Matt Smith,
I can only assume that you're home from gallavanting all over the West Coast -- although I think you were only vanting your galla in Seattle. I vanted in Pittsburgh for Jesus's half-birthday (that's what Easter IS, right?) and my galla is TIRED, let me tell you. I'm in the Pittsburgh airport, "surfing the 'net" as the kids are saying these days, drinking my cranberry juice, and waiting for my flight to be called. I usually like the Pittsburgh airport. I like seeing planes take off. I'd just rather not be on them. Really, when you get right down to it (where did that phrase COME from? was it for someone really TALL? or on a ladder? why is "it" always down?), if I had the time, I'd rather walk. I hear that Indiana's really a wonderful place to take a stroll this time of year.
It was a completely unwasted trip to Pittsburgh. I saw my family -- they're nice to look at. We even ate together. Twice. I saw my friends -- also nice to look at. I talked to them, too. They're still funny. They still drink, which is great. I lost two card games. I saw my boyfriend. He was the first and last person I spent time with -- like bookends. (Side note: Matt and I both got bookends from our mothers for Christmas this year. I guess we're just bookend types of people.) He bought me the cranberry juice that I'm currently enjoying and the trail mix which I plan to eat on the plane (not on a trail).
I also had an interview/meeting with PrimeStage Children's Theatre for an educational childreny theatrey type of job, as-of-yet untitled, but already part-time. They're looking forward to working with me; I'm looking forward to sending them more information about me so they can go out and get a grant to pay me to do all the wonderful, magical things I know how to do.
I left a note at Starbucks for my old boss, asking if she had any room to take me back on staff when I get settled back in Pittsburgh again. The answer, of course, is yes -- she called today to let me know that she'd love to have me come back part-time.
The theatre thing is wonderful. I'm excited to work magic in the children's theatre realm.
The Starbucks thing is just another way to pay the rent. Sort of disappointing, but it will inevitably create most of the fodder for this blog in the warmer days to come.
My friend, Sivie, asked me to tell her about what I'm currently doing/thinking/wearing. I don't think the wearing thing was part of it, but I'm going to throw that into the mix just for kicks -- yet another odd turn of phrase, because frankly, is kicking all that fun? I guess it depends on who you're kicking. So, there you have it, Sivie. I'm in the Pittsburgh airport. I had a nice weekend. I'm coming back to Minnesota, only to tour for 4 more weeks with CLIMB. Yes. Tour. I'm literally going to be out of town for the next four weeks. (Sometimes I wonder why they have an employee manual at all. What good are rules about those sorts of things if you're not going to use them?) I'm looking forward to the end of April when I can stay in one place and pack stuff, enjoying the idea of being in the apartment that I pay for every month just so my stuff can live there.
I'm wearing jeans, a yellow button-down shirt over a pink tank top, checker-print socks that say "TAXI" on them, a red coat from Old Navy, and red tennis shoes.
And my hair looks kick-ass.
Love,
Meredith
Monday, March 28, 2005
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
LeRoytes
LeRoy,
Usually on this blog, I write to my friend, Matt Smith. But since so recently you wrote to me of the color of our friendship, I feel you deserve a bit more than a reply that's been run through spell check.
Oh, okay. Let's be honest. I don't use spell check, and neither do you. (That's "neither," just as the Mother in A Raisin in the Sun would say.)
There's a lot to be said about long-term friendships, LeRoy. I used to think that they were just for men -- like the hair color that comes in a box? -- but I'd also like to think that our friendship is able to do more than just cover unwanted greys. Even now.
More and more, though, I think I'm a bad friend. Or at least a friend with a poor attendance record. I'm a no-show in a lot of ways. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Maybe that makes me stupid and/or wrong. Maybe that makes me totally suck as a human being, but I still love my friends. They contribute so much to who I am. And even if who I am isn't all that good... even if who I am is a completely shut-off, jaded, sour girl -- that's got to count for something.
And I credit you with a great deal of that. Thanks. Or something.
