also could seem to be suggesting, though, that Edmund fell in love with Fanny out of convenience, though I don't think that's true. The same way I don't think it's true that Henry Crawford was a bad guy - I also like that Austen says how he really would have been much better for having married Fanny, that her influence would have kept him straight. I don't think I would have minded if Fanny married Henry instead of Edmund. But if Edmund had married Mary...oof. Fanny had a good influence on Henry, but Edmund had no influence on Mary, and that just would have been disastrous. But I suppose Edmund and Fanny deserve each other's goodness.

When Sylvia reaches her angry stage in the film version of The Jane Austen Book Club, she says that Mansfield Park shows her that a marriage is only as strong as its weakest link. In that vein of thinking, Edmund and Fanny's marriage would last because neither is particularly weak. I started writing a post a while ago about Sylvia and Daniel, and his little speech about how he was struggling with wondering whether or not love (and consequently marriage) could sustain for a lifetime:

Daniel: I was just thinking about something Allegra said at Jocelyn's the other day...so we're talking about how we all need to have connection, you know, conversation, sex, companionship, and Allegra says, "Well, you get all that from Mommy." I have to tell you, it really made me sad.
Sylvia: Aw, baby, she'll find somebody.
Daniel: No, it made me sad for us, because I've been struggling with whether a marriage can sustain all of that over, uh, over 20+ years or if it's just inevitable that after a certain amount of time-- maybe being with somebody else can have a renewing effect, because for me-- I've been seeing a woman at work. We've been together 6 months now . . . We, we can't think of this as a failure. We have had a very successful marriage. We've had a long marriage, by any standard. We got 3 wonderful kids. They're grown, they're working, they're--
Sylvia: Just open the damn door, Daniel, I need a tissue.
Daniel: The kids, that's, that's all you, you know, you made all the sacrifices, I know. But there's a logic to us quitting while we're ahead, and I think they'll be able to see that, you know?
Sylvia: I don't understand a single word of what you're saying, Daniel.

It made me think back to that whole idea of people coming and going in and out of your life, and how perhaps we only have a limited amount of time with them, and how it varies. Say we do only have a certain amount of time with people - perhaps that time, for you, can be different from what it is for them. You may feel the connection longer than they, or vice versa. You may be ready to move on before they're ready to let you go. Going with that, then maybe falling in love is just finding someone that can't ever imagine letting go, and your best potential spouse is the one whose love, whose sense of connection, lasts only as long as yours does.

The whole institution of marriage sucks. At least, in the frame of mind I'm in now, I think it does. It takes something completely irrational (love) and forces you to make it practical. Rawr. Obnoxious.

Wow. Did NOT mean to write that much. Nap time!

The Russian Spirit

If there's one thing I love about my courses here, it's how interdisciplinary they are. Half the stuff I learn in one class ends up being relevant in another one. It gets redundant and frustrating some times, but overall, it makes it more interesting.

Like last year. So much of the stuff my crazy liberal Social Issues professor brought up was explored (more rationally and less extremely) in my Intro to International Studies the next semester. Some random topics from my Intro to American Studies class came back in my Immigration to America class, and things from there are coming back in my 20th Century American Foreign Policy class now. As are bits about Russian culture from my Literature and Film class. And in that class, stories from my freshman seminar last year (though we didn't do much of anything there) are being used again, and we're also watching a film that relates to my Technology and Culture in America class. And stuff I learned from the Smiths comes back in everything.

Anyway, in Literature and Film the other day, we watched this Russian film called The Barber of Siberia. It was fantastic, mostly. There was one specific part about the ending that I hated, but other than that, it was great. Compelling plot, good acting, sufficient cinematography and technical stuff. 3 hours long, but you don't even notice. It's the story of this American woman, Jane, who goes to Russia in 1885 to help her father, an inventor who's created a machine called "The Barber of Siberia" that will chop down trees at an amazing rate. He needs the Tsar's help to get the funding to complete it, and Jane is to help him get a meeting with the Tsar by going through one of the generals, Radlov, who happens to be the head of the military academy in Moscow. While there, one of the young cadets, Tolstoy (no relation to the writer) falls in love with her. Most of the movie is about the destructive nature of his love for and relationship with Jane, highlighting the cultural differences between the American woman and all the Russians she meets. It balances comedy, drama, and romance, with a bit of tragedy thrown in. It's really great. Definitely see it if you can ever get your hands on a copy; it's kind of hard to find it with English subtitles, apparently.

We talked about it in class today. I mentioned how the film rather subtly comments upon the cultural differences all throughout the film. At one point, the week before Lent begins, Jane is at a carnival celebrating; at the week's end, it will be a day of forgiveness - everyone, full of good will, shall beg everyone else's pardon. She notes how extreme the Russians are: at the carnival, she witnesses a giant fistfight, where dozens of men are beating each other up, knowing that at the end of the week they will all forgive each other. She says how they can't do anything in a small way: it's always one extreme or another; all or nothing. Though she observes this in retrospect, (spoiler alert! haha) it's her lack of understanding just how much this notion pervades the Russian spirit that leads to her downfall - as well as everyone else's.

