Party Animal

This is a script I wrote in the spring for the Brown Bag class, but it wasn't accepted. I can see why. Anyway, here it is anyway.

Characters:
PEG
VICKIE
DUDE 1/DREW
DUDE 2/JOHNNY
Various Party Goers and Extras, including SLOW GUY and LOUD GUY.

Setting: Common room at a frat house. A beginning of term party, a couple groups of people, including a game of beer pong set up upstage.
Two girls enter.
PEG: Why are we here again?
VICKIE: Because we need to get the most out of our college experience!
PEG: I was planning on doing that in the library, not at some stupid puke fest. Please, Vickie, let’s just go back to the dorm.
VICKIE: Peg, as roommates, we are supposed to face our first year here together, to celebrate little victories, and to lean on each other when times get tough, or hold each other’s hair back if need be.
PEG: Is anyone here even over twenty-one?
VICKIE: Someone had to get the beer. Come on, at least pretend to have fun. For me? (She pulls PEG over to one of the groups, two guys holding red cups.) Hey guys, wild party, huh?
DUDE 1: Last year’s was better.
DUDE 2: Yeah, remember when Josh got all those freshman chicks to jump in the pool?
PEG: Sounds like a bunch of lemmings to me.
DUDE 1: Speaking of freshmen, you two look like fresh meat.
VICKIE: Oh, no, we’re not freshman! We transferred in, so yeah, we’re new and stuff, but we’re cool.
DUDE 2: Sure, whatever. You got names?
VICKIE: Yeah! I’m Vickie, and this is Peg—
PEG: Leave me out of it.
DUDE 1: Whoa, chill out, man.
PEG: (Pointedly at Vickie) I’m not really into the party scene, that’s all. I’m more of a coffee shop person.
DUDE 2: Slam poetry and shit, right?
PEG: Uh, yeah.
VICKIE: Well, I love parties! They just make me wanna break out and go crazy! Hey, what are you drinking?
DUDE 1: Let me mix you something. I’ll be right back. (He starts moving towards a table with bottles and cups.)
PEG: (Pushing Vickie after him) Go with him! Make sure he doesn’t slip you anything!
VICKIE: Jesus, okay! (She goes.)
DUDE 2: You really should relax a little. Everyone’s just here to let off steam and have fun.
PEG: I told you, I’m not in my natural environment.
DUDE 2: Okay, let’s start over. I’m Johnny.
PEG: Peg.
JOHNNY: Right. So, uh, what’s your major, I guess.
PEG: (By wrot, has said it a thousand times) Anthropology, minor in zoology.
JOHNNY: So you dig on animals.
PEG: …Was that a pun?
JOHNNY: It wasn’t supposed to be… was it?
PEG: Nevermind. What’s your major.
JOHNNY: I’m into a lot of stuff at the moment.
PEG: So you’re undecided?
JOHNNY: The whole major thing is stupid anyway. How are we supposed to know what we want to do for the rest of our lives when we can’t even decide what movie to watch? There’s way too much pressure from society, man. (He downs the rest of his drink) You want anything?
PEG: No thanks. (VICKIE and DUDE 1 return.)
VICKIE: Woo! I am having SO much fun!
JOHNNY: Dude, what did you put in that?
DUDE 1: Vodka with a splash of juice.
PEG: You watched him make that, right?
VICKIE: Peg, relax! Just let go! Come on, Drew, show me how to play beer pong.
DREW: Whatever you say. (He shoots Johnny a thumbs up.)
PEG: What a creep.
JOHNNY: He’s not so bad. (Tense silence.) So…
PEG: What?
JOHNNY: What, uh, what do you like about anthropology?
PEG: (Slightly taken aback at further interest, but recovers quickly.) Oh, well, it’s pretty much based on evolution, you know, how new species came about, how there’s a common ancestor for everything, that sort of thing.
JOHNNY: Yeah, I remember something about Darwin from my bio class in high school. It was alright.
PEG: Aside from that, though, some people just act like animals.
JOHNNY: How do you mean?
PEG: The vibe they give off, the stuff they do, how they hold themselves. I people-watch a lot, and it got to be a game I play with myself.
JOHNNY: How do you play? (Suddenly an argument arises at the beer pong table.)
TOUGH GUY: (Beating his chest with his fist) You wanna go?
PEG: (Pointing at tough guy) Okay, take that guy, for example. What does he remind you of?
JOHNNY: I dunno, a gorilla, I guess.
PEG: Yeah, now you pick someone for me.
JOHNNY: Okay, uh… How about this guy? (Points at a slow-moving guy who walks up to a bystander.)
SLOW GUY: (Speaks slowly) Hey, you wanna smoke some weed?
PEG: Definitely a sloth. (Someone at the game behind them scores a point.)
LOUD GUY: Ha! Yeah!! In your face!!
PEG: Him?
JOHNNY: Oo, tough one. Gorilla again?
PEG: No repeats. Think, what animal has loud displays of victory?
JOHNNY: (Doesn’t even try) I give up.
PEG: A hyena!
JOHNNY: Yeah, I guess works.
PEG: Well, you didn’t have anything. (The attention turns to Drew and Vickie, who are dancing together. Drew sinuously ducks and weaves.) Your buddy looks just like a snake to me. Just look at him.
JOHNNY: Yeah, well, if Drew’s a snake, your friend is a dog in heat.
PEG: Looks like they’re perfect for each other. (Another awkward silence.) Sorry.
JOHNNY: Yeah.
PEG: God, I wish they were.
JOHNNY: What?
PEG: Animals. I wish they actually were animals. It would definitely be more fun than this. (During this and the next few lines, the party-goers slowly become the animals they most resemble, unnoticed by PEG. Perhaps a lighting change.)
JOHNNY: Sure.
PEG: Total pandemonium. Can you imagine?
JOHNNY (Noticing) Whoa…
PEG: Too bad that’s completely impossible.
JOHNNY: Uh, Peg?
PEG: Yeah?
JOHNNY: It’s not so impossible.
(They both turn to see the mayhem around them. The gorilla is on the table, knocking over cups, snorting and showing dominance [perhaps at another gorilla, perhaps at the only humans left in the room]. The hyena prowls the edges, waiting for the fight to be done to take his share. The dog (VICKIE) is rubbing her butt against something; the snake (DREW) finds a place to survey the scene, looking for unsuspecting prey. The sloth just hangs from something, scratching himself.)
PEG: Oh shit.
JOHNNY: Isn’t this what you wanted?!
PEG: Keep your voice down! We don’t want to startle them. Come on, lets get out of here. (The gorilla fight moves to in front of the door.)
JOHNNY: Got a plan B?
PEG: Who am I, Dian Fossey?
JOHNNY: Who?
PEG: Shut up, I gotta think! Come on, think think think. (VICKIE comes over to JOHNNY and looks up at him, smiling and wagging her tail.)
JOHNNY: Hey, she likes me! Hey there, girl. (He holds his hand out for her to lick. She starts humping his leg.)
PEG: You got that right.
JOHNNY: (Completely helpless) Oh—uh—hey, could you—shit, um—
PEG: No! Bad dog! Git! (VICKIE scurries off with a scolded look)
JOHNNY: Thanks.
PEG: Don’t worry about it. I’ve wanted to do that for a while.
JOHNNY: Hey, what if we pretend to be animals? You know, blend in?
PEG: Seriously?
JOHNNY: Fine, you think of something!
PEG: No, that’s not a bad idea. Follow my lead. (She gets on all fours and starts crawling toward the door, the gorilla conflict having moved elsewhere.)
JOHNNY: Yeah, real convincing. Here, like this. (He crouches and starts walking like a chimp, leaning on his knuckles.)
PEG: That’s pretty good.
JOHNNY: Please, have you seen Dunston Checks In?
PEG: Is that a nature documentary?
JOHNNY: What a sad childhood you must have had.
PEG: Just get us out of here!
(Suddenly a lion roars offstage. All the animals exit or hide except PEG and JOHNNY, who freeze where they are.)
PEG: Don’t. Move.
(A police officer enters.)
OFFICER: We’ve had a noise complaint from this address. Having a party?
JOHNNY: Uh, yeah, sorry sir.
OFFICER: Well, keep it down, okay?
JOHNNY: Yes sir. (The officer exits. PEG and JOHNNY look at each other.) You wanna get some coffee some time?
PEG: Maybe. I’ll see you around. (She exits. DREW enters.)
DREW: Hey man, thanks for dealing with the pig.
JOHNNY: That was no pig.
END.

Outsides

There’s a dot on my hip

Somewhere between a mole and a freckle.

There’s another one

Under the shelf of my chin.

My hands are hosts to over a dozen tiny scars.

I remember only a fraction of their origin stories.

Accidentally stabbing my palm with a pencil

Right in the middle of my lifeline.

Scraping my left knuckles along a spiky pool wall.

