reasons things totally fucking blow:

#1-my parents are divorcing. i feel mostly anger and hurt over this one. because they are so inept at communication and being vulnerable, that they can't fix what many others could in their position. i feel angry because my mom is calling the shots, and i worry for my dad. i worry for both of them. for her, financially, for him, because he's already too much of a recluse. i worry that my mom is going to show up here and having had the house signed over to her, demand to live here instead. i'm pissed that i had to pull teeth to make them go out to fucking black angus for thanksgiving. i'm pissed that she's making this harder by refusing put on holidays, insisting that now that my sister and i are grown up, it's their turn to come to OUR holidays. i'm pissed that i'm putting on christmas this year. i'm hurt because i feel like i have no emotional support for this whole fucking thing. i can't talk to them, because i like to keep this business "out of sight, out of mind" as much as possible. and they inevitably bring it up one way or another. they're not wearing their wedding rings anymore. i can't really talk to anyone else, in detail anyway, because A: they've raised me to keep my feelings to myself, thank you very much, and B: i hate being pitied. but maybe that's better than nothing. i hate how this hurts so infinitely, and yet because she's so damn stubborn, if i want some semblance of a family, i have to keep us together. i don't think i can keep it up, it's way too much work.

#2-glorious unemployment. i quit my crappy job to do my internship at la jolla playhouse, and thought i'd just pick up a job afterwards. but i didn't apply anywhere, and now it's been...2 months? and it physically makes me sick to look for jobs online, because nothing interests me. and i hate watching my savings deplete before my very eyes. so i have to do something soon, and quickly. but when you get to a certain level of depression you don't want to do anything, you defeat yourself before you begin. ta-da. i know exactly why i do the things i do, and why i feel the way i feel, but i don't know what the fuck to do about it.

#3-everybody and their fucking boyfriends. i'm tired of being alone. period. however, being a depressed recluse doesn't have a very vibrant social scene. i know this. and yet, here i sit.

i feel like if one of these 3 things fell into place, maybe i could survive.

this loneliness is getting old.
and so am i.


there's gotta be more to this
joke of a life.


funny how everyone has the same
bit of advice.


this involuntary solitary sentence
has a price.

i'm moving into my grandma's house with katie and bird. my grandma has alzheimer's and she stays with caretakers now. so the house is empty.

i am so stupid to be picky about what i want in life. I turned down living at my grandma's house because it was "creepy". and it still is. alzheimer's is a terrible disease that makes people die backwards. my grandma no longer exists to me. that woman that i call grandma is someone else entirely. there are just so many memories and things in that house that i was (and still am a little) to face because i feel like i need to mourn or something.

but like i said, i'm so stupid because i didn't think how i could bless bird and katie with the free place to stay. and it's kind of perfect. the garage was my grandma's art studio, theres a pool, a gorgeous view, lots of retro-vintage crap lying around and a garden with lots of citrus trees my grandpa planted.

i need to get out of this place now. i need to get out of the disrespect that is happening here and get out of my too-tiny room, and get a little distance from my parents that isn't for the simple excuse that i'm going to university.

lately the shit just keeps hitting the fan. maybe i need to get out from under the fan.

oh you,
when will you get away from the walls,
get your nose out of anything with pages
and make some contact with that world spinning out there?
when will you
stop rationalizing your unhappiness
you lousy photographer
and a super self sabotager.
when will you
be satisfied with how it is
and not how it could be?

someone at our rv park was found dead last night.
ross found a dead dog.
my computer is dead (for the time being)
robert goulet is dead.
the grateful dead.
-de(a)dicated to carl who i barely remember as the old guy that paid his rent once.

it seems everyone is engaged. jen and sean. jenna and blake. holy cow. are we that old already?

now that i'm on the other side of my selfish loathing "i'm never gonna find anybody" phase of post-engaged friend(s) syndrome, it's truly beautiful to see them try on dresses and brainstorm about flowers and veils and centerpieces. jenna's wedding dress is stunning. i haven't seen jen's yet, i couldnt get out of work to go with her to get her dress :( but i'm sure she's gorgeous. it really couldn't happen to better people either. i am so excited for them all and still feeling queasy about watching friends pass into another phase of life without me. i mean, okay well we all know "friends" who've gotten married. but when best friends get married, it's a different story. it's all so strange.

here at the end of yet another 365 day cycle is me on a couch, flaked on with no where to go. this year is one i really was looking forward to sending off.

