This One Goes Out to the One I Love

It has been months and months since my last post and I am sorry about that but I didn't think anyone really followed  my blogging (or lack thereof). Whether anyone else reads my blog or not, I know that I have one fan out there, my friend Grace, so this one is for her.

Grace is an absolutely wonderful person. I would describe Grace as being loud (completely incapable of whispering), crazy and fun. Grace is the one among my friends who is never afraid to let the world know how much she loves her friends, even if that means getting strange looks from people who think we are lesbians. I admire that about Grace (by which I mean her ability to love people, not her pseudo-lesbianism). Grace is a very loving, trusting person, ready to give people the benefit of the doubt and leap with complete faith in people into friendships and relationships. Whereas I am scared to let people know how I really feel about them sometimes, or to be very affectionate, Grace just dives right in. This has occasionally caused her to cry more tears than she should ever have to, but it is a positive quality and a huge part of who she is, and i wouldn't change that about her for the world. 

Grace and I may not have gotten off to the best start (there were a few issues with a certain cellist), but we can look back on it all now and laugh knowing that we have only grown closer since then. Grace only wants the best for me, encouraging me to take chances, to not be scared to let other people read what I write, to audition for a part, or to ask out a guy I like. 

Grace is always there when I need someone to talk to, or if I need a hug. We have a special place. She has an infectious laugh that can be heard a mile away or picked out in a crowd (it's a good thing!) and a beautiful smile that any guy would be crazy not to fall for. I can't imagine what my life would be like without her. Grace is a beautiful person and I love her. 

Love,

Bee <3

Frustration and Revelations

June 19, 2008

The desire to write is something of a need for me; it builds up over time as the energy I have has no outlet, when I want to simply let it all out. The problem with that is I have no real inspiration to put pen to paper (or more realistically, set my fingers to the keyboard), just a need to express myself. This dilemma is not something that occurs rarely, and it makes me envy my more talented friends enormously. I think it would be easier for me if I had an instrument and a song I could play loudly, angrily, to just let it out, or a song to play fast, happily, and let everything crescendo; or maybe if I had a canvas that I could smear with all this pent-up energy. Instead, I am an actress, prone to be overly dramatic and have too much energy, with her body and voice as her only tools. I find the greatest relief in indulging in the talents of others, namely listening to music and singing. There's something about belting a really great song that couldn't be more perfectly described than as catharsis. 

When this grates on my family's last nerves, however, writing is the art form I turn to. A few months ago I would have balked at the idea of putting any real emotion in a blog. I couldn't see what anyone could really get out of it, nor could I understand why anyone would be possessed with the desire to put a part of his or her life on the internet for others to see. Now I get it. It's the same way an artist displays paintings, sketches or sculptures, the way a musician gives a concert, the way an actor is drawn to the stage. It's so much more than that too, it is a connection to other people who seek the same outlet, a connection to something much bigger than myself: the world. It's also an amazing opportunity to let go of any inhibitions, which I think were also part of my resistance to blogging originally. I love to write, I have a collection of poems stashed in my room. I would love to share all of these with others, but the fear that they aren't good enough, the fear that others won't like my writing style has been inhibiting.

Now I feel much more open, relieved, and I can honestly say that I think in the future I will turn more to my blog as an outlet. It originally started out as a project for school, but now I really understand what it is, or what it can be if I am just open to it. One of the values my school stresses is being open to growth, to be willing to put yourself out of your comfort zone; that's what this is for me. I can honestly say that I will turn to my blog more often in the future and really take advantage of what it is. I've never been good at keeping a diary, the commitment of writing in it regularly was not something I could do, so I may not write here very regularly, but I at least have a newfound love for it. 

Stuck

February 18, 2008

Through all the craziness that my life entails, it’s nice to know I can count on at least one thing: writer’s block. It happens every time I sit down with the goal of writing something. If I sit with a pen and paper, I know that before long my words will turn into doodles of frustration, crammed in the margins and bordering the top and bottom of the page. If I’m sitting at the computer, I might get through a few sentences before my creativity dries up and I’m left staring at the cursor, blinking at me mockingly. Yes, it mocks me. It seems to say, “Would Carrie Bradshaw get writer’s block?”

Just once I’d like to be one of the people who can walk into a Starbucks or sit on the Metra with a pad and a pen and write something. I mean really write something, not just pretend to be busy so the lady next to me won’t notice I’m intently following her recap of the breakup she’s going through.

Having writer’s block is unfortunately not contained to my spare time. It plagues me constantly. I could be working on an essay for school and be completely on a roll, but then I hit a wall and the rest of the paper isn’t what I wanted it to be; it’s as if the words are outside of my control, living their own lives, deciding when they want to cooperate and when they want to travel the world. I’ve even hit writer’s block working on this post! Writer’s block is the worst during an essay exam. I’m one of those people who will write half a page, delete it because it’s not flowing for me, and go back. That’s a little hard to pull off in a Blue Book.

And it’s happened again. I had a witty, insightful way to tie this all up, but it’s escaped and flown off. My only hope is that it will come back home when it gets hungry. 

My House Away From Home

February 17, 2008

I remember every detail of the car ride to the theatre. I had been one of the last of the group to sign up for the carpool, so the only spot left was in our moderator’s car with two freshmen. I thought that no number of turtles would be able to capture the awkwardness of the car ride, but it was actually fun. I knew as soon as we parked (under a viaduct) that it would be unlike any other theatre experience I’d ever had. I remember thinking we were in the wrong place because all I saw was a bar and a pool table, but before too long we were let into the cozy theatre where I was to experience my first show done by the House Theatre of Chicago.