Cutting my index finger while carving a jack-o-lantern.

I read a Redwall book as the doctor gave me

Three stitches.

There’s a bruise on my knee that won’t go away.

I’ve had white hair since I was sixteen.

My shoulders

(the first part of my body I ever felt good about)

have soft brown freckles.

I ignore the hair on my toes and under my belly button.

The tip of my nose looks like a miniature cleft chin.

The iris of my right eye has a dark red dot.

Look closely and you'll see it.

My pinkies are double jointed.

I have my mom’s legs,

A fact that always makes me smile.

My feet look like narrow kites,

All sharp angles.


These are my outsides,

The casing of my being.

My temple, if you will.

It will drift, and sag, and pull,

Until it falls away entirely.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

What will be left?

First, though, I want to live

Like my spirit is a spark,

My imagination is oxygen,

And my flesh is crisp dry kindling.

I want to burn with passion and love

Until all that remains

Is the soft, delicate glowing embers.

Winds blow hard, and rain falls thick.

I await for my blaze to simmer down to a candle,

Too far from the wood to catch.

I want to see if I have the strength enough

To be my own gentle breeze

To encourage the flame,

Consume me.

Let me never be cold again.

Feel the Thrum

Been getting more into poetry. Oh no, I'm turning into one of *those* bloggers. Ugh. Anyway, here it is. It's called "Feel the Thrum."

Feel the deep thrum of a bass guitar.
Let it shake you at the atomic level;
Too subtle to truly feel, but instinctual.
It is enough to know it is there,
Like the sudden brief flare of heat in a lover’s chest
When triggered by the thought of their beloved’s caress.
I still don’t quite know what that is.

Let rest the swift powerful machete swipes that clear away
All the little what-nots and by-the-bys
That fill the dozey spaces between wake-up calls.
Set aside the gas tank and the matchbook;
Destruction for its own sake is perhaps
Mankind’s idea of donning the robe of the Grim Reaper,
By holding the key to the life force behind an
Intact windowpane,
Or deciding the fate of an as yet unsalted slug.

Pause, instead, to fill and expand your lungs to the brim,
Past all enduring,
Until your ribcage pushes out against the walls of your house
To make way for your home.
Live knowing you are alive,
That you are at all.

Now listen up, because that was the easy part.
Look around you, past brick and mortar and lumber;
See only those others that are like you,
And like me, and him and her and them and all.
Did you look? Did you see their faces?
Of course not.
If you had, your gaze would bend to the shape of the earth.
And even if you could, that does not account for
The time that would amass between start and finish.
No one is willing to pencil that kind of compassion into a planner.
No one I know, or you know, or anyone those people know.

Let fly the blinds on your bedroom window,
Allowing the lights of the souls of men set fire to your mind,
Scarring your retinas so you can never look away again.
What? Does that not sound like a good idea to you?
No, not to me either.
Good, then. We’ll all stay hidden away
In our sturdy stoic fortresses of stone.
Safe, safe, alone.

POP

I wrote a new script for this student playhouse class I've taken for a few quarters. The theme this time was space. It's called POP. Enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated.

LIGHTS UP on a park, indicated by a long park bench center stage (at least four blocks). Enter Robert and Charles, both with hula-hoops attached with strings around their waists and wearing suit jackets. Robert, who carries a newspaper, goes straight to the bench, sits down, and begins to read. Charles carries a fancy phone and has a Bluetooth piece in his ear.

CHARLES: Daryl, I don’t care what you have to do, get me that deal. (Pause) Well I disagree. I think you’re not doing your best, because if this is your best, it’s high time I find myself a new personal assistant. Are we clear? Now get me that eighty percent, or pack your desk. (Ends the call and sits down next to Robert. Their hula-hoops never touch.) I swear it’s as if that kid thinks he’s still in college.

ROBERT: (Not really paying attention) Isn’t he?

CHARLES: Robert, I’m not a professor. I don’t tolerate mistakes. He’s got to learn.

ROBERT: You’re a wonderful role model, Charles.

CHARLES: Kids these days.

ROBERT: (Indicates paper, which his eyes have never left) The rest of the world isn’t much better.

CHARLES: As long as I can retire on some white sandy beach with WiFi by the time I’m forty, I don’t care about the rest of the world. (His phone vibrates in his hand; he activates his earpiece.) You’d better have some good news for me. (Pause) Ah, much better, Daryl. You have redeemed yourself—(Pause) What do you mean, there may be a hitch? (Robert ruffles his newspaper pointedly, Charles begins to make his way offstage, still speaking as he exits.) Do you know how many resumes are sitting in my inbox, Daryl? Young hopefuls who would do anything for your job, and I mean anything…

(Robert sighs and continues to read his paper. After a beat, enter Daisy, sans hula-hoop. Let it be known that this is very unusual. She instead wears a white belt around her waste. She sits down on the bench next to Robert, humming some perky tune, perhaps fidgeting. Robert glances at her pointedly, as if to see what kind of person would be so happy for no reason. He then sees that she does not have a hula-hoop like he does, and he scoots down the bench uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact, perhaps hiding behind the paper. She turns and looks at the front page, sighs, and with a resigned air, begins:

DAISY: When will there be happy things on the front page? (Robert says nothing, and over the course of her speech he becomes more and more uncomfortable) Always stuff about politics or epidemics or, you know, whatever. It’s like the bad stuff is the only thing worth paying attention to. What about a nice big picture of a village in Africa someplace getting a new well? I’d read that story!

ROBERT: (Tightly) Quite.

DAISY: Aww, come on, they’d sell a million copies! Wouldn’t you read that story? All the little kids with their pretty white teeth, or the ones they’ve got left, smiling so big you’ve got to stop and think, wow isn’t that nice? Seeing little kids smiling always makes my day, before they know any better to start worrying about stuff. Those were the days, huh?

ROBERT: Miss, what is it you want from me?

DAISY: Want?

ROBERT: Yes, from me. There are plenty of benches in the park, and you had to sit here at mine.

DAISY: It’s just a bench.

ROBERT: It is. That’s… true.

DAISY: And benches were made to sit on.

ROBERT: That is their primary function, yes.


DAISY: And are useful as places to meet people at, and a lovely place at that. Would you look at all those flowers?

ROBERT: Ye—no! Not for meeting people. You meet people at meetings.

DAISY: Well what is it we’re doing here if not meeting?

ROBERT: This was not a prearranged agreement to socialize.

DAISY: Not that you know of.

ROBERT: Look here, miss, you—

DAISY: Daisy.

ROBERT: Excuse me?

DAISY: My name is Daisy. (She offers her hand.) You shake it.

ROBERT: I know what a handshake is!

DAISY: What’s you’re name?

ROBERT: It’s Robert.

DAISY: And shame on you for making me ask. What harm would it do? We’re even now; it’s only fair.

ROBERT: We are most certainly not.

DAISY: Can I call you Bobby?

ROBERT: I would rather you didn’t.

DAISY: Woops, I bet your girlfriend calls you Bobby, huh?

ROBERT: No one calls me “Bobby”. No one.

DAISY: Not even your girlfriend?

ROBERT: I don’t—

DAISY: You look more like a Bobby to me. Wait a second. (She reaches over and ruffles his hair a bit.) There, now you look
more like a Bobby for sure.

ROBERT: (Clutching at his hula-hoop, embarrassed) Don’t do that!

DAISY: That gets in the way, I bet.

ROBERT: It’s just where it’s supposed to be.

DAISY: It doesn’t really do anything, you know. (She gets right in his face) See? (He scrambles away, possibly holding her back at arms length.)

ROBERT: This is highly irregular!

(Charles enters from where he exited from earlier, looking triumphant.)

CHARLES: He might be a pain, but he certainly doesn’t crumple under pressure. (He notices Daisy for the first time. Robert lets her go abruptly. Charles looks at both of them with objective curiosity.) Oh, hello, miss.

DAISY: What is with you guys and your misses? I’m not a debutante, for goodness’ sake.

ROBERT: (Clears his throat uncomfortably. Polite out of habit, not necessarily by choice.) Charles, this is Daisy. Daisy, this is Charles.

CHARLES: I say, Robert. When were you going to tell me about this?

ROBERT: About what? There’s nothing to tell. I just met her.

DAISY: And we’re getting along swimmingly.

CHARLES: So, Daisy, what do you do?

DAISY: I’m a kindergarten teacher. Don’t you just love kids?

CHARLES: I wish I could remember being that young.

ROBERT: I do.

DAISY: It's a shame more people don't.

CHARLES: Young lady, I can’t help but notice, you don’t have…

DAISY: Before you start, yes I do. It’s right here. (She indicates her belt)

ROBERT: I would hardly call that personal space.

DAISY: I wouldn’t wear it if I didn’t have to. They don’t in lots of places.

CHARLES: No personal space?

ROBERT: Don’t—but—how? How is that possible?

