End of an Era

And I sat there in my not-so-crisp, slightly stained dress whites, wearing half a purple tie and watched some of the best friends I've ever had parade down the aisle in their wedding gowns in the typically Castillejan graduation ceremony in which they all wind up married to each other. Bouquets of red roses and elaborate hairdos. Suddenly it was over and I hugged Grant Pollock and all the graduates and wished them well and promised to stay in touch and rode off down Page Mill singing along to Solsbury Hill and drinking punch.

the scottish play

Well, if we're running on the theory of bad dress rehearsals leading to good shows, then Ug is set. Really, it is. Between equity actors calling line, not having final performance mics, sound designers hovering over my shoulder and moving sliders, mics feeding back really badly, cues miscalled or called with no standby, no booth script, faulty ClearComs, and Jamie saying the name of the Scottish Play, I think we're doing fine.

open your eyes

maybe i should give up and stop bitching and realize that at least half of the problem is my inability to make interesting things come out of my mouth.

inhale/exhale

"Give me that. I have to try it." She smiled with her eyes as my fingers grasped the filter, looking all too experienced for a first time. And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I raised it to my lips and inhaled. The funny thing? I didn't cough. I was fully convinced that little asthmatic me would start hacking and coughing and looking like a fool. Nothing. I barely felt it. It tasted good, smooth and warm going down, the sweet flavor of cloves still lingering on my lips almost half an hour after those five drags. I have a whole pack and a box of strike anywhere matches but I'm determined not to because they were for you and i know it's stupid but in a way that's what I need.

where your hands were missing

i should not read your fiction and wish you were here, wish i could spin your words into a voice and a touch. bring you back through what you've written, which is all i see anymore. we haven't had a real conversation since the night of i've never talked about this with someone who wasn't going through it and you do know i'll always be your shoulder - don't you? even the strongest person has to cry, to throw caution to the wind and give in to emotions and oh baby i try. right now, more than anything, i want to talk to you. really talk. hear your voice for the first time in forever but i'd have to pinch myself to make sure i wasn't dreaming. you are a dream.

all you have to do is open your eyes.

working girl

the good things about working:
i get paychecks. i feel responisble. the cool girl at johnny rockets [yummy junk food for lunch] knows me. i'm a bloody professional. adults listen to me. and i love it. sjsc is so much more professional than the pear.

the bad things:
public transportation sucks ass, my mother won't do late pickups, and my father wants me to pay for weeknight car rentals because he's almost as broke as i am. i think the trick is just to wear steel-toes and not tell mom i'm taking the 22 home at all hours of the night [yeah baby it's the only 24-hour bus]. and the car it looked like i was going to get once my uncle un-stole it - that's my dad's now because we don't have the money to get him a car or pay for insurance for me so what's the point of getting my license? i would never use it and if i get into nyu i won't be driving anyway. only idiots drive in new york city.
erblegh. this is nuts. i think i need to hire a driver.