this year was not one to remember fondly. and as i am often a glass-half-full kinda gal, i suppose i choose to see it that way. my dad almost died and was in a coma for 3 months. we had to put my cat down. i had to testify in court against a friend. i had to graduate without a plan. i had to move home into this tiny little house with all my shit which i still haven't unpacked. i had to get a job at a trailer park.

i just feel all around defeated. (emo little rachel appears). what the hell is the point? i'm not doing anything that i want to do. and i feel like i can't, like its effing impossible to make a fulfilling life out of these little talents i have.

okay okay, to be fair...good things happened this year? my dad DIDN'T die. i graduated with honors. i got in a play. everything i did with theatre went well. mmm....that's about it. ::thumbs up::

so eff you 2007. you were a total bitch.

and the icing on the bittersweet cake is ONCE AGAIN! i am flaked on at the last minute. alone. at home. pissed at the world.

so for 2008, i hope its 100% better than this year. i would like a new job doing something that doesnt kill my brain cells. i would like to find a few new friends. i would like to move the hell out of my house. i would like a boyfriend. i would like to find a church. i would like to LOVE LIFE instead of being apathetic and numb about everything because it all seems so shitty. i would like to be creative every day. i would like to develop a taste for tea and wine. i would like to feel good about myself. i would like to have a thicker skin. to be braver and bolder and better.

god, today:

let justice be served
show your mercy
keep my angry words behind my teeth
keep our fear down in our toes
show love.

sorry, hooked on Diane Wakoski. this one is shorter though. as i am discontent and have nothing worthwhile to say this tuesday morning, maybe this'll do:

"Reaching out with the hands of the sun

And thereupon
that beautiful mild woman for whose sake
there's many a one shall find out all
heartache
on finding that her voice is sweet & low
replied: 'to be born woman is to know--
although they do not talk of it at school--
that we must labour to be beautiful.'
"Adam's Curse," W.B. Yeats

Atun-Re
the sun disk
whose rays end in hands
shines above us in New York
California
Egypt
sometimes even Alaska.
Walking across the desert,
he puts his scorching hands over our eyes
and turns vision into sounds,
waves
as he ocean,
drawing the pupils away from rattlesnakes & blurring
the hawks
that sail so unconcerned with heat
above our heads;
when we ride across the snow
and shaggy trees of Alaska
the sun's many hands
rub thick bear skins & tallow against the apples of our faces;
when we float down the river
without barks of gold or flutes or beautiful boys in the heavy
linen sails,
the sun's hands reach into the Nile
and pull out a glimmering eel
or water lily,
holding it against the banks,
motioning for us to expect life anywhere,
even though it's not at once seen;
the hands coming from the rays of that disk
hold oranges, dates, figs ,nuts
all those sweetmeats
that give a woman fat thighs
ad a puffy face.

What am I to believe in this world?
The whirling sun disk
that speeds years away
puts out such rays with hands attached to each
that fling me one day against
the rough edges of mountains,
one day caress me, push me against the long mustaches I love;
my face varies from plain to dignified;
my figure from straight to plump;
my eyes from bright to small & sad;
my mouth, always a straight line -- as if crossing a 't'
and I see the world change around me;
only one thing never changes.

Men remember,
love,
cherish,
beautiful women,
as i've said,
like April snow
like silk that rustles in a fragrant chest,
like a machine dripping with oil and running smoothly.

I am pooh-poohed
every time I say it.
"a woman of your intelligence,"
etc., etc.,
believing
such a superficial thing. "Only the
foolish
misguided,
the men with no balls,
or the ones that don't really matter,"
love a woman for her beauty
her physical self.
But I know different.
I've ruled;
I've walked with the mask of a falcon,
perhaps Horus
over my head,
walked everywhere, stiff & disguised,
walked in stone watching
the life around me,
the loving,
and not loving,
without sounds to interrupt or change history.
I've watched and know
that even the poets
whose blood is most filled with sun's light
and whose hands are wet
coming out of the rays of the moon,
love beautiful women,
writhe, turn,
upset their lives, leave their good wives,
when one walks by.
And we,
with fat thighs,
or small breasts,
or thin delicate hair,
pale faces,
small eyes,
with only our elegant, small wristed hands
to defend us
trying to catch one of the hands
on a ray from the sun,
loving our men faithfully
and with hope;
surly we deserve something more than platitudes.
We are the ones who know
beauty is not only skin deep.
But we also know
we would trade every ruby
stuffing and jamming our wealthy opulent hearts;
would trade every silver whistle
that alerts our brain,
keeps us sensitive and graceful to the world;
would trade every
miracle
inside our plain & ugly blood factories,
these bodies that never
serve us well,
for some beauty
they could recognize;
that would make the men stop
turn their heads,
twist their minds & lives around
for us/
for those of us who love them
and who never stop.
Whose hands are always radiating
out
ready to touch
the men
with fire
direct from the solar disk
who
brood
are dark often
with hands that come from the
unseen side
of the moon.