DAISY: I can show you if you want.

ROBERT: Who, me?

DAISY: Sure.

CHARLES: Oh, that might not be such a good idea. Robert hasn’t cut loose since college, there’s no telling what could happen.

ROBERT: (Highly embarrassed) Charles! Not in mixed company!

CHARLES: Come now, she’s really not the type who would care.

DAISY: I’m not, honestly. What happened in college, Robert?

ROBERT: No, really, I couldn’t.

CHARLES: Go on; inform this young lady of that time you—

ROBERT: No! Stop right there, Charles!

DAISY: You’re killin’ me, here! Just tell me!

ROBERT: (Imploringly to Charles) Is this really the time to bring this all up again?

CHARLES: No time like the present.

DAISY: Right. What he said.

ROBERT: (Flustered, stalling) Well it’s—you see I was quite young, and, being immersed in my studies, had little experience when it came to… personal relations… Well you know how it was back then. Students were experimenting with larger allowances, and I became… somewhat fascinated, almost enamored with the cultural significance of our particular generation, and--

CHARLES: Out with it already!

DAISY: Robert!

ROBERT: (In a rush) I—I opened my space!

(Stunned silence)

DAISY: I knew it! I just knew it!

CHARLES: I wish I had been there to see it.

ROBERT: (To Charles) I should never have told you. (To Daisy) He hasn’t let me live it down since.

DAISY: (In awe) How could you ever close it again, having lived that?

ROBERT: Well, when my father found out—

DAISY: Why should that make a difference?

CHARLES: Oh, you don’t know his father.

ROBERT: I had a very strict upbringing.

DAISY: Well so did I. It was the thing for parents to do back then.

ROBERT: More so than others.

DAISY: I couldn’t have been—

CHARLES: I wouldn’t dispute this one, my dear. His father was particularly formidable.

ROBERT: He was.

DAISY: (Shit just got real) I see.

ROBERT: Anyway, when he found out what I had done… It’s just safer inside.

DAISY: (Pity) Oh Robert, you can’t really think that, can you?

ROBERT: Yes. Yes I can.

DAISY: Look… I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life or anything. But I can maybe show you… This works for me. And, yeah, it doesn’t work for everyone. Some people just need their space. But it’s worth a shot.

CHARLES: No doubt, it is an admirable enterprise, but…

DAISY: It’s so much more than that! This is a lifestyle choice that is becoming more and more rare, just because people are scared.

ROBERT: There is a great deal to be—scared of.

DAISY: I’m not saying there isn’t! I’m scared every day.

(Beat)

ROBERT: Really?

DAISY: All the time.

ROBERT: But you seem so… happy.

DAISY: I am.

ROBERT: How? (Then, almost desperate) Please, tell me how to be happy.

DAISY: Well, for me, it was just a matter of being okay with not knowing what might happen next. (She thinks) The more space I kept to myself, the more disconnected I felt. I felt like I was saying no all the time, whether I wanted to or not. (Joyfully) Now I feel like I wake up to every day saying, “Yes. Yes, I will take what live has to give me, and goddamn it if it isn’t a hell of a ride.”

CHARLES: (Generally uncomfortable by how far this whole conversation has gone) That’s quite commendable, Daisy. I hope we meet again. Sometime. (He starts to exit, turns back) Robert?

ROBERT: (Visibly shaken) Yes, Charles?

CHARLES: Shall we?

ROBERT: No. No, I don’t think so. (He looks at Daisy, who is beaming as the realization dawns on her.) I think I’ll stay a little while longer.

CHARLES: What?

ROBERT: I’m staying, Charles. I’m tired of being scared all the time, of not feeling comfortable in my own skin.

CHARLES: You can’t be taking this hippy seriously.

DAISY: You can stay, too. But you won’t. That’s okay, as long as that makes you happy.

CHARLES: (At a loss for words) It—that doesn’t—(Trying to reason) Robert, we’ve known each other for a long time.

ROBERT: We have.

CHARLES: Right! So, you’re just going to give your life up to go live on some commune, smelling flowers and getting in touch
with yourself? Is that your plan?

ROBERT: (Looking at Daisy) I hadn’t really thought that far.

DAISY: Doesn’t it feel great? (They share a moment, in which Charles is decidedly left out.)

CHARLES: Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. (Exits)

ROBERT: I’m still not sure what’s happening.

DAISY: You’ve done it before.

ROBERT: It was such a long time ago; I barely remember anything.

DAISY: But you know how.

ROBERT: Will you help me? Please? (She nods kindly, helps him remove his hula-hoop. He stands there, somewhat embarrassed, smiling nervously.) Now you’ve got me beat.

DAISY: Oh, I’m sorry! That was so unfair of me–hold on. (She turns away from him and removes her belt. She turns around slowly, smiling gently. He is in awe for a moment, and then turns his face away, again embarrassed.)

ROBERT: Forgive me. (Daisy walks to him, reaches out, and turns his face towards hers. He gasps at the contact. She then takes his hand and places it on her face.)

DAISY: There is nothing to forgive. (She kisses his hand.) You are alive. There is no reason or need to feel ashamed. Just be.

(She pulls his face to hers and kisses his cheek. His eyes close, he breathes deeply, resting in her touch. She lets go of the kiss, touches her forehead to his. He tentatively kisses her. She kisses back. They break apart, holding hands. Then they both start to laugh, first softly, then building to a crescendo as “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out” by Cat Stevens plays and)

LIGHTS OUT

And I call myself a blogger.

Actually I don't, because that would make me a hypocrite. But like any self respecting Silicon Valley girl, I'm sitting in a mostly empty coffee shop, which was until about an hour and a half ago pretty busy. And what do you do in coffee shops? People-watch, but of course. Not too many people to watch at the moment. Slim pickings.

To my right: 3 programmers (surprise surprise) chatting about start-ups and the iPad and how someone else had the same product 5 years ago.

To my left: a dude on his laptop who was just recently shaken from her revery by an unexpected visit from a friend--a married father of two, in tow along with the two tots behind his wife.

In front of me: a door to the upstairs section of the building, where people escape to in order to get away from that loud coffee grinder (which isn't really that loud).
Next to that door: 4 arm chairs, three of which are occupied. Not sure what they are talking about. One of them is very handsome.

Across the room: the counter, which a small line has formed to order their different teas, lattes, pastries, etc.

I myself am sporting the remains of an apricot bar and a lukewarm no-longer-hot chocolate. Fun fact: I am supposed to be working on a little summary write-up. Urgh. And I won't have any time tomorrow, but no matter. This helped me get the juices flowing, I guess I'll work on that. Or I'll just futz around on Facebook. Either way.

Chapter 12: Middle Colonies 1600-1700

Quite a few in this one. Sorry, I know I'm just pumping these out, but I actually have a little bit of time. Here we go!

"In 1663, Rhode Island and Connecticut belatedly obtained royal charters; Plymouth never so succeeded." Neener neener!

"Imperial bureaucrats believed that the proprietary colonies should first be converted into royal colonies and then consolidated into an overarching government like the Spanish viceroyalty of New Spain." No! That's a terrible idea! Shit took forever to get done and there was a fuck-ton of paper work and... just no. Bad idea.

"By smiting the Dutch, the [English] crown hoped to strengthen its own power within a more consolidated empire." I'm sure it would also feel pretty smug to know that historians are tying verbs such as "smite" to it. I know I would be.

"The Dutch economy also benefited from a liberal government that adopted policies of intellectual freedom and religious toleration unique in seventeenth-century Europe," and in some parts of 21st-century America. (Womp.)

"Fur trading operations wanted only few colonists, to minimize the costs of supply and to discourage competitors trading on their own accounts." So, they were basically chill Communists? Cool...?

"In 1625, the Dutch founded the fortified town of New Amsterdam on Manhattan Island at the mouth of the river." 'Even old New York was once New Amsterdam...' :D

"The bifurcation led to different Indian policies in the two halves of the valley." You lost me at 'bifurcation'. New favorite word, by the way.

"At the mouth of Brandywine Creek (present-day Wilmington, Delaware), the colonists established Fort Christina, named in honor of the Swedish queen." Nonsense! There's no Fort Christina in Middle Earth!

"But the principal explanation is that the Netherlands had a smaller pool of potential emigrants with fewer incentives to emigrate, compared with the more numerous and more discontented English." Hahahaha it's okay, Netherlands, that's a GOOD thing.

"In 1664 the English instigated the second war by sending an expedition to conquer New Netherland." He makes it sound like a camping trip, hehe.

"The Dutch also resented the English troops posted at New York, Esopus, and Albany, where the undisciplined soldiers robbed and assaulted the colonists with apparent impunity," a tradition that would continue for another hundred years until those rowdy colonists finally got fed up with it. Also, it's pretty crazy what a uniform and a gun does to a soldier's brain with regards to justification, etc.

