Pericles

It's amazing how Calshakes, almost without fail, makes my heart rise. I cannot think of any better way to spend an evening than seeing a production in that amphitheater. The smell of the eucalyptus as you climb through the forest, the strings of lights, people bundled up holding steamy beverages, the rolling hills in the background, and the twilight sky that gradually fades into a starry ink. This is just added atmosphere. There is a magic on the stage itself, the potential of held breath, which could soar out as a sigh, scream, or song. I remember that night, after seeing Restoration Comedy, how perfect I felt. I walked around the theater, ran my hand along the edge of the stage, through the entire space, feeling the full emptiness of it, and laughing out of sheer joy.
Purpose is a wonderful thing. Knowledge of intention itself. For a moment, it can make you feel almost invincible. Especially, I think, when you're young. I can't say for sure though, as I've never been anything but young.
Tonight's performance was of Pericles. The center of the set involved a gnarled tree of an archway, with oriental sort of rugs and drapings to either side of it. The play was a Shakespearean fairytale, a tragicomical odyssey. What could be better than that? It's a later play, so the writing makes lifts you, even as William plays with the nature of storytelling in a time where surreality and the mixing of the tragic and comic were considered taboo by the established rules of theater (according to the program notes.)
I think part of what I love is how alive their theater is. There is such a sense of community there, you recognize the actors, and you know that they are children playing pretend, just like the rest of us. The sound and lighting design was incredible. It did not look like the ocean actually does, but it felt like the ocean, and that is what most film directors don't know how to do.
Pericles says to Marina, emphatically, "Tell thy story!" I think that sentiment is much of what lent the play so much power. For one thing, I've never seen a Shakespeare play with a narrator. I mean, he might bring one in for an introduction or epilogue in some cases, but this one was an integral part of the story. He was my favorite character.
Really, seeing plays there is rejuvenating. It reminds me of who I am, or rather, who I want to be, because it shows me what I aim to do. There is no other theater I have been to that embodies living story so well. I hope that someday I will be given the chance to act on that stage.
I want to spin fiction that is truer than life itself.

Guess Who's Back?

It is a beautiful thing to come into one's own again after being away for so long. I have just come from a conversation that I think I would have found very distressing for a grand portion of this year and I don't really care. Hell, I was practically accused of rape, and I don't really care. I'm smiling. See, I've returned to my beautiful Zen of not giving a shit about what people think of me. There are always exceptions to this rule, but to be so is a privilege granted to few, and not entirely to anyone. I don't have to prove myself. I've been sick for so long, I'd forgotten what it was like to be me. I remember how much people would wonder at how happy I was most of the time, and usually I simply shrugged it off as there being no reason why I should be sad (though certainly many reasons for which I could be), but there is another part of it. When I am myself, truly and fully inhabiting and manifesting what it is to be myself, being me is a wonderful thing! Being sick for so long,I'd forgotten that I'm actually a highly capable human being. There is a lot I have to do, but I'm not stressed by it anymore, because my confidence in my ability to take care of what I have to do has been restored. I'm not distressed by this recent business with Yoshi because he really doesn't matter to me. I'm done. I have no need for someone who has treated me and regarded me in such a manner.
Lordy Lou, but Jane Austen is unhealthy for my writing. I've been reading Mansfield Park for my Early Novel lecture, and it's seeping in. Based on what I'd heard about the book before reading it, I thought that I would hate Fanny Price, but I don't. I just feel really bad for Fanny. Everyone is a dick to her.
Hee. That's another word I got condemned for using. Dick. Dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I'm a dick, you're a dick, she's a dick, he's a dick, they are dicks, together we are all dicks.
Mmm. I need to avoid going to bed so early. Hopefully I can sleep again now that I've faffed about for a few hours. If not, I'll get some work done.
Here is a philosophy: Do what you will, and the world will come to you.
So long as you are doing.
Hahaaaa!

Written during my early novel lecture this afternoon, and 0233!

There are places I never thought my mind would go that I live in now. It's not about trying to get attention from people, because if it was I'd tell someone. There are patterns in this world that are finally making me believe in God, and you'd think that'd make me more hopeful, but it doesn't really. My opinion of people falls a little lower every day. Perhaps this seems cliché to you, but it doesn't feel that way when you've spent your whole life thinking the best of people, forgiving them when they fuck up, and looking to your own heart and future with optimism and gusto. Things are only cliché when they happen to someone else.
Things here will come to a head soon, I will return home and heal. Either I'll come back in the fall, or I won't. I will push through the unpleasantness of the next two weeks to the sunshine on the other side. I will walk away from the errors of this year with my head held high and my eyes fully focused on the path stretched out in front of me, and I will let the weight of this unnecessary mass of humanity slip underneath the surface of my memory to dissolve into a blankness from which my freedom will emerge, I will breathe in deeply and step into the light.

Voo Doo Wall

Tessa is finger-painting on the wall.

Tessa: One, two, give me a rose
Three, four, I'll give you a kiss
Five, six, we'll promise eachother
Seven, eight, that nothing's remiss
One, two, give me the sun
Three, four, I'll give you the rain
Five, six, we'll trade in our hearts
Seven, eight, for a whole world of pain

Tessa puts the finishing touches on her painting, takes a moment to stand back and admire her handiwork. Her hands are still covered in paint. She studies them, smiles, and puts tribal marks on her face. They are simple and savage. She starts slowly turning in circles, studying her surroundings with a reverence that is almost religious, but still wild. She turn, oh, let's say, three times before her gaze goes straight up and becomes very still. She goes into a wolf howl and bolts to a mirror on the other side of the room, stops hardly an inch away from it, ceasing sound and motion as abruptly as she began. Gently, she leans forward and kisses her reflection. Tessa closes her eyes and steps through the mirror.