I thank you for yelling at me when I become the Wicked Witch of Hell -- or at least making me laugh. I thank you for always showing me the reality of who I am at any given moment. I thank you for being more like yourself than any other person in the entire world. Ever. I thank you for remembering everything I ever did while in your presence. I thank you for never letting me go completely. I thank you for calling me names -- like whore, and bitch, and slut -- even though I'm not any of those things... most of the time. I thank you for being someone that will always mean "comfort" and "home" to me, even when those are the last things I really want. I thank you for not ending the friendship after that trip to New York City, even after I snapped at you for taking 60 million pairs of shoes. (I instantly forgave you for that when I refused to help you carry the bags back to the bus through the Greyhound station.) I thank you for getting in trouble and staying out of trouble with me throughout our adolescence -- depending on the circumstances. I thank you for never letting my head get too big. (I admit to an ego, but it's significantly deflated when you're around. You keep me in check.) I thank you for letting me be me.
And because of all that I'm thankful for, I feel that I should apologize for breaking that desk that one time in high school.
Love,
Ophelia
Usually on this blog, I write to my friend, Matt Smith. But since so recently you wrote to me of the color of our friendship, I feel you deserve a bit more than a reply that's been run through spell check.
Oh, okay. Let's be honest. I don't use spell check, and neither do you. (That's "neither," just as the Mother in A Raisin in the Sun would say.)
There's a lot to be said about long-term friendships, LeRoy. I used to think that they were just for men -- like the hair color that comes in a box? -- but I'd also like to think that our friendship is able to do more than just cover unwanted greys. Even now.
More and more, though, I think I'm a bad friend. Or at least a friend with a poor attendance record. I'm a no-show in a lot of ways. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Maybe that makes me stupid and/or wrong. Maybe that makes me totally suck as a human being, but I still love my friends. They contribute so much to who I am. And even if who I am isn't all that good... even if who I am is a completely shut-off, jaded, sour girl -- that's got to count for something.
And I credit you with a great deal of that. Thanks. Or something.
I thank you for yelling at me when I become the Wicked Witch of Hell -- or at least making me laugh. I thank you for always showing me the reality of who I am at any given moment. I thank you for being more like yourself than any other person in the entire world. Ever. I thank you for remembering everything I ever did while in your presence. I thank you for never letting me go completely. I thank you for calling me names -- like whore, and bitch, and slut -- even though I'm not any of those things... most of the time. I thank you for being someone that will always mean "comfort" and "home" to me, even when those are the last things I really want. I thank you for not ending the friendship after that trip to New York City, even after I snapped at you for taking 60 million pairs of shoes. (I instantly forgave you for that when I refused to help you carry the bags back to the bus through the Greyhound station.) I thank you for getting in trouble and staying out of trouble with me throughout our adolescence -- depending on the circumstances. I thank you for never letting my head get too big. (I admit to an ego, but it's significantly deflated when you're around. You keep me in check.) I thank you for letting me be me.
And because of all that I'm thankful for, I feel that I should apologize for breaking that desk that one time in high school.
Love,
Ophelia
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
A Frog in a Sombrero Does Not a Party Make
Dear Matt Smith,
I wish I had some pithy, succinct things to write regarding the past week. As it stands, I'm in Oshkosh, Wisconsin -- home of overalls, coveralls, and anything else that ends in -alls -- teaching children about self-control.
Self-control is truly one of my least favorite lessons to teach, especially to children of the "small" persuasion. I feel like I'm stifling them. No, no. Scratch that. I feel like SOMEONE is stifling them. When they give me answers like "don't interrupt adults when they're speaking" or "do what your parents tell you to do" to the question "How can you use your self-control?" I just want to hug them... or yell at them... or teach them an improv class. I don't know. Kids are supposed to be kids.
Don't get me wrong. I don't mind that they tell me that interrupting is a lack of self-control. It's the "adult" tag that gets me. You're not really supposed to interrupt anyone (unless you're having an emergency and your arm is falling off or something) in life.
Adults have this skewed view of their importance.
I mean, seriously. Get over yourselves. You're just taller than them. (Who do you think you're fooling?)
Okay. So I lied. I DO have pith.