The first show I saw there was Hatfield and McCoy. I left the theatre completely awestruck. Not only had the show itself been amazing, the experience had been unlike any other I’d ever had. The theatre was small and completely laid back, somewhere I felt completely comfortable in just jeans and a t-shirt. The actors also really drew the audience in, and the stage wasn’t a raised surface pushed away from the front row, but on the same level as the seats. I don’t know of any other theatre where the actors come out to chat with the audience before a show, or where audience members can chat with the genius writers who are the brains behind the show.  One of my friends and I had what we like to call “a Backstreet Boys moment” when the writer of The House’s best shows came and stood near where we were sitting. To clarify, a “Backstreet Boys moment”  refers to the girls that would freak out about being in the front row of one of their concerts and not want to wash their hand if it was touched by Nick.

Now I’m waiting for the House’s new show, The Attempters. Although I am dying to see the show, I’m also worried that the feel of the theatre will change with the House being moved from the Viaduct theatre to a new location. Part of the magic of the House was its unique location that made anyone feel like they belonged in a theatre. Still, I don’t think anything could turn me away from the House. 

Anyone who's interested should check it out: http://www.thehousetheatre.com/

Out of the Loop

February 15, 2008

This morning I was sitting in class when my teacher asked, “So, what was your reaction to yesterday?” I assumed he meant the presentation our class had been given about working with the school’s college counseling department, so I was a little confused when people began voicing emotions of fear, anger, and I knew I was out of the loop when someone mentioned a gun. Because I was seeing Rent I stayed in the city and didn’t go home until after the show yesterday so I didn’t see any of the afternoon or evening news reports. Sitting in class I gathered that there had been a shooting at a college in a rural area, but I wasn’t sure which college. I eventually did pick up a newspaper during my free period, so I filled myself in. Of course my sympathy goes out to all the friends and families who lost someone and the students of NIU. It seems to me that a lot of stories like this one are coming up in the news. It could be that after the shooting at Virginia Tech threats at schools are getting more media attention, or threats in schools are simply increasing. I’m currently going through the process of prepping for the SAT and ACT, and looking into colleges, so seeing stories like this make me wonder, should safety be a major factor in which schools I choose to apply to? The entire process of picking a school, and a major, and being out on my own is scary enough on its own, but fear for my safety really is a legitimate concern now too. I know that isolated incidents can’t define every school, or even the schools at which they happen, but the fear is still there. 

It’s Not a Sing-Along, It’s Not a Sing-Along, It’s Not a Sing-Along!

February 15, 2008

Last night, I was lucky enough to have tickets to Broadway in Chicago’s off-season production of Rent. The show is only in town until the 17^th, so when my brother gave me the tickets as a belated Christmas/ early birthday present, I didn’t even know it was going to be in town. I’ve seen the movie several times and the original cast recording is on constant rotation on my ipod, but there is nothing like seeing it live. Seeing it live captures all the talent that the entire cast has and really lets them flaunt that and show what they’ve put together after so much work; the emotion in the show also really comes through. I know all the jokes that come up and can anticipate where in the show I’ll get choked up, but finally seeing the show live really was like seeing it all for the first time. I’ve never found the show so funny, or been so swept up in the fun the cast has singing La Vie Boheme, or cried so hard when Angel died and the family everyone formed fell apart. I was getting really into the show, but I’m so used to listening to the soundtrack that I had to sit there and remind myself “It’s not a sing-along, it’s not a sing-along, it’s not a sing-along.” The energy coming off the cast was definitely palpable; I just wish the entire audience had been so into it. When Maureen asked the audience to “moo” with her, a few tentative “moos” came up here and there, but not many people joined in (the woman next to me in fact seemed annoyed and slightly frightened by the gusto of my “moo”). I brushed that off thinking that “mooing” probably isn’t something most people do on a daily basis but then at the beginning of Act II when Roger invited the audience to clap along, the level of participation was about the same. Having been onstage in performances at my school, I know how much an actor draws off of the energy of the audience and what a disappointment a dead audience can be.

The show nonetheless was spectacular. It gave me chills. “Viva la vie Boheme!”

Dear Diary...

February 13, 2008

Blogging, It’s definitely not something I thought I would ever do. As far back as I can remember, I have been completely horrible at keeping diaries. I would get one as a gift or pick one I thought was pretty in the store when I was younger, and for a couple of weeks I would keep up with writing in it. I would sit down every day and begin “dear diary…” then proceed to recount the events of my day, what new way of bothering me my sister had discovered, and which boy I had a crush on. Then I would hide the diary and not pull it out for months on end. Looking back on old entries, all of it seems so trivial and I wonder at how it could have all mattered so much to me back then. Why would I want to recount the everyday events of my life? What purpose would it serve to anyone? One of my old diaries would mean nothing to anyone who picked it up and read it now, but what would history have recorded if Anne Frank had felt the same way? In a Brit Lit course I’m taking we recently read excerpts from the diary of Samuel Pepys. If I’m going to be honest, I hated it. Pepy’s entries for the most part bored me to death recounting business transactions and dinner parties he attended with people whose names meant nothing to me. but then I thought about it; if Pepys hadn’t written down every painstaking detail of his life, we wouldn’t know as much about the quality of life in the 1600’s or have as many details about the Great Fire of London or the coronation of  Charles II. I think that if Pepys were alive today, he would be an obsessive blogger. True, he wrote everything in a sort of shorthand that no one else knew, hinting that he didn’t want others reading it, but blogs offer anonymity.  Pepys never seemed to show any remorse about his affairs and I think he would have taken advantage of the opportunity blogs would offer him to brag about his affairs without having his name tied into it.