Life Lesson of the Day:

Do Not Trust Other People -
Especially College Kids.

And I can say that because technically my senior year is over. I'd probably say it even if it wasn't.

*warning. the following post may (coughcoughWILLcough cough) contain venting.*

Last night was hands down the most important performance of my college career. I say that because it was without a doubt the most important one to me. I had directed a scene from Jesus Hopped the A Train by Stephen Adly Guirgis, and it was one with a powerful message that I knew would shake up the theatre department at my school because *gasp* it talked about God and faith and being a Christian. In a hard-core inner-city prison no less, complete with frequently placed expletives.

But it was the one thing that I have been completely proud of the entire 5 years I've been in college. It was my best work. It was my actors' best work. And it, along with 7 other student directed scenes, was being performed at our annual Theatre Works.

Every time there has been a performance at our school it has been video recorded. Usually by a couple of people. I have never once gotten a DVD back from a school performance (except for *one* that I stage managed because one of the actors' father took it upon himself to do it). If the tapes have gotten into the hands of our theatre faculty, they have never again seen the light of day.
The other shows at this school that I've been involved in I couldn't care two beans worth about getting a DVD of. One or two of them I was just glad to see finished.

But this one? This scene that I put my time and energy into for most of this semester? This one thing that broke new ground in our department and actually had a message beyond just a shocking scene or a good story? This one I want a DVD of. There are people that I care about that didn't get to see it. This is something I'm going to want to remember and share with other people because the message is that good and I'm that proud of it.

I asked if I could bring my own, professional level camera to be the main camera so that I could have control of the editing. I wanted to edit it because #1 that would ensure that it would get done, #2 it would ensure that I get a copy, and #3 because I'm just good at it. My teacher said I'd have to fight it out with another student because he is the one who usually videos.
I talked to said student about it, and he said he didn't mind at all because he hates editing. But then, because our cameras are almost equally professional and mine is being borrowed at the moment, we agreed to have him video it, but *give me the tapes so I could edit*.

That was how we left it the NIGHT BEFORE THE SHOW.
Then I clarified with him. Yes, he said. He'd video, then give me the tapes.

I emailed him today to ask when he wanted me to drop by to pick them up and I get the reply:
"Oh, I already gave them to [our teacher]. Sorry about the confusion."

Read back up there. Was there any confusion? We never discussed any other option! It was practically always him videoing, me editing.

I emailed my teacher offering to edit if she would give me the tapes and promising that if so, they would be done before graduation because it would only take me an afternoon or two.
I don't expect to hear back from her.
I don't expect to get the tapes.
And I honestly don't expect to ever see a DVD of Theatre Works 2009.

So don't trust college kids. That's what I learned today.

My Grandpa's Chair

To everyone else it's just an ordinary recliner. It's big, brown, and puffy which is really all you could ever want in a chair with huge pockets on the side to hold various reading and writing materials. But it's no ordinary recliner.

I've known this recliner my entire life. Visits to my grandparents in Florida were filled with waiting for the moment Grandpa would stand up and walk to the other room so I could pounce and climb my way up on it, letting it engulf me in ways that only big, brown, puffy recliners can engulf little girls. Then Grandpa would come back and tickle me and I'd scramble out.

I can remember sitting in the chair and trying my hardest to push the arms in the way that made the foot rest pop up. I was never strong enough, and Grandpa would have to come around behind me and push them for me. Even when I was strong enough I would pretend that I wasn't so that Grandpa would have to come around behind me and push them for me.

He stopped smoking a pipe very early on in my memories, but I'm still convinced that if you turn your head just so and sniff at just the right spot you can catch the scent of tobacco that takes you back to the days when you were sitting on his lap in that recliner while he watched golf on TV.

Mom was going to get rid of the recliner. I happened across it and claimed it for myself when no one else wanted it. It has a prominent place in my office now; its the chair I go to for all the comfort reading, writing, and studying I do. That chair has always meant a lot to me and I don't think I'll ever give it up.

To me, it's an extraordinary recliner.

the Coxsackie Virus, Charlie visits, and Character Notes

Nothing like a good alliteration in the morning.
Well, its afternoon now, but I came up with it in the morning.

Yesterday I finally went to the doctor. Its been over 2 weeks since I got sick, and it wasn't getting remotely better, so off to the doctor I went. With my mom. Because I refuse to go to the doctor by myself and probably always will. I saw a different doctor than normal - a female doctor actually, and one who doesn't know anything about biggest traumas of my life - which was quite a refreshing change. I explained my symptoms and was feeling a bit embarrassed about saying for the second time that my only main problem was a horribly sore throat, that in reality only hurts in patches. I figured I'd get one of those doctor looks that said "its a sore throat. Take some Motrin. Don't waste my time." But she took her little light and looked in my mouth for all of one second when she said.
"Oh my. You have the Coxsackie virus."