i read this poem today out of one of my dad's books from the 70's. it struck just the right chord. its long, but worth it.
2. Of Accord & Principle

The whole story
comes in
many segments, I see,
from each mouth that tells it
to me,
as those tube-lipped goldfish
swimming mouth to mouth
in their aquarium,
the kissing fish,
we called them;
we, trying to decide what nourishment
they were deriving
nibbling at each other's pale gold lips
what words passed through the tissue and move the
water
exactly
as your breath would stir my hair.
What happened?
We have as hard a time telling
as if there were no words.
Each voice tells articulately
its own story.
Nowhere
do they come together;
the kissing lips of the fish
who, we plainly see,
do not know what
kissing is.

Was there one person who said a word
that was
forbidden?
It started last year with "fuck the president,"
words of political protest, quoted
from a newspaper article
and
then there were reports of
others,
who said words that were
forbidden

and there were those of us who were
talking to the young as if they
could understand, and as if they were older than they
were
and perhaps that is all that happened;
that what was
forbidden,
was to speak inappropriately to
children.

It all sounded
like the kissing fish,
the palest lips,
those who could say the least,
would did not know what kissing was about,
perhaps were giving the impression
as do those golden pale creatures, swimming in the
aquarium, that they were doing something, knowing,
loving,
a gesture of communication and
recognition
but then no one knew,
and it turned out that maybe we had all done something
forbidden.

The whole story is about poets who
read
or said
words
that were forbidden.
They said, "fuck the president,"
and in other cases
untraceable things.
They said what they had to say,
each one,
about the world
and they were saying it for money;
there was money to spread over the poets,
as fish food sprinkled
too abundantly
by an amateur
on the skin of the water
or
in some cases
the scum that forms
when there is no water animal
such as the snail
to keep the water clean;
but with the money came rules,
and certain words were forbidden,
and in many cases no one knew what was said that was
forbidden;
an old Italian lady complained.
She couldn't say what had been said
but it offended. She said,
"you or I might speak one way when we are home and in private
but we don't speak that way before children;
we might be vulgar or gross
but we keep our poetry beautiful,
we don't walk on the grass,
we keep it beautiful,"
and no one knew
no one could find out
but something was forbidden it was said
and it should not have been said.

It was greed on the part of the poets.
Wanting both accord and principle.
Wanting the felicity of $100 and still wanting to say what they
thought,
as if the world, or any government would pay
a man $100 for his integrity;
maybe, if he pleases, and he polishes,
he kisses enough pale gold mouths
in deep meaningless kisses
as those fish who swim so, lips touching,
not knowing anything about commitment or love,
the government of city or state
will pay someone $100
to say something
beautiful
and safe.

The greed is of a poet who wants to be paid for his words
even if they are forbidden.
That is no different from the policeman who takes a bribe and still
wants to be considered doing his job.
That is no different from a greed from that of a man who wants two
wives
or a woman who wants to eat cake twice a day and still be thin.

I cannot chroicle all the greed of
accord and principle,
but can tell you that in this case
there was
the greed of a woman who wanted everyone to like her;
who wanted to make rules and still have the anarchists
love her,
who wanted to pay the poets for quality and integrity
and then have them give it up, if it just meant
changing a word or two;
who wanted to make choices -- saying this man is
suitable,
this one is not, and
still have the man who was deemed not suitable
to think her fair and equitable;
who wanted to keep secrets and not be thought
deceitful;
there was
the greed of a young man who wanted to sleep with all
the women available;
who wanted to make his poems please everyone and at
the same time, to be thought unique, forceful,
a speaker of important words;
who wanted to make extra money other poets were
losing when they were controversial;
who wanted the attention from knowing the secrets
that were kept by others,
and telling those secrets;
there was
my greed,
after my spirit had been broken many times,
wanting money to make me believe my life, my poems
had some meaning;
there was
the greed of all poets,
wanting the luxury of a life dedicated to writing words,
as many as there are drops of water in a lake,
expressing himself and being paid for this
self-indulgence.
There can be no greater joy than making a poem or a story or a picture that tells about you, your thoughts, your life, your feelings. In this case Emerson was right. If there is any virtue in being an artist, that virtue is its own reward. Why then, expect the world to applaud you, to honor you, to pay you for your pleasure, your indulgence? But that is the greed of all of us, the poets, who want our play considered work; want to be respected and paid for saying what we think and feel. Such luxury.

