Well World... here I am. Again. Feeling very small and lost in the humid, heavy-trafficked purgatory of Stafford County; finally, blissfully free of deadlines and 17-hour days, while realizing that on the other hand, maybe having nothing expected of me whatsoever isn't as satisfying as I thought. I feel like I've finally cut myself free from a boat that contained a snarling tiger (like in Life of Pi) only to realize that the boat was also my only supply of food and water and I am now adrift.
I suppose I'm lucky. I get to be lost. This time in my life will conceivably never appear again, and for the most part I'll always have something expected of me, so I should be glad for this "rest," right? But I could do everything from climb Everest to carbon freeze myself for the next three months and for the most part, it wouldn't matter in the least... and that's a lot of power. Too much, you might say.
Oh, don't worry. I have plans. I mean, I'm not totally aimless. Oh, what are they? Ha. Ha. You'll see.
For instance, I'm going to unpack tomorrow. I'm going to rearrange my room. I'm going to fill out some job applications, get started on my passport renewal and maybe clean my car.
(Should I not say that? What if I don't get around to it? That seems like a big promise to keep. I should be more realistic.)
Tomorrow is unpacking day. There.
I'm trusting. I'm trusting. God can do anything, and while right now I'm desperately hoping that will entail a cool job and a new friend or two, I know it could be anything. But things are coming. I know it. Who knows? Maybe I'll actually be sad when it's time to leave for England. (Yeah right.)
*raises glass* To the last summer of The Erdelatz Kid. May it go out with the bang of a nuke.
(Oh I didn't tell you? We're ending an era, folks. Starting in the fall I'll be starting a new blog detailing my travels abroad. It's time. This one has served me well, and I shall tip my cap with gratefulness when the moment comes to retire it. So know that it's coming.)
Monday, May 16, 2016
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
The Carry-on Principle
My improv team went over to the house of one of our members (Ryan) for dinner tonight, since he lives five minutes away from campus. His house smelled like the house everyone went for sleepovers as a kid. There were tons of tiny glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of his bedroom, which contained an alcove window seat (for staring moodily out into the calm, lamplit street), lots of collections of coins and bobbleheads, and various other childhood treasures. There was a treehouse in the backyard, complete with a hand crank for transporting objects from the ground. It was the ideal suburban home.
Seeing his cheerfully cluttered bedroom, so full of memories, made me long for something I felt like I'd never had. A cool room? But I've had some pretty neat ones. What was it that was so bittersweet?
When I got back to my dorm room, it hit me. I finally realized why it feels like I have so much more stuff on my shelves than my roommate. I actually do. It's the same reason my room back home always feels clean in a bad way; too uncluttered and vague.
I don't have any memories there. I take my history with me. Ryan had lots of college stuff in his high school bedroom because he can go back anytime he wants. I've learned to take everything with me to my next dwelling. I have little bits of all the important parts of my life crammed into half of a tiny dorm room, because in my world, you don't go back. You only go forward.
I keep telling myself I'm going to downsize before I go to England in September, and only bring a few essential framed photos and decorative items. But am I just kidding myself? Maybe it's not possible for me to leave too many things behind. I'll fit all my memories into one room, but you won't be able to find them all at first glance- because I'll do my best to make believe that my life is cheerfully cluttered.
It's the same way I pack luggage; small, but dense. I will fit everything into one carry-on suitcase, but that suitcase may just be ten pounds over the weight limit.
Seeing his cheerfully cluttered bedroom, so full of memories, made me long for something I felt like I'd never had. A cool room? But I've had some pretty neat ones. What was it that was so bittersweet?
When I got back to my dorm room, it hit me. I finally realized why it feels like I have so much more stuff on my shelves than my roommate. I actually do. It's the same reason my room back home always feels clean in a bad way; too uncluttered and vague.
I don't have any memories there. I take my history with me. Ryan had lots of college stuff in his high school bedroom because he can go back anytime he wants. I've learned to take everything with me to my next dwelling. I have little bits of all the important parts of my life crammed into half of a tiny dorm room, because in my world, you don't go back. You only go forward.
I keep telling myself I'm going to downsize before I go to England in September, and only bring a few essential framed photos and decorative items. But am I just kidding myself? Maybe it's not possible for me to leave too many things behind. I'll fit all my memories into one room, but you won't be able to find them all at first glance- because I'll do my best to make believe that my life is cheerfully cluttered.
It's the same way I pack luggage; small, but dense. I will fit everything into one carry-on suitcase, but that suitcase may just be ten pounds over the weight limit.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Tuesday/Thursdays At 3pm
Yesterday in Playwriting class (our last official one of the semester), we were supposed to spend a good chunk of time reading each other's one-act scripts aloud and giving feedback. What happened instead was much more riveting. I wish I had a video, but I was too drawn in by the moment and didn't want to break the spell.