I'm sure everyone reading this knows what that is. But neither my mother nor I was so medically inclined, so the doctor informed us that having the Coxsackie virus means that I have horribly nasty blisters all along my throat. It's known to be extremely painful and to last for weeks. She couldn't believe that I had waited this long to come in so she's going right ahead and giving me the strong meds now.
"Because from a look at those blisters, you need it."

So, I'm on a course of steroids - one a pill, one a topical anesthesia type thing - to try to help reduce the symptoms as quickly as possible since there is nothing to do for the virus itself. I have mood swings, increased appetite, and weight gain to look forward to for the course of the medication. I don't even care. I just want to feel better and not feel like I'm willingly participating in self-torture every time I decide to swallow.


In happier news:
I have to say that my favorite time of the week is a span of 30 minutes on Tuesday afternoons. After my directing class I have exactly half an hour until I have to leave for work, and every week I spend that time with my nephew Charlie. We play, we talk, we dance, we walk and look at things (the same things, over and over), we cuddle, we laugh, we snack, we use our imaginations, we play with the range of our voices and funny sounds we can make, we walk hand in hand. He is probably the only person that I can always make smile with a genuine "I'm beaming because I can't help it" smile and it warms my heart. He has no stress, and hanging out with him brings down my stress level. On Tuesdays, which are my hardest days by far, it is so nice to have that one half of an hour to put everything back into perspective by seeing things with the help of my favorite one year old ever. Thanks Charlie. I love you!


Before rehearsal last night, Megan and I were talking about the harsh reality of rehearsal notes. Sometimes at the end of a run through, they can be a huge blow to your ego, because most notes are about something you should fix or change, and so they point out all your flaws and mistakes of the night. I mentioned that this is when I as an actor have to remember to trust my director completely and to try to turn my perspective on each note into a positive one and as a way to learn my craft, and improve, and to impress the next time we rehearse. Rehearsal notes build my character in the practical terms of the stage play, but also my personal character and my character as an actor. It is a process, a journey, and when embraced as such, those notes are what causes something beautiful, influential, and potentially life-changing to be achieved.

God gives us character notes too. I met a friend for a coffee house chat and the conversation was permeated with things that God has taught each of us over the last year since we've talked, and what changes have been made. It struck me that personal devotions and corporate worship and your times with God in between are like the character notes directors give to actors at the end of rehearsal. God speaking to your heart through His Word or a sermon or something else and saying "I'm noticing this isn't quite right. Change it to be more like this, to be more like Me." It is a hard thing, a painful thing, because it confronts us with our own sin and our failures and gives us something we have to struggle with for a time. But if we can remember that we trust God completely as the director of our lives, then we can let these notes help us grow and improve in our Christian life. God's character notes shape us into our ultimate character - the person He designed all along for us to be. It is a process and a journey, but it is promised that at the end of our time, something truly beautiful, truly influential, and truly life-changing will be achieved.

"Just a bit of sillyness really"

I call myself a writer but I'm brave enough to admit that eloquently brilliant words and phrases do not just automatically flow in one long string from my brain through my wrist into my pen and onto my paper.

Sometimes I have to work on it just like other people.

And one of the ways I work on it is by playing writing games with myself. Yes, I do play with myself - its one of those things you learn to do well when you have no friends. A common writing prompt is to write a free-verse poem in some sort of established structure: you fill a certain shape, or all the words have to have the same number of letters, or you can't use the letter "e" in any word, or it all follows a particular rhythm. One of my favorites is to put the letters A-Z down the side of a page and then write, making each new line start with a word beginning with that next letter in the alphabet.

I came across one of these exercises in my journal tonight. I wrote it roughly 8 months ago.

attitudes arise within me threatening to
break out of the bonds I've submerged them under
causing
drops of blood
everywhere inside. and I'm leaking
feeling dissipates, like I'm
going numb from the extremities inward. only
heartbeats
imitating a life. but its a lie
just another pretend
keeping secrets locked away
like I don't really care about them. but...
maybe...hm...maybe
not.
over. I just want everything to be over.
people are shallow. I want to
quit this. quit school. quit life
run away, just
show up
there. home. I want to go home.
understanding is just past my reach. It's like I'm on the
verge of enlightenment. of assurance. of stability.
wait. be still. search for the sign, the arrow, the big
X that marks the spot
yes? oh. thank you. how embarrassing to be caught with your
zipper down.

I think I had watched a deeply symbolic movie just prior to writing that - something like The Fountain. I like it though.

I followed it up with a catchy little limerick:

I want to go home to bed.
I'd gladly just shoot them all dead.
We can't get through a scene
They just laugh and they scream
We'll never get one full act read.