The fish with the cupped and pale gold lips
swimming in the tank
gesture meaninglessly,
kissing constantly.

Poets appear
endorsing the validity of each other's feelings.
They decide
who
really
feels
and
who's
a fake. They
decide that one expresses his feelings
too easily,
or another
without enough ease,
but when there are lips of rich fat poet fish to kiss
or the lips of editor fish
or national book award fish
or whisper fish, who have the ears of editors, publishers, and
organizers of reading tours,
their lips grow paler and paler gold
from kissing so much and so frequetly
in the ferny aquarium.

But the one kiss they save
above all kisses
is for what they call
"integrity." They are all kissing and telling
who has
and who doesn't have
integrity.
and the ones who kiss the most,
talk the most about
integrity.
There is no one of us
who hasn't done this;
who isn't at some time or other
swimming in the aquarium
with all the kissing poet fish
forgetting how the artificial light
makes the gold of our
scaled bodies
glimmer;
the lips, our lips
touch
as if they are rings of neon fire;
forgetting our own greed
with indignant talk of others' integrity. There is no way
to be honest
and to be paid for it. There is no
way to keep your soul and sell it too.


(there's more but my hands are tired. the part i've typed is the most impacting to me anyhow. you get a cookie if you made it all they way down here without cheating.)

a while ago i wrote about not wanting to rush through the prologue of the next chapter of my life, but now i want to skip to the next plot twist.

unfortunately, here we are, chapter one, a page or two in, and i--or you--are thinking "well if this doesn't get interesting by the end of the chapter, i'm gonna get the new dan brown/danielle steele/tom clancy/stephen king book at barnes and noble."

feel free, i dont blame you.

chapter 1:
i got a job. i really lame job. well, lame to me, probably not to the unemployed. i work at an rv park now. the first time since i've been out of college and actually have an answer to the much-loathed question "what do you do?" i get to say "i work at an rv park" and instantly punched myself in the arm (emotionally) with self-loathing and discontent. lol. i tell myself it's "character research" for future writing projects, because believe me, they're pretty colorful folk.

it's pretty easy work. i'm good with computers, well, compared to the...old..er..ish people that work there. i answer phones, make reservations, take people's rent, listen to people complain about the cable being out because of the fires...etc etc etc. its easy. but boring as hell. i dont like people THAT much to be the cheesy christian that "loves everyone". i can love them, but i dont like them. at all, really. i know that sounds...something that ends in 'ist, which probably hasn't been made up yet (trailertrashist. there. done).

but people aren't the problem. my lack of interest is. this job is a vacuum, a void of interest. i am not intrigued, curious, or in any way challenged intellectually. and, ok ok, not that i'm like some heady snob but for goodness sake, i'm BORED. if it were a busier job, sure, i could overlook that, take my $10 an hour and go about my business. but man, this sucks.

i hope my internship thing comes through this month. no money for me, but at least something to think about.

how the hell am i supposed to make this artsy fartsy gig into money? i know it isn't impossible but jeez, a plan or an outline would be nice. footnotes, even. anyone? anyone?


my dad found a box of books he read when he was in the navy during vietnam. i'm still not certain, but he was kind of a hippie in disguise or something...anyway, so i've been reading some of this stuff. richard brautigan...i still dont know what to think of him. i'm on my 3rd "novel" of his. he's interesting...i'll get back to you on him. lew welsh, expounding on how we should live in national forests like nomads and somehow make poetry (or whatever) into our job. sounds great. well, i'm not as outdoorsy, but you get the idea.

maybe i'm weird, but does anyone else get sort of nostalgic for eras that we never lived in? wouldn't it be sort of great to live in the 60s and 70s, to really believe that we could make this whole love art peace thing work? even just for a moment? how jaded for our parents to see that and see it fail. how more jaded are we to be raised by them.

but now, for the artists and writers i know, its like we're stuck because it is scary to want to believe it can work, and know it has failed over and over before. suddenly we're all hamlets who can't decide.

i dont want this full time rv hell. but i have it for now. and i guess that's something...