A lot of the other people in class hated her for ruining other people's lives - for not giving up her business transaction. I didn't like her for it, but I understood why she did it - or, I suppose, the writer had her do it. My Russian professor said the same thing - that she understands her, and therefore doesn't hate her. We also talked, though, about how Jane is intended to be a symbol of Western culture, and a criticism of it, too. I found it really interesting that everyone hated the person that symbolized the American state of mind, and everyone loved the young, naive Russian cadet.

When I noted Jane's observation of the Russian tendency to go to extremes, Professor Ivushkina told us that this is very true, that that's how things in her country are. She pointed out, every time there's a revolution, their government is completely eradicated and they start over from scratch - they can't do anything partially, or half-heartedly. This idea is also common throughout Russian literature, she told us.

She also said, but not condescendingly, that there's no way that we can fully understand the Russian spirit - that passion, the intensity that drives them, or the camaraderie that is still incredibly important to them in a way that has gone out of vogue in America. There, still, friends put everyone else before themselves; and they're just very warm people in general. My other professor, who visited Russia for the first time in 25 years last summer, told us how she experienced this first hand - she would meet people on the streets, and start talking to them, and after only a few minutes, they would be asking her what she's passionate about, what is important to her, and other questions that people here rarely ask those close to them, let alone people they've just met. Here, she said, people will ask you what you do - not what you love, what's important to you.

Not everyone there is like that, of course, but it was still interesting. It's a shame people here aren't more like that. At least, in that they talk about that stuff. I think I'd go crazy if everyone I knew always went to extremes like the people in that movie did. In a way, though, it was beautiful. In a way, it was right.

I'll get to my other point later.

I found a poem.

I can't get the spacing to look properly for all of it, so pretend.

Well here we go again

Forward, backwards, stuck in neutral

Feelings, indifference, apathy

Is a heartless beast

Of burden weighing heavily

Are possibilities, promises

To keep and be broken

Dreams of the future

Forays into idealism, hopefully

Bringing opportunity, chance

To begin to live life,

To stop merely existing,

To find passion

Balance

Walking across the beam of in between

Unsure, indecisive, reaching, jumping

F

A

L

L

I

N

G

Head first into God knows what

Have I gotten myself into now

Nothing is the same

Interest is dead

Mutated into careless, undriven work

Passion has fled

Jumped into the winds of days gone by

And where does that leave me?

Wishing myself far far away

Wishing the next ten years

Were a thing of the past, a memory

Preciously lived and learned and productive

But done, over, moved on to days of black and white and

C | D | L

L | I | I

E | V | N

A | I | E

R | D | S

| E |

| D |

(that we all know don’t exist)

No reading in between,

No fog hanging in my mind,

Clouding my vision

My view of who I am

what I want

where I want to be

what I need to do

W h y a m I h e r e ?

And where do I go from here?

Things can only go up,

P

But what goes U

Must come

D

O

W

N

So here I am again.

Stuck in neutral.

It's from about a year ago. I was in sorry shape then. I'm fine now, but I can feel myself getting more and more frustrated, restless, and weary again. I blame spring course registration and summer internship applications...or rather, the ideas of them and their impeding deadlines. I hate having to choose courses to pursue a degree that might not even help me get where I want to be, anyway; I hate being pressured to choose a career - the whole idea of a single career isn't very appealing to me to begin with; I hate the idea of applying for internships and graduate school - it's like applying for college, having to prove myself all over again; and I hate the idea of spending the rest of my life being judged and critiqued about everything, being forced to submit my work to other people who are "better" than me so they can tell me if it's good enough. Screw this whole being an adult thing. Just let me do what makes me happy as I discover what it really is. That might be a selfish, useless, complete waste of time for some people, but my desire to help others and make them happy and share and enlighten is far too great for me to be in danger of Hedonistically throwing my life away on myself. And if that's what I end up doing, then I'm the only one responsible, I'm the only one who has to live with that, so whatever.

Haha. Watch. 10 years from now I'll have a graduate degree, a cushy hypocritical job that I love (writing for some kind of periodical owned by a mainstream media conglomerate), stable relationships and finances, a house or apartment (complete with mortage!) and a whole life-plan. Either that or I'll have a stupid number of useless degrees, be stuck with an obnoxious job that I hate and could possibly lose at any moment anyway, and I'll be shiftlessly roaming around the country by myself, writing my "great American novel" (which I'll constantly be changing the topic and direction of, and it'll never get finished. Ever.) with barely enough money to get myself drunk with. Hahahahaha. Oh man. Just imagine. I'm going to be crashing on everyone else's couches...you've been warned...so just let me wallow there for a while and then pull a Boy Meets World and make me leave the couch and soggy Cocoa Puffs, grab a newspaper, and go job-hunting in my bathrobe when it's dark out. If I try telling you I'm going to have my own television show as the "Good Lookin' Girl" or something, laugh and kick me out. Thanks, in advance. You're real pals.


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Listening to: Paul Simon - Once Upon A Time There Was An Ocean