And I completed the writing exercises of the night with this haiku (you can see how productive I am during rehearsals...):

I live in grey shades
Like wherever Dorothy lives
I want some color

And on that note, I bid you all goodnight.

What College is All About

Its been a bad day.

I was sick last night, but I did my homework. I stayed up late, I poured over the text book and the play, I took notes, I learned things. I was ready for the quiz.

The syllabus said both were assigned but that the quiz would be on the text.
He handed out a quiz on the play.

The students start talking at once saying how his syllabus said it was just the text quiz and that we wouldn't be quizzed on the play.

"But both were assigned for today, right?" he asked.
"Well...yes...but..." came the scattered replies.
"Did you read the play?"
"No....I didn't have enough time..." came from around the room.
-sigh- "How many of you did read the play?" the prof asked.

About 3 of us raised our hands.

"Fine." he said after many tense remarks. "Read it for Tuesday. Expect a quiz on it on Tuesday."
"NO you cant do that!" came the cry from around the room. "Our exam is on Tuesday! You can't give us a test and an exam on the same day!"
"Fine." he said again after more tense remarks. "Read it for Thursday. Expect a quiz on it on Thursday."

The class seemed fine with that.
I, however, was not. Thursday is the day I miss class because I have a visit to a grad school. My professor knew about this, and I knew that I was accepting a 0 on the quiz scheduled for that day (we have a quiz every day). I cannot afford, though, to take two 0's simply because my classmates didn't do their homework and so got an extra week of leniency.

I asked my professor about it after class.
His response was "That's why I give you two drop grades." End of story.
"Then why did I bother to do my homework?" I asked him.
"You do your homework because you want to LEARN." he said. "Not because you get graded on it."
Not true. He must not remember his undergraduate days.

I came home in tears. Which sounds awfully shallow now, but I was sick, and angry, and when those two things connect then I tend to be overly emotional.
I discussed it with my parents and put together an extremely polite yet firm email restating my position and requesting him to reconsider allowing me to take the one quiz from today on Tuesday, and allowing me to take just the one 0 for the originally scheduled Thursday quiz.
I pointed out that while I should be doing my homework for the sake of learning, unfortunately our educational system puts the emphasis on grades and that my transcript is what goes before me to whatever grad school I may consider.
I pointed out that he bended the rules for a majority in the class who didn't do their assignment, and that none of them were given the exam anyway with the reminder that they get two drop grades.
I pointed out that if I take those two 0s than if something should happen to keep me out of class or make me too late for the quiz, then the additional 0s or low grades would pull down my grade for the class, which would lower my GPA.
I pointed out that the grad school I'm going to had to go out of their way to get interpreters for me because they've never had to deal with a deaf student before, and certainly not one in theatre, and that if I arrive late because I stayed in town long enough to take his quizzes, then I'd have made an extremely bad impression on them.
Indirectly I tried to point out that I would have gotten a decent grade on this quiz, and now I'm guaranteed a 0, and all of the others who were guaranteed a 0 now have the shot at a perfect score. In a way, I feel like he is encouraging the laziness he claims he abhors, and dismissing the hard work he claims he respects.


If we as students hate this kind of treatment in our colleges, how would we feel about it if society has become like that once we're in the working world?
Because, as he says, this is his way of "sharing the wealth."

In flew Enza

This particular image has been haunting my imagination lately. I first saw it on Monday during my Victorian America class when we watched a video about the Influenza Epidemic of 1918. The children made up a little chant to jump rope to, and it goes like this:

I had a little bird,
It's name was Enza.
I opened the window,
and in flew Enza.

Then, throughout the video it would overlay that scene in a haze so that the chanting mixed in with the other background voices/crying/music, and it would also be used to have just the children's voices as background for a shot of multiple open graves, or hospital wards crammed full with beds and cots and other sprawled on the floors. It was eerie on Monday and it still makes this horribly stale pit in the bottom of my stomach.

But that could also connect to the fact that I came home early from rehearsal last night because I suddenly felt ill and discovered I had a fever.
Perhaps I opened my window, and in flew Enza.

It was just that time

I have a very short attention span when it comes to blogs. It seems that over the last year or so I have started a brand new blog with each major life transition. And each only lasted until the next major life transition. None of which were maintained with any regularity for more than a couple weeks. (It would seem that my entire life is really a major transition.)

I have no reason to expect this one to be otherwise, but I felt that that was no reason to discriminate against this blog's chance of survival.

So, embark with me on this brand new journey that we will call:

The Rest Of Senior Year.

(If you choose to insert creepy music -dun dun dun- here, please flip to page 182.
If you choose to insert castle trumpet music -dun da da DUN!!- please flip to page 12)