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. :)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
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!
"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!
Friday, January 29, 2010
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
"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
Thursday, January 14, 2010
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...
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...
Monday, December 14, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
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
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
Friday, November 13, 2009
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.
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.
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