"To their dismay, the Iroquois discovered that the New Yorkers honored the Covenant Chain alliance only when convenient." Yeah, Indians, get used to that... :/

"Feeling betrayed, Penn denounced his opponents as selfish ingrates indifferent to his extraordinary expenses and exertions in securing and colonizing Pennsylvania." Dude, you've got a COLONY named after you. STFU.

"In the mid-eighteenth century, a German immigrant reported, 'They have a saying here: Pennsylvania is a heaven for farmers, paradise for artisans, and hell for officials and preachers." Muahaha! Take that! Also, sign me up.

"But the fractious diversity of the middle colonies also frustrated English visions of an empire responsive to command, especially during war." Yeah, about that...

Chapter 11: Carolina 1670 - 1760

Ah, the beginnings of the American South. Let's dance.

"Eliza Lucas Pinckney described the Carolina summer as 'extreamly disagreeable, excessive hott, much thunder and lightening, and muskatoes and sand flies in abundance.'" Well what the fuck are we waiting for?! Let's go!!!

"In 1670 three ships from Barbados bore two hundred colonists to the mouth of the Ashley River, where they founded Charles Town (modified to Charleston in 1783), named, like Carolina, in honor of King Charles II." Jeez, what a bunch o' brown-nosers.

"The Carolina trader benefited from the native custom of providing wives to welcome newcomers." Exactly how welcome is welcome? ... What? A wife could come in handy.

"In 1682 a Carolinian noted, 'There is such infinite Herds that the whole Country seems but one continued [deer] Park.'" The smell must have been awful.

"The Carolinians justified enslavement as beneficial for Indians, sparing captives from execution and exposing them to Christian civilization among their English purchasers." In other words, hey, it's not like we killed them, we just make them more vulnerable to death via disease and exhaustion. But don't worry about it, they might go to our Heaven-which by the way is the ONLY one.

"The South Carolina elite became renowned as even more gracious, polite, genteel, and lavish than the gentlemen of Virginia." That's not saying much. If you'll recall, the gentry in Virginia nailed you to the wall by your ears if you insulted them.

"Moreover, black slavery made manual labor seem degrading to free men, which discouraged exertion by common whites, who aspired, instead, to acquire their own slaves to do the dirty work." Come on down and buy some slaves! Well? What are you waiting for? Everyone is doing it. You don't want to be not cool... do you? Do you!?

"An official described the colonists as 'stark Mad after Negroes'". In lay terms, that's referred to as "jungle fever".

"Until they could own slaves, the white Georgians considered themselves unfree." Wait, what?

"Because Carolina society so closely resembled Barbados, English officials commonly referred to 'Carolina in the West Indies.' This development was ironic, for plantation society had driven from Barbados the original emigrants who became the first Carolinians." I like this, it's like Taylor is beckoning the reader closer, slightly hunched in stifled giggles as he lets us in on his little joke. "You see it's funny because *giggle* because they CAME from Barbados, and, *giggle*, well you see what I'm trying to say."

Chapter 12 to follow.

Chapter 10: The West Indies

This chapter was all about how the little/sorta big islands in the Gulf of Mexico, including plantation culture and pirates! As you can imagine, nothing really happy happens in this chapter, but I managed to find things, anyway.

"Sugar could bear the costs of long-distance transportation (and the purchase of slaves by the thousand) because it was in great and growing European demand to sweeten food and drink." Europe's sweet tooth was a perfectly legitimate excuse for, you know, slavery. (Starting things off light.)

"Lacking cities and gold but possessing a fearsome reputation, the Caribs were the sort of Indians that the Spanish had learned to avoid." Hahaha oh NOW they get the point.

"Landscape, climate, location, and pigs combined to render Barbados especially attractive." As we'll recall from our good friend George Spencer, the Brits were REALLY into pigs.

"Aside from the plantation buildings and a few groves of trees, the island was a terraced sea of cane plants, which grew eight feet high at maturity." Does it make me a nerd that the first thing I thought of when I read this was "Keep out of the long grass!"? ... there might be raptors... It could happen!

"Compared with the Lesser Antilles, Jamaica was grander, lusher, hotter, wetter, stormier, more mountainous, and more susceptible to slave rebellions. To English sensibilities, that enlarged scale rendered Jamaica both the most alluring and the most disturbing place in their West Indies." Sounds like a sexy dangerous lady. ;)

"English Jamaica had a dual economy: agriculture in the interior valleys and far-ranging piracy from the seaport of Port Royal." Yarr! Them fields be needin' harvestin'!

"Worse yet, the piracy sometimes scared away shipping, depriving the planters of new slaves and clogging their warehouses with unsold sugar." If I was there, I would make lots and lots of cookies for everyone. :)

"Suffering from cirrhosis of the liver, the heavy-drinking Sir Henry [Morgan] sought relief from an African folk doctor. But his treatments-injections of urine and an all-body plaster of moist clay-only hastened Morgan's death." It might just be me, but don't you think that doctor was fucking with him? Just a *little* bit?

"After 1690, white immigration to Jamaica slowed, while out-migration grew." Um, Professor Taylor, I believe the word you're looking for is emigration. It's okay, it happens to the best of us.

"Although an economic success, the West Indies was a demographic failure that manifested a society in consuming a pursuit of profit and with a callous disregard for life." Well, it's a good thing that never happened on the mainland.
"At the end of the seventeenth century, white emigrants from the West Indies, particularly Barbados, carried the seeds of that society to the southern mainland by founding the new colony of Carolina." Oh shit...

Chapter 11 soon to follow.

Gold Mine

When I saw the chapter title "Puritans and Indians 1600 - 1700" I knew I was in for some doozies. I stopped a lot more in this chapter, but most of them would have just been something like "what the fuck... way to go Puritans". Well, here it goes.

"Suspecting that the wilderness was seductive as well as evil, Puritan leaders feared that their own people would degenerate into Indians from prolonged contact with native ways and the native land." There's a reason they're called "tree huggers", after all.

"The Indians regarded most colonists as mean and stingy, enslaved by their property and their longings for more." So... nothing has changed?

"The New English disdained the Indians as "Lazy Drones [who] live Idleness Exceedingly" for failing to create more property from their abundant nature." I just thought Idleness Exceeding would be an awesome band name.

"Contrary to the first Thanksgiving myth of mutual trust, the Plymouth colonists regarded the Indians as, in Bradford's words, 'savage people, who are cruel, barbarous, and most treacherous.'" What about the corn and the turkey? And every one sitting on one side of the long table, all smiling and happy? Next thing you're going to tell me is that Pocahontas and John Smith weren't actually a couple... oh no... My childhood is gone forever! *sobs*

"Regarding war as a test of their godliness, the Puritans interpreted their especially bloody victory as compelling proof that God had found them worthy." I'm sorry, but I get the image of blood-soaked men on bended knee. It's the Crusades all over again, which were also a bad idea, by the way.

"Stung by rebukes from their godly friends at home, especially over the Pequot slaughter, some of the New English belatedly turned their attention to evangelizing the Indians." Oh, NOW they do something that doesn't involving killing people. Well done. *facepalm*

"Comfortable in their own culture, most Indians balked at converting to English ways and beliefs." Well no shit. That does beg the question, however: were there some Indians who thought to themselves "Hey, I would like to work my ass off for something I'll never see, and smell and be hairy and wear too many clothes when it's 90 degrees and humid as shit. That sounds like a good plan, let's get on that"?

"John Cotton, Jr.,... had become a missionary as an act of atonement when caught in adultery with a colonial woman. Was it then simply an innocent question when an Indian asked him 'whether any man that hath committed Adultery may go to heaven'? Cotton did not record his answer." Oh snap! You tell him, random Indian convert person!

"The best colonial commanders abandoned European military tactics, based upon masses of men engaged in complicated maneuvers to deliver volleys of gunfire. Instead, they adopted the Indian tactics of dispersion, stealth, ambush, and individual marksmanship." Well no shit. How do you expect to actually win a battle if you stand your dudes face to face and say bang? Especially when one side has lots more guns than the other side. Oh wait... right.... that was their advantage... Anyway, this just makes me think of "The Patriot", when Mel Gibson goes all Cherokee on the redcoats. That's what happened... right? Right!?

That's all for this chapter. I'm really having fun with this little series by the way. :)

New England Was Weird

Boy, howdy, let me tell you. More quotes from "American Colonies" by Prof. Alan Taylor

"In contrast to their counterparts in England and the Chesapeake, where authorities rarely intervened in domestic disputes, New England magistrates and church congregations routinely protected women from insult and abuse. (Sometimes they had to protect husbands.)" That just made me laugh. I know, domestic violence is never cool, but sometimes it's funny.

"As her pains increased, the guests assisted the midwife in conducting the birth, supporting the squatting mother in their arms." Now THAT is one powerful motherfucking image. So much so that I had to clear the air by swearing.

