Greetings, Matt Smith.

You're always comparing the Red Masquers to a ship. Now, I know you like ships and all, and it's a commendable analogy. As analogies go, I think it's probably one of the better ones -- although I'm a sucker for a good cliché.
One of the bigger problems with that, though, is that the ship has to eventually dock someplace. It has to stop. A ship can't sail on and on forever without coming to shore for supplies or to get rid of the garbage or to drop the dead bodies off. Sure, there's a lot to be said for "sailing away into the sunset," but the thing about sunsets is -- they get dark.
I'm not sure where all this is coming from. I'm not knocking your ship-thing; I think I'm just sad. It's not an entirely foreign feeling for me, and I'm getting more and more used to the way sadness sneaks up on me. I can be anywhere, just doing my thing -- cleaning, singing, walking through the Armstrong Tunnel -- and all of a sudden, there it is, looking over my shoulder, chewing loudly on really crunchy things and reading my paper. I guess a lot of people would call it a "sinking" feeling, but for me it's not (probably because I'm so bitter about your ship references... and ships sink occasionally, which is not good at all).
It's nearer to nothing. My sadness is other people's apathy.
And it's horrible.
But that's not to say that I'm apathetic about leaving the Masquers. I'm not. I have a lot of feelings about it -- not the least of which is that sadness/apathy cross-breed. I just haven't figured out the best way to say it.
Because my sister says that everything's a show... everything's a story. And being a part of the Masquers is its own sort of story. Leaving them behind makes me curious as to just what sort of story it's been.

Love,
Meredith

I feel that I should be careful, lest this Blog turn into just an inventory of "All Things That Meredith Hates." I do hate a lot of things, though, including motorized wheelchairs (and often, the people in them), pudding, artificially blue foods, and my sunroof.

Lately, I've discovered that while I love driving, I hate drivers. (This falls in the same category of Hated Things that acting and actors falls into, and I'm sure I'll dive headlong into that topic at another time.) Driving is fluid and soft and wonderful. It's one of the only things humans can do that will make them feel absolutely weightless and in control. Like swimming. Drivers, on the other hand, are mean-spirited, ridiculous folk who have little concern for the well being of anyone who is not in their particular vehicle.

Drivers without passengers are the worst. I like to think they're just lonely, but really, I think it's one of those things that has to do with having more concern for your family and friends -- or your dog -- than you might have for yourself. I used to spend a lot of time with a relatively impulsive driver who, when I would grip the door or my seat in fear, would assure me, "You're not going to die while I'm driving" or "I drive safer with you in the car... really." Why is that a part of human nature? Flirting with death. I just don't get it. There's a lot of other -- better, warmer -- things to flirt with.

Driving in Pittsburgh is another sort of beast. (Read that again. It's funny. Don't you picture a beast -- big and hairylike -- just driving a little VW Bug around the city? The English language is fun.) I hate the Pittsburgh Left, and the stupid, stupid parking lanes (but not between the hours of 4 and 6pm!) and the stupid, stupid drivers with big hair or mullets or sandwiches. (The ones with sandwiches are often the worst. Have you ever seen the size of a Pittsburgh sandwich? They're immense.) I swore to my sister yesterday, after having several of these mullet-people pull out in front of me without warning, that I must have some sign attached to my car that reads: "Go Ahead. I Won't Hit You."

There must be a button for that somewhere in the car. I'll be darned if I'm not going to find it.... and smash it to smithereens.

Dear Matt Smith,

I feel the need to tell you that you misspelled my name in your last correspondence. It's Meredith -- with three syllables -- not "Merdith" with two, which, while appealling as a name (it reminds me of mermaids and mermen... or, I guess, merpeople), is not actually MY name. My name is Meredith. And that's better than any name I've got. (If you stare at that sentence for a while, it'll go all wonky in your brain. I swear. Give it a shot.)

There are a dozen and some odd reasons why you're getting this e-mail. One of the larger ones is this: I started a Blog. One of the problems with modern-day Blogging (and I guess Blogging is and always has been modern, unless, by some odd turn of chance, some fallen civilization out there invented the Blog and we don't know it. Like the Incas. I bet they were Bloggers) is that, although it's supposedly an online "journal" meant for your own purposes, you're constantly writing to entertain your audience. And that could be ANYONE, right? There could be some drunken, toothless man in a woolly mammoth costume out there right now reading this blog and I wouldn't have a clue. Which is more than scary, 'cause it's the truth.

Ah. You've caught on. "This blog." That's right. This e-mail is indeed a blog. And after I copy and paste it, it'll REALLY be a blog. (Blog's a funny word. It makes me think of "logs." Only with butter. Like a fat, buttered log.) I guess my thought was, if I'm going to blog, and I'm going to inevitably try to be entertaining, I might as well write to the person who entertains me the most, and in turn, makes me entertaining. I glean my entertainment value from you, Matt Smith. (So you'd better hurry up and be famous so I can be famous, too.)

SO... yeah. Now that we've got all that in the open. Every Blog has a purpose. What's my purpose? Huh. Well, that's a darned good question. It reminds me of this question that I've been staring at for weeks on my application for Dallas Theatre Center's directing internship: "What are your long-range goals?" Basically, what's your purpose in life? What's your aim? I'm certain that I'm reading into that a bit much, because -- well, that's what I do best... But all the same, I keep thinking, "I don't have any long-range goals." Or maybe I do, and they're just so long-range that I can't see them yet. Like something that's, y'know, really far away. In the distance. Far. Away. What's worse is, I keep thinking that it's okay for me not to know what my goals are. And it's not. I have to know... if only to fill out that god-foresaken application...

In the meantime, things keep getting darker and lighter and curiouser and curiouser...

Love,
Meredith