i haven't unpacked anything.
it feels so wrong to try to fit me back into this house.
it's like a time warp, i feel 17 again and not in a good way.
it's frustrating. i'm not that person anymore.
obviously.
i have to throw away a lot of stuff. a lot of the old rachel.
that's never easy. i'm such a packrat,
holding onto stupid things thinking that someday i'll find it again and
find some kind of satisfying nostalgia in it.
maybe i should just bulldoze it all.
then there's no time to salvage or get sappy over anything.

i feel like i'm losing this wonderfully creative person i've met
this past year the longer i wait to just get into life, and, i think,
the longer i stay in this house. but that remains to be seen.

i'm desperately afraid of losing myself, the self that has been
crafted over the past 4 years, because i'm here, in san diego,
in my old house, with my old crap and old habits and old excuses.

i want new. i need to make the old into new.

it. is. finished.

college is OVER.

and it's okay. this is just a brand spanking new chapter and i've come to the conclusion that there is no use in trying to rush through the prologue because i'll be lost with out it.

i thought i needed to run the the next thing, and you know what? i don't. i need to take my small timid steps into this season instead of barreling ahead into god knows what. so, there.

and if we (the royal we) forget that, then we need to come back and read this as many times as it takes.

-rachel mink: college graduate.

playworks is over.

its over.

well, practically.

after playworks was over, at the party, i was sitting there and suddenly it hit me:

college is over.

(for the most part)

and i got very sad.



playworks went wonderfully. better than i could have imagined. mfa's want to put up the play i wrote, i made everyone laugh with lady macbeth in jennafer's play and then the play i directed was amazing and even impressed the very-hard-to-impress playwright.

so why do i feel so confused and lost about what's next?

i'm pretty sure i'm gonna AD/SM paul's "shrew" this summer (a lot of driving but i'm desperate and need some theatery thing on my resume for the summer). but then what? move to temecula? for a while this weekend i started imagining life living still north of san diego and i thought i'd be okay with it, but i dunno. i don't think i'm ready to give up san diego for good.

and i just feel kinda stuck between trying to make some money and save it for moving out, or getting more directing experience on my resume even though i rarely would be paid. and i don't know where to go or what to do.

i'm frustrated because i made the decision to try and not make plans and just let god lead me wherever he wanted me after college, but here we are, 2 weeks to graduation and i'm not sure of anything. and i dont even know if i am supposed to go to grad school or what?! i dont know anything STILL and that bothers me. and i know that it'll work out and i'll end up blown away by where i do end up but in the meantime i get antsy not being in control of very much.

so yes, i'm "excited" to graduate, since that seems to be the question on everyone's minds when they talk to me about graduating, but i'm unsure and confused and frustrated and scared out of my mind of getting too comfortable and sacrificing my "dreams" (which i dont even know if they are dreams anymore) for something more stable and financially sound. and scared of wasting time or money. i hate wasting things.

i know i don't need to like, choose one or the other. I just wish i had a better grasp of what i'm supposed to do and where i'm supposed to go.

i hate change. hate hate hate it. it rips up my roots and flings them and i dont know where i'll land.
-------------------
anyway. i realized my paper isn't due until friday so i thought it was time for a little blogging.

if you want to come to my very-early-in-the-morning graduation on june 16th (8am), i think i still have 4 or 5 tickets or so. call me.

rachel

i hate open ended poetry assignments...

its nearly 3. haven't started. don't know what to write about. feeling remarkably uninspired. sleepy as all get out. and the real sad part is there's nothing good on tv, so there's really no excuse for being distracted.

i'm almost a graduate. weird. when important-type things happen in my life it feels weird. like i'm not in my own skin or something. i have too much to think about before i graduate. it is overwhelming.

i don't want to think about it anymore. this whole year so far has been spent fretting over what to do next and not doing anything about it yet.

lately i feel kinda schizophrenic. some days i feel really good like i can do practically anything. my cast keeps saying i'm a good director. people like my writing and painting. but other days i feel like "so what?" ooh big BA in theatre. what the hell am i gonna do with that?

i'm afraid of getting stuck in a rut by moving back home and likely getting some stupid clerical job just to make some money...