Our professor, the gently formidable and whimsical Mark Stevick (or just Mark, as he insists we call him), got swept up recounting the time he saw the play that changed the course of his entire life- Orphans, by Samuel French. I've seen this play (on Broadway with Alec Baldwin and Tom Sturrige, no less) , and it's indeed phenomenal. But I've never loved it more than I did yesterday. In some sort of dramatic illustration of the power of throwing your audience right into the middle of the action (or something- I don't fully remember what brought it on, and frankly, who cares?), he launched straight into the first scene of the play:
"'Come on out, Phillip! I ain't in the mood for no games. Where are ya, Phillip?' Phillip's crouched in the corner. 'Don't tag me.' 'I ain't gonna tag you.' 'I'm tired of bein' it, Treat.'" He switched from the growling older brother Treat to the wide-eyed, huddling Phillip in a fraction of a second, spitting out the lines word for word. There was this moment of confusion, then delight between all of us at our desks as we exchanged wondering glances, realizing he knew the script by heart. His entire body language and mannerisms changed instantly from character to character. It seemed of the utmost importance that we grasp the dramatic power of the words. "And then Harold clamps his arm around poor Phillip! *makes a thumping sound of an arm hitting a shoulder* 'Do you feel encouraged?' 'Yeah.' I mean it's-"
He painted his entire evening in that West End theater, right down to the Coke he drank at intermission and the British accents of the theatergoers around him. "'Whatta ya think?' *British drawl* 'It's quite good, yea.'" When he got to the end, he was crouched down on the floor, acting out the final scene of the weeping brothers. Then he was himself again, miming the tears streaming down the face of his former, theater-going self. "My whole body turned into a clap. 'BRAV-F&*#!-NG-O!'" He lept into the air, clapping with his whole arms. As long as I live, I will never forget Mark Stevick's whole body turning into a clap. My hands were pressed over my mouth, surpassing my joyous giggling. I think I was crying a little. He was, too. He came down from his theatrical high, waxing nostalgia about the power of great theater and what it had meant to him that night, tears in his eyes. It was incredible. We all applauded raucously when he finished.
It's moments like this when I think- how can I leave? How can the year be over? How can I spend an entire fall away from these people, and from English classes? How dare I? Not that Mark Stevick holds it against me. When I responded to his email inviting me into his 400-level Literary Journal class saying that I'd be abroad in London, he was nothing but thrilled for me. "London!" he kept saying in the email. That's how it ended:
"All the best,
Mark
London!"
I can't do justice to him or the class. But I had to at least write it down. Here's a video of him I did manage to take one day. It's horrible, but I was having too much fun to focus the lens of my iPhone camera.
Our professor, the gently formidable and whimsical Mark Stevick (or just Mark, as he insists we call him), got swept up recounting the time he saw the play that changed the course of his entire life- Orphans, by Samuel French. I've seen this play (on Broadway with Alec Baldwin and Tom Sturrige, no less) , and it's indeed phenomenal. But I've never loved it more than I did yesterday. In some sort of dramatic illustration of the power of throwing your audience right into the middle of the action (or something- I don't fully remember what brought it on, and frankly, who cares?), he launched straight into the first scene of the play:
"'Come on out, Phillip! I ain't in the mood for no games. Where are ya, Phillip?' Phillip's crouched in the corner. 'Don't tag me.' 'I ain't gonna tag you.' 'I'm tired of bein' it, Treat.'" He switched from the growling older brother Treat to the wide-eyed, huddling Phillip in a fraction of a second, spitting out the lines word for word. There was this moment of confusion, then delight between all of us at our desks as we exchanged wondering glances, realizing he knew the script by heart. His entire body language and mannerisms changed instantly from character to character. It seemed of the utmost importance that we grasp the dramatic power of the words. "And then Harold clamps his arm around poor Phillip! *makes a thumping sound of an arm hitting a shoulder* 'Do you feel encouraged?' 'Yeah.' I mean it's-"
He painted his entire evening in that West End theater, right down to the Coke he drank at intermission and the British accents of the theatergoers around him. "'Whatta ya think?' *British drawl* 'It's quite good, yea.'" When he got to the end, he was crouched down on the floor, acting out the final scene of the weeping brothers. Then he was himself again, miming the tears streaming down the face of his former, theater-going self. "My whole body turned into a clap. 'BRAV-F&*#!-NG-O!'" He lept into the air, clapping with his whole arms. As long as I live, I will never forget Mark Stevick's whole body turning into a clap. My hands were pressed over my mouth, surpassing my joyous giggling. I think I was crying a little. He was, too. He came down from his theatrical high, waxing nostalgia about the power of great theater and what it had meant to him that night, tears in his eyes. It was incredible. We all applauded raucously when he finished.
It's moments like this when I think- how can I leave? How can the year be over? How can I spend an entire fall away from these people, and from English classes? How dare I? Not that Mark Stevick holds it against me. When I responded to his email inviting me into his 400-level Literary Journal class saying that I'd be abroad in London, he was nothing but thrilled for me. "London!" he kept saying in the email. That's how it ended:
"All the best,
Mark
London!"
I can't do justice to him or the class. But I had to at least write it down. Here's a video of him I did manage to take one day. It's horrible, but I was having too much fun to focus the lens of my iPhone camera.
Anyways. Hope that is a partially-fun snapshot of my college career thus far. I'm almost halfway done! (No need to remind me of that, by the way. I'd like to remain in denial.)
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