"In New England, as in old England, fishing employed hard-drinking and hard-swearing men with scant property and little reputation to lose." This also made me laugh. I think it was the term "hard-swearing". As opposed to soft-swearing, like "Jinkies!" or "Well, cracker jacks!"

"The fisherman scandalized a 1664 official investigation that concluded, 'Some here are of the opinion that as many men may share a woman as they do a boat, and some have done so.'" Scandalous indeed. Sounds like a really shitty party.

"Moreover, as God's stronghold, Puritan New England invited relentless attack from Satan, who meant to destroy the Bible Commonwealth. Embroiled in the cosmic struggle between God's will and Satan's wiles, New England was a pivotal battleground for the eternal fate of all mankind." His matter-of-fact tone is positively.... matter-of-fact.

"In 1642 the New Haven authorities suspected George Spencer of bestiality when a sow bore a piglet that carried his resemblance. He confessed and they hanged but Spencer and the unfortunate sow." First of all, what the fuck. Second of all, this Spencer guy had to by one ugly motherfucker to be plausibly likened to a pig. Third of all, calling the sow "unfortunate" is really a slap in the face after the poor thing was nailed by a horny farmer and then strung up because it gave some sicko a boner.

"All dissenters were given, in the words of one Massachusetts Puritan, 'free Liberty to keep away from us.'" Like when the Model-T Ford first came out. You could get it in whatever color you liked, as long as it was black.

"Whenever cattle and children sickened and died, the New English suspected that some in their midst practiced satanic magic." Really, guys? Sometimes people just get sick. It happens. Deal.

"Communities and authorities disproportionately detected witchcraft in women who seemed angry and abrasive, violating the cultural norm celebrating female modesty." Damn, I would have been fucked. Along with most of the ladies I hang out with. ;P

"Puritanism kept New England behind the times in supernatural belief." Womp. Just... womp.

That's all for now. History is fun! And weird! And stupid! Yay!

Collected [Amusing] Quotes from Alan Taylor's "American Colonies"

I'm doing some reading for my early American history class, and the chapter about Jamestown is a gold mine of good quotes. Here are the ones that made me pause.

"English colonizers had a peculiar confidence that their economic self-interest served God." Those silly English

"'A more damned crew hell never vomited.'" Why don't people talk like this anymore?!

"The Virginia Company naively instructed the colonial leaders never to allow the Indians to see any English die, lest the natives learn that the colonists were 'but common men' rather than immortals." Wow... seriously? Dumb.

"When seventeen colonists imposed themselves on one village [to request food], the natives killed them, stuffed their dead mouths with maize as a sign of contempt, and left the corpses for their countrymen to discover." Now that's bad-ass.

"Convicting a laborer of stealing two pints of oatmeal to allay his hunger, the leaders had a long needle thrust through his tongue, to keep him from ever eating again. Chained to a tree, the convict slowly starved to death, a vivid and lingering example to terrify his fellow colonists." Jesus... imagine being that guy. Imagine being the dude that had to thrust the needle through his tongue. *shudders*

"During the 17th century, the Chesapeake's leading men... were very touchy about their origins, qualifications, and conduct. When Richard Crocker accurately but recklessly denounced two Virginia councillors as extortioners, the council put him into the public pillory with his ears nailed to the wooden frame." Dude went too far. I can see him there now, saying, "Too soon?"

"...the family household, which the English called a 'little commonwealth'... If a servant, child, or wife killed his or her master, the law considered the culprit guilty of 'Petit Treason' as well as murder." Well, now you're just fucking around.

"In 1648 a Virginian marveled that only one in nine immigrants died during their first year, compared with one in four during the preceding generation." Womp.

That's all for now. As I continue to read I'll add more. =P

At Work (for Shame!)

Yes, I know, I shouldn't be posting, but the interns have a blog, too, so I can just pretend I'm writing for that. Even though I just posted something.... hush.
This sort of writing I normally reserve for my journal. Stream of conscious and whatnot. But oh well. I feel the need for an audience. Understandable, since I'm cooped up in a 15' by 10' office with one other person and quite a bit of other crap. Desks and computers and a huge demon printer (you read right, it prints demons, but it is also possessed by Satan his-self). Bookshelves with stuff, you know, an office.
It's not that I can't work at a desk, I just never thought I would be interested in a career path that would land me behind one. Well, I guess this is a career path (ew, scary thought). But I'm sitting on a folding chair, so that should give you an idea of my social standing when I walk in the door. Okay now, it's not that bad, everyone is really nice and the work is mostly just boring, not hard. Intern stuff. *shrug* Plus my folding chair now has a little red paisley cushion on it, which gives it a nice touch.
Should probably give a little update on what I've been up to for the last month (wow I'm a terrible blogger). I got cast in a show at Bus Barn Stage Company in Los Altos, making it my first professional acting gig. Pretty exciting. The play is Private Lives by Noel Coward, and I am playing Louise, the irritable French maid. It's good fun, and really stretching me as a performer. It might surprise you to learn that I am not used to being the center of attention. It makes me really uncomfortable and I get self-conscious and it's no good. Louise, on the other hand, doesn't give a shit about what people think of her, and has little to no respect for her superiors. Also she has a cold. The effect, I hope, is comedy. Well, I think I'm funny, or at least funnier than when I started. The director and rest of the cast are all very supportive, which is good, because this is hard. Go figure.
(Rawr why is it always so cold in this office?! I need to bring in fingerless gloves to keep my hands warm.)
What else... Ah yes. If you keep tabs with you Youtube channel (insert plug), you'll know that I recently acquired a guitar, and have begun to teach myself how to play. Thank goodness for the internet, otherwise I might have to actually talk to real people, which requires their patience (and mine). I don't like having to make people wait on me, or coddle me. I can look after myself (which might account a bit for the anti-drama queen thing), and this is no exception. That being said, all the offers of assitance from friends are very nice and well-meaning, but I can't sit there and listen to someone talk about something. I have to do it, and find it out for myself, in order to really learn it.

Okay, flurry of activity happened and now it's chill again. That was an interesting 45 minutes. Printing and stapling and frantically putting together packets for the board meeting. And now that that is done I'm back to nothing to do. Fantastic. I wonder what's going on Facebook...

Fitful Night

It's 6:30 in the morning, at least 2 hours earlier than I'm used to being awake on any given morning. I wasn't feeling well, and I tossed and turned between 2AM until just about 15 minutes ago when I got up. My pajamas are still on, so I haven't completely given up on sleep, but it doesn't look good. To say that I dreamed might be misleading; it would be more fitting to say I thought about something a lot as I was trying to sleep and it took off on its own. Something about a youtube video collaboration I was supposed to be a part of, but I was unclear on my part, and the guy who I was doing it with was sort of failing at his part of it too. Now that I think about it I can actually remember his face and where I know him from in real life. In fact, I don't know him personally, he's an actor I saw at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival last year named Gregory Linington. Very tall, strapping gentleman fellow. Sort of the bad luck and bumbling sort in my head, though. What a shame.
Anyway, he was in a play called Equivocation. It was very good, if you like Shakespeare, I suggest you read it. There's only one female part, but it's a good part, but there's only one female part. That happens a lot in theater... ah well.
Still don't feel 100%, obviously. Maybe breakfast will help.

What Goes Up

New script for Brown Bag next quarter. Tried to stretch myself a little with this one. It was really fun to write, and I hope you enjoy it!

Craig Steele (M)
Dr. Albright (F)
Mr. Steele (M)
Setting: Psychiatrist’s office (desk, two chairs, one in front, and one behind it, couch)

LIGHTS UP
Dr. Albright is sitting behind the desk, Craig is sitting in front of it facing her.

Craig: Come on, Doctor, you can’t be serious.

Albright: I am completely serious. There’s nothing wrong with you.

Craig: Look, there’s gotta be something.

Albright: You must accept that this is who you are. (Pause) How long have you been coming to see me, Craig?

Craig: Four months, but—

Albright: Twice a week for four months. And your initial complaint?

Craig: Well, nothing really definite.

Albright: When you walked into this office for your first appointment, for what reason were you seeking help?

Craig: Bad dreams.

Albright: And…?

Craig: I would get nauseous in public for no reason.

Albright: And…?

Craig: (Lamely) That’s it.

Albright: And do you still have bad dreams?

Craig: I don’t remember. That’s the problem!

Albright: Do you still experience nausea?

Craig: No, but—

Albright: Then my work here is done. As long as you stay on the medication, life can continue as normal. You should be relieved.

Craig: Well I’m not! I’m worse, I know it!

Albright: Is this an unrelated problem?

Craig: Not exactly.

Albright: If it is an unrelated problem to the previous issues we have been addressing, you need to talk to my secretary and she can fix you up with a new set of appointments—

Craig: No, no, it’s related! It fits right in.