i have this ridiculous picture of what i want my life to be and its so far fetched. it would require me to be a completely different person. a neater person and more determined. knowing what i want and knowing how to get there. owning a cute house or flat filled with history and wood floors, with kitschy decorations, mismatched mugs of tea and flowers on the table. but i dont drink tea or even coffee. i think i'd like to be the kind of person who gets up in the morning and eats breakfast. i want to never be in a hurry. the kind of person who actually does their hair and puts on makeup. i'd like to have 27 hours a day to get things done and get to sleep 9 hours a night. i'd like to put things back where they go instead of on the floor. i'd like to do laundry on a regular basis. i'd like to be the kind of person with time set aside for staring out an upstairs window and writing. i'd like a room to paint in and a library of books i've read or want to read.

but i'm messy, on the border of gross, even. i don't feel like trying that hard in the morning. i'm confused about what to do next with my life. if i'm lucky i get to take a swig of gatorade while i run out the door to class in the morning. i'm going to be trapped in my childhood home for at least another year and i dont want to settle. I DON'T WANT TO SETTLE!

where you settle is where you die. i forget who said that. but i remember it had something to do with moses...

rachel

my dad is coming home on thursday for the first time in 7 weeks or so. finally.

::sigh:: god is good. don't ever doubt that.

the art of losing isn't hard to master.

i guess a new blog is due...

...but

i'm not in the mood.

so read this poem by Elizabeth Bishop instead:

ONE ART

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

the folks from urbana send us weekly emails now and this one was particularly empowering. a little cheesy. but all around spot on.


( Read more... )

my mom called me while i was having lunch with my dad's brother's wife and said "it doesn't look good" and i sat there and said "okay....okay....okay" and my eyes started leaking and i couldn't stop it. i know that's a corny way to say i started crying but i didn't sob for a long time, i just kept trying to not let the water out, but then i hung up and the dam broke.

now i don't know what to do. it's 10th week. i have an audition tonight and papers and plays to write. and i don't give a shit about any of them. i hate this. i really fucking hate this.

so i'm 22.

i can't sleep. i keep worrying about auditions and i should be worrying about all the plays and papers and poems i have to write and rewrite between now and the end of the week, but i can't get this stupid audition out of my head and i'm probably screwed anyway and won't get in and isn't it just my damn luck that i'm STILL sick even though i've been working on learning this stupid show for like 6 months so i won't blow it even though i'm bound to.

and i should be worrying about my dad still in ICU with a breathing tube down his throat for the past week, sedated and having little seizures, and how i don't know what i would do if something worse happened to him or if, god, i don't even want to type those kinds of things. and it's funny how when little bad things happen i tell everyone cuz i love to complain and get attention because, well, lets face it, everyone likes attention and pity, but when big bad things happen i didn't say anything to hardly anyone until it came out like days and days later when people figured out something was up and i didn't want to say, as if it was some kind of confirmation that something really awful was happening and i don't want this awful thing to keep going, i want him to get better and get over it and get everything back to normal. but i don't know and i don't want to think about any other possibilities.

so maybe its better to worry about school. and graduation. and getting my tuition check turned in on time and getting all my make-up work turned in so my teachers don't think i've just been slacking all quarter. and getting this effing audition over with so i can move on to directing Playworks again and filling up the old resumé.

but 22 seems so final. like by now, i should know what's next. and i don't. i know less than i did last year. that is the only thing that is certain: that i know nothing. i have a BA and know nothing.

i can't sleep because into the woods keeps playing in my head knowing that Marc is never going to be able to play that song and even if he could, i don't know what the song sounds like on the piano to begin with so i don't even know when to begin when he starts playing. and how mad i'm going to be when this is over and i'm not in the musical even though i've been waiting all year for it and my own damn mucus-drenched vocal chords are going to sabotage me.

and it's too hot all of a sudden. i have a fan on, it's buzzing in my ear and i keep looking at the clock, its 3:41am and i keep thinking i have to get up at 10:30 to get ready cuz it's my birthday after all and i want to feel like a girl again (after too many weeks of dressing like a man and gluing hair to my face) and how that's not enough time for a decent nights sleep and how i almost don't want to sleep because i have so much work to do and yet i don't want to do it so i won't do it.

i need to read a few more plays and do my review sheets for them, i need to do my 6 actions assignment that i forgot how to do because it was due like 6 weeks ago but, thank god, my professor knows what's up. actually, she doesn't even know the latest bit of it. but she doesn't have to. i have to completely revise my one-act play which i actually like but keep getting too intimidated to touch it. and then write a whole other 10 minute play...oh yeah, and a big whopping 7-10 page paper for THEA100 that i haven't even had a spark of brain activity over. and revise all my crappy poetry from this quarter.

i want to sleep dammit. goodnight. happy birthday to me. woot.