In other pith-related news, this month's been the "what-do-you-want-to-do-when-you-grow-up" month for me. I just got word that my contract has been extended to May 3. Which really means that I'll be in Minnesota til after May 7, what with all the end-of-year celebrations (can you say "CLIMB PROM?!") and packing craziness. Maybe I can solicit some help with those things and I'll be home ON May 7. Anyway, hopefully, I'll figure a way to get my foot in the door of educational theatre administration and I won't have to kill myself paying for rent... which seems to be the answer to the above question these days. ("What do you want to do when you leave here, Meredith?" "Figure out a way to pay my rent." Sigh.)
Fun side note: I'm in this coffee shop now, right? And there are these two girls doing... something. And they're sitting around doing their something and they're complaining about the cold. Um. It's the Midwest? It's SUPPOSED to be cold? Uh, and you're wearing t-shirts. Temperature is not a state of mind, people. It's a reality. Wake up and smell the wind chill. Put some clothes on.
But what I'd really like to do with the rest of my life is to inspire children to be themselves. So much of childhood gets stepped upon by the public education system; children are literally afraid to be who they are. Children learn how to express themselves by being exposed to theatre. Theatre helps them put their thoughts into words. They become better, more ardent communicators. They're not afraid to just BE. I constantly think that if I'd had a theatre class everyday -- or even once a week! -- when I was younger, I wouldn't be as bottled up as I am today.
So there's my long-range goal. To get theatre into every child's education. It's a big, hairy, audacious goal (as CLIMB would say), but it's a goal all the same.
Here's where I count my blessings that I'm only 22.
Love,
Meredith
I wish I had some pithy, succinct things to write regarding the past week. As it stands, I'm in Oshkosh, Wisconsin -- home of overalls, coveralls, and anything else that ends in -alls -- teaching children about self-control.
Self-control is truly one of my least favorite lessons to teach, especially to children of the "small" persuasion. I feel like I'm stifling them. No, no. Scratch that. I feel like SOMEONE is stifling them. When they give me answers like "don't interrupt adults when they're speaking" or "do what your parents tell you to do" to the question "How can you use your self-control?" I just want to hug them... or yell at them... or teach them an improv class. I don't know. Kids are supposed to be kids.
Don't get me wrong. I don't mind that they tell me that interrupting is a lack of self-control. It's the "adult" tag that gets me. You're not really supposed to interrupt anyone (unless you're having an emergency and your arm is falling off or something) in life.
Adults have this skewed view of their importance.
I mean, seriously. Get over yourselves. You're just taller than them. (Who do you think you're fooling?)
Okay. So I lied. I DO have pith.
In other pith-related news, this month's been the "what-do-you-want-to-do-when-you-grow-up" month for me. I just got word that my contract has been extended to May 3. Which really means that I'll be in Minnesota til after May 7, what with all the end-of-year celebrations (can you say "CLIMB PROM?!") and packing craziness. Maybe I can solicit some help with those things and I'll be home ON May 7. Anyway, hopefully, I'll figure a way to get my foot in the door of educational theatre administration and I won't have to kill myself paying for rent... which seems to be the answer to the above question these days. ("What do you want to do when you leave here, Meredith?" "Figure out a way to pay my rent." Sigh.)
Fun side note: I'm in this coffee shop now, right? And there are these two girls doing... something. And they're sitting around doing their something and they're complaining about the cold. Um. It's the Midwest? It's SUPPOSED to be cold? Uh, and you're wearing t-shirts. Temperature is not a state of mind, people. It's a reality. Wake up and smell the wind chill. Put some clothes on.
But what I'd really like to do with the rest of my life is to inspire children to be themselves. So much of childhood gets stepped upon by the public education system; children are literally afraid to be who they are. Children learn how to express themselves by being exposed to theatre. Theatre helps them put their thoughts into words. They become better, more ardent communicators. They're not afraid to just BE. I constantly think that if I'd had a theatre class everyday -- or even once a week! -- when I was younger, I wouldn't be as bottled up as I am today.
So there's my long-range goal. To get theatre into every child's education. It's a big, hairy, audacious goal (as CLIMB would say), but it's a goal all the same.
Here's where I count my blessings that I'm only 22.
Love,
Meredith
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)