Albright: We can discuss this at our next meeting. If you could just go to front desk—

Craig: Dr. Albright! Listen to what I am telling you!

Albright: All right, Craig. I’m listening. Perhaps I’ll be able to recommend a new psychiatrist.

Craig: No, it has to be you.

Albright: We’ll see about that.

Craig: Please, doctor. I’m asking you on a professional level, as a patient. Something is not right with my head and, well, I think it might have something to do with the—the work we’ve done here.

Albright: I hope you’re not blaming the practice, or, Heaven forbid, me personally for this new development.

Craig: No! Well, maybe. I think it has had something to do with it.

Albright: Let’s think of this as progress being made.

Craig: I don’t know about that… things have certainly changed, but I’m not convinced that they’re for the better.

Albright: Perhaps this is a minor side effect to the drugs we have you on. I believe the pharmaceutical company lists dizziness, loss of appetite, and minor insomnia among typical side effects. Are you experiencing anything of that nature?

Craig: Nothing like that at all.

Albright: Odd. Please continue.

Craig: Here’s the deal. I think I might legitimately be going crazy.

Albright: I pride myself to think that I would have known that even before you did. I’m a trained professional.

Craig: Yeah, but this is serious. Like, weird shit.

Albright: Would you care to elaborate? Here, why don’t you take a nice lie-down? (She indicates the couch. There is already someone lounging there.)

Craig: Jesus!

Albright: Something wrong?

Craig: Yes! This is exactly what I’m talking about!

Albright: I don’t believe you ever fully explained.

Craig: (Slightly hysterical) You’re right, I haven’t been dreaming so much, I’ve been sleeping better, no problems there. I wake up and I don’t remember a thing, I might as well have been in a coma. But then I open my eyes and I wake up to shit like this!

Albright: There is nothing there, Craig. What do you see?

Craig: I know there isn’t! But… I see my dad, but he doesn’t exactly look like my dad, he’s—not quite right.

Steele: Catch, boy! (He pelts a hacky sack at Craig.)

Craig: Ow! Shit!

Albright: What happened?

Craig: Bastard threw a beanbag at me! Look! (He picks up hacky sack and shows it to her.)

Albright: Very nice. Your father is in the room now?

Steele: (Wildly) Meow, oh baby! What a sweet rack o’ lamb! Come to papa!

Craig: Hey, that’s my shrink you’re talking about! He just insulted you.

Albright: Oh? What did he say?

Craig: (Embarrassed) Oh, he was just being lewd.

Albright: How long as he been in the room?

Craig: I only noticed him when I turned around. He could have followed me in for all I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: I used to dream about him the most, especially when the treatment started. And it’s like he’s jumped out of the movie screen and into my lap.

Albright: You know, our dreams are manifestations of our deep-seated fears and desires, come to life by simply taking on that which is familiar to us in our waking hours.

Craig: Yeah, but they’re not supposed to walk around and talk smack and throw shit.

Albright: What do you think your father represents for you? Your fears or your desires?

Craig: I don’t know. When I was a kid I really admired him, he was always such a big guy, always joking and causing trouble, but it was basically harmless.

Albright: Clearly some negative impression has been left in your psyche.

Craig: Well, yeah, it’s dumb… I think I let him down. I couldn't be that crazy dude, it just didn’t feel right.

Steele: Boy! I said catch! (Throws another hacky sack, Craig reacts as if intent on ignoring him.)

Albright: Perhaps your fear and desire is, in this case, one in the same: that you might some day turn into your father.

Craig: Well, I don’t want to be him, that’s for sure.

Albright: Why not?

Steele: Yeah, why not? You ungrateful brat! Never knew how to take a chance.

Albright: Go on, Craig.

Craig: Right, sorry. He’s distracting.

Albright: Has he always been this distracting?

Craig: Well, yeah, he—

Albright: Or this alluring?

Craig: Alluring? What are you talking about?

Steele: Oh, yeah, that’s right, you know you want a piece o’ big papa.

Albright: Please continue.

Craig: Wait, what did… Nevermind. What was the question?

Albright: Why don’t you want to be your father?

Craig: He just wasn’t… wasn’t that great a guy. When I got older I realized that he’d always sort of treated me like crap. It was like he was waiting for me to grow up, but then when I did, he didn’t like what he saw. I always felt like this massive disappointment.

Steele: And for good reason, ya twerp! Be a man for once in your life!

Albright: And so you suppressed your feelings of self-loathing and shame.

Craig: Hey, I never said that, that’s taking it a little far—

Albright: Because you couldn’t live up to your exciting, sexy, voracious hunk of a father. Not even close.

Steele: Gimme a little challenge, sweet thing, you’re making this too easy. (She lets her hair down/unbuttons top button and perches herself on the desk invitingly.) But I’m no fool. (He goes to embrace her.)

Craig: No! No! This is wrong! All wrong!

Steele: Outta my way, kid. (He knocks Craig aside and goes to Albright, who beckons him into her arms. Craig falls to the floor and curls up in a ball.)

Albright: Come to mama! Go on to bed, Junior. (She and Steele start giggling and doing things that would lead to naughtier things if the scene were to keep going. [This can involve kissing lips, neck, arm, whatever the actors are comfortable with].)

Craig: Yes, mommy. (He crawls onto the couch and curls up on his side, as…)

LIGHTS DOWN

DINOSAURS

I say dinosaurs a lot in this. What this is: a timed writing exercise based on a prompt. I'll post my favorites here, and the first one is about dinosaurs.

1
Dinosaurs don’t write books. Imagine, if you will, a tyrannosaurus Rex straining his tiny insufficient arms to manipulate the functions of a typewriter (because if dinosaurs did write books, which they don’t, they would use typewriters, not computers or laptops, because they’re old school). What would a dinosaur write about? A: boring things like food supply and the bright orb in the big open (for that is what the sky is, at its most basic being). They might discuss the new babies that hatched in the spring, and how big they’ve got to be. I’m glad that I’m not a dinosaur. Opposable thumbs, for one thing. But if I was a dinosaur, I wouldn’t know what opposable thumbs are in the first place, so I wouldn’t have known to miss them. Nor would I want to be part of one of the generations around when the major life forms on this planet went extinct. The terrifying prospect that in a few years, everyone I know might be dead. Well, that could happen to anyone, and if I was dead, too, that wouldn’t be so bad. But I doubt that’s what dinosaurs thought about. Odds are it was more about survival, just keep walking until the group finds water. Stick together to not get picked off by the predators. Just… keep… going. A lot of people are like dinosaurs, then, if you think about it that way. Living to the next paycheck, the next oasis. Another reason I don’t want to be a dinosaur. (Got stuck) This started out kind of lighthearted, even funny, and got very morbid very quickly. That usually happens when I write things. Well, to be fair, the subject of this entry went extinct suddenly and no one knows for dead-sure why. Ha, dead-sure. No more puns, I promise. Part of me can’t get over that these get read aloud. My actor brain gets all toney and stuff. It doesn’t feel as pure.
I wish there was a machine that could record a person’s dreams, to be rewound and studied. The closest I can do is set up a camera while I sleep and hit “record” all night. I talk in my sleep, you see. I’ve always been very curious to know what I say. Part of me is scared, and I’m not sure if I want to know that much about myself.

2
Affection. I love affection, which is I guess the point. Since there are babies everywhere, let’s go with that. I can’t remember where I heard this, probably in a play, but one of the characters was staying pregnant so she could have someone to love her unconditionally. Sadly, when I’ve thought about having kids, that’s one of the “reasons” that have crossed my mind. More than once. But it doesn’t work like that. Sure, the baby loves the mother, has to, or it will die. But after a little while all sorts of things could stir the rebellion of mistrust and fear that lead to loathing. But for a little while, that baby loves you in the most selfish and adorable way it can, by demanding you attention in every way it can think of.
My cousin’s girlfriend is pregnant. I can’t make the baby shower (the first one I’ve ever been invited to) and I’m almost glad. She’s my age. My mom got pregnant with my sister when she was 19, and she got pregnant with my first nephew when she was 20. That scares the crap out of me. Since I was in the 8th grade I’ve always told myself I didn’t want to get married until I was thirty. Eighth grade. That’s a little early to start my life plan. When I was in eighth grade I started writing. My journals from then have what I called “fantasies”, little short stories about meeting cute boys at movie theaters or dances where I know just what to say, and he kisses my cheek before slipping me his phone number. Of course, they were always very unlikely situations. I’ve never met anyone at a movie theater. I’ve just moved on to meeting people at coffee shops, and that’s the height of clichés. Of course, the last person I met at a coffee shop turned out to be an arrogant douche bag, but that’s what you’d expect at a coffee shop. Coffee snobs are some of the most arrogant people on the planet, especially ones with ponytails.
To bring this back to babies, how am I supposed to find someone I’d be okay with making a baby with? One thing I hope I never have to say with derision: “You’re just like your father,” or, “she gets it from you, you know.” That doesn’t inspire affection much, does it?

3
Casper sat in bumper to bumper traffic, releasing and compressing the break pedal. He looked forward to the magical time where he might—oh, just might-get to accelerate. The benefits of the graveyard shift presented themselves to him for the first time. No rush hour. Casper fiddled with his power windows and time to the song of the week on the radio. He used to love driving. The first few years with his license had been full of road trips up and down the coast and aimless wandering. He only worked enough to keep his gas tank full. Driving at night was best, speeding down the freeway at 90 miles an hour. That was freedom. God, he hadn’t done that in years. Here he was, sitting in his hot car, work shirt stuck to his back with sweat. His tie and briefcase lay discarded in the back seat. When he was a teenager only assassins and lawyers carried briefcases. Turns out they’re just glorified backpacks. Casper scoffed and tried to look at the driver in the car next to his without him noticing he was being watched. He needn’t have worried. The other man was yammering away into a Bluetooth. “Douche bag,” Casper muttered. He hated those little blinking earpieces. They reminded him of those anklets that prisoners wear. In prison. He shook his head at the poor sap. “He’s too far sucked into the system,” he thought. The nearly irresistible urge to burst out of his car and run naked between the lanes overtook him. “Would certainly change my evening plans. Ha, what plans?” he thought sadly. Nothing was waiting for him but his laptop and a microwave dinner. Not even a potted plant.
This was not what Casper imagined when he had answered that stupid interview question: Where do you see yourself in five years? He always preferred to “see” himself doing something cool, like wrestling bears, or… something.
He sighed. This was his life. He looked out the other window. A young woman with purple hair winked at him. He straightened in his seat, and then jumped as the car behind him honked. Traffic was moving forward. Finally. Acceleration.

4
I went to the beach recently. The ocean is so big to my mind, there’s really no way I can think of it in any way that comes close to describing it’s girth and richness. Mostly the first thing I think about is how cold it is, and the fact that sharks don’t like to eat people, but we look deceptively like seals when we “ride the waves”. Needless to say, I prefer to stay on the sand. At most I’ll roll up my jeans and get my legs wet up to my knees. When the bottoms of the rolled up material gets wet, unrolling it is like discovering temporary tie-dye full of sand and saltwater.
I don’t like how winder the shore is, most of the time. When my hair was shorter, there was no way to keep it out of my face. Now that it’s longer I love the feel of it flowing behind me (like in British romance novels centered around the Cliffs of Dover).
But the thing I love most about the beach is the illusion of the curve of the earth. Only recently did I really figure out that the curve is created only by my perspective of looking out to as far as I can see, not as I believed for years by the grand curve of the planet we live on. It’s really a beautiful thing, and it catches me breathless every time.
Countless poems have done their best to capture the beauty of the waves. Just today I read a quote from Oscar Wilde’s, The Picture of Dorian Gray: “Beauty is beyond explanation and cannot be denied.” Well, it was basically that. That made me think of the waves. I could spend hours at the beach wrapped in a blanket and squinting at the blurred line of the horizon. That reminds me of the edge of the world, as the ancients knew it. What must that be like? Falling into… nothing? Until the fabled End of Days. That’s not necessarily death.
In any case, the waves are beautiful. Overcast days are the best. On sunny days everything is too clear. When it’s cloudy, lines blur and fuzz together, almost like a dream. And then the sand on the wind slaps you in the face and you remember—the metaphorical you—I remembered that this is life. This is living, and I love it. The rest of it is living too, but I remembered it then. Ha, that’s a funny thought. People get so wrapped up in “living in the now” that they begin to take it for granted, no, that’s not write. It’s like becoming so intent on thinking outside the box that you build up walls to keep the box out, all while making your own around you.
Again, the metaphorical you. Just so everyone feels included. How inflammatory. Everyone everywhere connected by the metaphorical you.

5
The written word. Yesterday I was amazed (the phrase I used at the time was “You just broke my brain”) to discover electronic books. An iPod of literature rather than music. That is the future. The future is now. No, now is now. Or, if the future is now, so is the past. Time turners from Harry Potter come to mind effortlessly. Back to the books. Used bookstores have a great smell; that is, unless you’re allergic to cats. Do you ever open a book in the middle just to breathe in the papery must? Oh, I like that. E-books may be the future—push a button to turn the page—but you can’t put a post-it in an e-book page. Apple is probably already developing the application for some such thing Ever a solution from the mind of science. Ugh. Let it go. Open a book. Write in the margin. Highlight. Underline. That’s one of the great things about used books. Turning in a used book that you’ve written in is like reaching out to an invisible friend you don’t have yet. “Hey, I thought this was a cool quote, what do you think?” I can remember once while in high school, I blacked out a phrase that just angered me so much. I could refer back to it and remember it word for word. Try doing that to a screen.
Perhaps further in the future books will die out to be replaced entirely by knowledge machines. But not in my lifetime. Thank God for that. I can picture an old man in a big red leather armchair, surrounded by bookcases with volumes upon volumes in stacks everywhere. In the background is a window with the shades drawn. To protect the delicate pages from the harmful light. Habit, by now. He really need not bother. The smog and dust outside are filter enough for his antiques, his precious books. I hope there will be enough people like the old man in his library of historical gold. The word “library” would become synonymous with “museum”. He lives, nay, clings to the past, with the skin of his teeth, whatever that means.
There is a charm that is lost in pixels. Ink and paper is my preferred method of passing on pieces of myself.
Is writing like what nice people say about giving? The more you write, the more you know? Sure. That makes me feel a lot better about things in general.
But who says you have to know anything to write? Well, you don’t have to, but we can’t help it.

A Poem? What?!

Wrote this during my Humanities class while we were on the subject of The Aenead, an epic poem by Vergil. Dido's story was particularly touching, so I wrote a poem from her point of view. Be nice, I haven't done this sort of thing since high school.

As a queen, I know no way to conquer him.
As a women, I may woo him with garlands.
As a widow, I hold back for fear of him.
As a sister, praise for him falls from my lips.
As a wife, my gift to him is my devotion.

He makes me his whore.
He abandons me.
He does not look back.

What can I but rage?
And then, condemn?
At last, dispair.

Sweet motherly Juno,
Who oversaw our union,
I implore you from my pyre,
Grace my with your mercy:
Cut my spirit from my body
So that I may fulfull my dire promise.

And now I'm pooped.

What a day! Man, ups and downs all over the place. To keep it concise, I'll stick to one of each.

Bad news first (might as well rip off the band-aid quick). I was supposed to see The Laramie Project: The Epilogue this evening at 5pm. Well, I only remembered at 4:57pm and I was maybe 12 or 13 miles from where I needed to be, not to mention rush hour traffic to contend with. Needless to say, I didn't make it. Was very upset with myself. Argh.

Okay, time for good news! I'm in this advanced acting class called Stretch, so named because it's supposed to "stretch" your comfort zone out by focusing on an area that you find difficult as an actor. Based on a person's past, he or she may/will find it harder to go to some places, like confrontation or vulnerability or trust or taking control. So, our teacher, Janis, figures out what that "stretch" is by asking us about our past and just by her own observations. (Darn, I realized I was supposed to keep this short... oh well.) Then she writes scenarios and places the student actors in those situations, specifically designed to challenge us into action. The scenes themselves are improvised, which makes it that much harder, because the words have to come out of our own mouths. The idea behind this is that it is indeed easier to portray an emotion if you have the words that convey that emotion right there in front of you. But if you have to come up with those words yourself, that forces you to sink deeper into that and really feel it. Basically it's super amazing. Oh, and as a rule--to maintain trust and a safe working environment--no specifics about what goes on in the class are allowed to be disclosed, ie the work of other actors besides yourself. (So I can tell you what it's about and my work, but no one else's.)

Okay, long explanation over. I had an amazing scene tonight (as a returning student I had seen the framework of that scenario before, but aspects of it were switched around a little to fit the performers). I hadn't done a real scene since sometime in June, so I was nervous about it, and shaky and stuff, but oh man, just letting myself sink in and go there was sooo fun!!! My thing is being the center of attention and "explosive emotions", or letting myself get taken to the far end of how any particular emotion that comes to me in the moment. Lots of fun, a little scary, and I'm looking forward to future scenes. Success! On the downside my throat hurts a little from shouting... poop. But other than that! :D

Dear lord...

I hate to admit that I judge people, but it happens all the time. It's impossible not to judge people, but some people make it way too easy for me. For example, here is a message I just received on Myspace:

how u been doing.i hane not herd from u in a log time.how ur school going girl.well hope to here from u girl i miss talking to u k bye

See, this is a problem. I will respond to this message, because it has in fact been a while since this person and I talked. But good lord. Judging is happening.

Just a Touch

More of a serious note, which is what I lean towards in theatre/drama. Enjoy! Feedback is always welcome. And, well, it's a little weird.

SOUND CUE: SILENT NIGHT sung by Johnny Cash

SOUND CUE: BELL

LIGHTS UP

FADE MUSIC

(SEAN BAKER sits in a solitary 24-hour diner with his back to the door, sipping from a plain white mug. It is Christmas Eve; everyone is with family and friends, asleep or partying. He was not invited. He contemplates his utter lack of companionship as a WAITRESS enters with a fresh pot of coffee.)

WAITRESS: Can I top ya off, hun?

SEAN: (As he offers his mug to her) You’re not gonna kick me out? Don’t you have someplace to go to?

WAITRESS: Why do you think I work this shift every year? There’s always at least one lonely mug to talk to.

SEAN: That would be me, would it?

WAITRESS: That’s the plan.

SEAN: Buzz off, will ya?

WAITRESS: I’ll come back when you’re in a more peace-and-brotherhood mood. (She exits.)

(SEAN sips at his coffee, pulls a face, then takes a deeper draw as HELEN BAKER walks in from behind him. She stands over him for a second, then lays a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t notice, but after a moment, he shows signs of being uncomfortable. She moves to sit across from him, placing her coat on her chair before she sits down.)

HELEN: Hello, Sean. How have you been?

SEAN: Helen! Jesus, hi! It’s been, what? Five, six years?

HELEN: Six and a half, actually.

SEAN: Wow, that long? Shit… Anyway, I’ve been (hesitates) great, I guess. And you?

HELEN: Oh, ups and downs.

SEAN: Well, an up is an up, right? That’s gotta mean you’re getting somewhere.

HELEN: Slowly. The downs are incredibly draining, and the ups are so… brief.

SEAN: (Suddenly bitter, but trying to mask it with false cheer) It could be worse. Look at me. I mean, it’s Christmas, and what have I got to show for it?

HELEN: (kindly) I’m here.

SEAN: Right, I’m sorry. Look, did you have something you wanted to say?

HELEN: I’m on one of my downs at the moment.

SEAN: Do I look like I can be lending out cash to whoever comes up dry? We’re family and all but I’ve gotta have a place to stay at the end of the day, and that means being careful about who I do business with. I’ve been working my ass off to get in with a legit group of people, and you better believe it wasn’t easy. I could really be going places. Who knows, in a few months I could have a few people reporting to me, before anyone else. Things are looking up in a big way, and I--

HELEN: Damn it Sean I didn’t come here to talk about your business politics or to ask for your money.

SEAN: Oh. Well, spit it out.

HELEN: There’s something else I need your help with. It’s a little complicated, but your part is simple.

SEAN: Alright, give me the short version.

HELEN: You have someplace else to be? (Pause.) Just drink your crappy cup of coffee and hear me out.

(SEAN indicates that she continue, but leaves the mug untouched.)

HELEN: All you need to do… You need to call Mom.

SEAN: No.

HELEN: Come on-

SEAN: She sent you, didn’t she?

HELEN: It’s not like that—

SEAN: You can’t play me that easy--

HELEN: She’s dying, Sean!

SEAN: Good.

(pause)

HELEN: You don’t mean that.

SEAN: Everyone dies, Helen.

HELEN: You’re telling me that? We haven’t talked in years, and you never bothered to check up to see how I was or any of it. Not once. What kind of brother are you? For all you know I could have died.

SEAN: Well that obviously didn’t happen. (Pause.) Anyway, what did she ever do for me, huh? I left for a reason.

HELEN: They miss you!

SEAN: And that’s supposed to make a difference, how?

HELEN: You won’t even pay your last respects?

SEAN: I lost my respect for them a long time ago.

HELEN: What have they done to you?

SEAN: It’s what they didn’t do that—

HELEN: Not Mom and Dad, Sean. Them. That new crowd you run with.

SEAN: They made me wise.

HELEN: You’re a fool. You’ve forgotten who your family is.

SEAN: I don’t need them.

HELEN: Look at yourself! Do you consider this healthy living? Are you happy? Answer me that, Sean: are you happy?

SEAN: (Sputtering) Wha—how am I—who are you to ask me if I’m happy?! Miss “I’m in one of my downs, Sean, help me Sean, I need you, Sean.”

HELEN: I don’t need your help, you do! If you’d only help yourself, you wouldn’t need me to remind you of how miserable you are.

SEAN: Well don’t get all self-righteous for my sake.

HELEN: Someone has to. (Pause) Look, I didn’t come here to fight, even though I knew that’s what I would be in for. Mom and Dad didn’t send me, but someone else did.

SEAN: Who? Father Curtis? That old—

HELEN: You honestly believe I would take anything that hypocrite says seriously? He almost destroyed the faith that ended up saving me. Well, that’s the reason I’m here.

SEAN: To restore my faith?

HELEN: To restore my faith in you. Don’t you dare roll your eyes! I had a tough enough time convincing them you were worth their time to throw it all away just because you have an attitude problem.

SEAN: They? What exactly do you do?

HELEN: I’m what you could call a liaison between certain dimensions.

SEAN: Uh…

HELEN: I told you it was complicated. Um, oh jeez, how can I put this? No, it would take too long.

SEAN: Bullshit. I want to know what I’m getting myself into.

HELEN: That’s just it: you don’t have to know. You’re not supposed to know.

SEAN: What, I’m not good enough to be in on it?

HELEN: Yes, actually, that’s it exactly.

SEAN: So you’re using me?

HELEN: Would you shut up and listen?

SEAN: I’ve been listening.

HELEN: You’re so wrapped up in your own little world you can’t see past a few foggy months into the future. You say you have plans, but where will they get you? You’ll just end up where you started, just pennies away from living on the street. I take it you’re still a total cokehead?

SEAN: Not so loud!

HELEN: Who’s going to hear? The waitress? I’m still vaguely surprised at our having this conversation. I figured you wouldn’t be able to understand.

SEAN: Why wouldn’t I be able to—oh to Hell with it. (HELEN flinches; SEAN does not appear to notice.) You haven’t given me a straight answer all night, why start now?

HELEN: So are you going to call her?

SEAN: Who? (HELEN starts to speak.) I know I know. And no, I’m not.

HELEN: Why, for heaven’s sake?

SEAN: Give me one good reason why I should. (She hesitates.) Well?

HELEN: (resigning) Give me your hand.

SEAN: (Suspicious) Why?

HELEN: You want a reason, don’t you?

(SEAN gives her his hand across the table. HELEN takes it and studies it, as would a palm-reader. She traces a few lines out, then presses her finger down on a chosen point. His face makes a quick transition from exasperated to horrified. His arm is trapped in its sprawled position on the table, but the rest of him tenses and convulses, his eyes alternatively screwed shut or popping, his teeth bared and clenched tight. When she feels he has had enough, she lets go. He jumps back as soon as he is free, clutching his arm and panting.)

SEAN: What the fuck did you just do?!

HELEN: I just gave you a touch of Hell. That is what lies at the end of the path you have been traveling down for so long, and you don’t even know it. Life is so short, Sean, but there has been plenty of time for second chances. This is your last. If you won’t think of others, think of yourself. For a minute consider the alternative to a pain that never fades, never relents, and never shows mercy.

SEAN: (Obviously very unnerved, but still not willing to give up without a fight) Okay, say I call. What’s in it for you?

HELEN: I get to go home. (Standing to leave) Without you, I can’t. Simple as that.

SEAN: What’s stopping you?

HELEN: There are always souls that need saving. Goodbye Sean. (Exits)

(SEAN sits at table, dumbfounded. He then notices that she left her jacket. He calls after her as WAITRESS enters with coffee pot.)

SEAN: Helen! Your j—damn it.

WAITRESS: What are you hollering about?

SEAN: My sister forgot her jacket. She’s going to be cold out there.

WAITRESS: (refilling his mug) Who?

SEAN: My sister was just here.

WAITRESS: You and I have been the only one’s here for hours.

SEAN: You just didn’t see her.

WAITRESS: I’ve been behind that counter since you walked in. That door has a bell on it; I would have heard it ring. Or can this sister of yours walk through walls?

SEAN: But… (He looks at the jacket in his hands) I swear she was sitting right there.

WAITRESS: You okay, sugar?

SEAN: Yeah… No… I think I’m going to go. (Gets out his wallet and leaves a few bills on the table.)

WAITRESS: You gonna finish that?

SEAN: It’s a little late for caffeine.

WAITRESS: Well my shift doesn’t end until 4. (She downs the rest of the coffee and refills it as SEAN heads for the door.) You take care of yourself, okay hun?

SEAN: Yeah, you too. (Looks at the jacket, continues to walk toward the door, pulling out his cell phone, then looks back.) And Merry Christmas. (Exits)

SOUND CUE: BELL

WAITRESS: (looking after him, slightly surprised) Merry Christmas to you too.

LIGHTS DOWN.