I’m sitting in my Dramatic Literature class, thinking about life. Actually, I’m thinking about how much I hate Sam Shepard. I wonder sometimes if I can still call myself a theatre artist if I hate Sam Shepard. I also hate “Endgame.” I’m going to theatre major hell.
Lately, I’ve been reconsidering plans and dreams I have taken for granted for years. Mostly, I am tired of being an undergrad. I’m tired of trying to balance school and education. I’m curious as to how different my life will be in grad school. Will I still have to do silly little “response papers” and “reading reports?” Will I find myself wondering on a Saturday afternoon if I should take time away from writing the play I care about to do the class assignment that I don’t? Most of all, I wonder if my desire to get my MFA is tied more closely to my growing fear of going out into the “real world.”
When it comes down to it, I suppose, I’m either talented or I’m not. I’m either working hard enough or I’m not. Is it really prudent for a writer (who would be ill-advised to predict a future of plentiful monetary means) to spend several years and thousands of dollars to sit around a table and pontificate about every draft I write? I can’t hide behind a master’s degree once I’m out of grad school and greatly in debt. I need to improve, of course, but I don’t know if that’ll happen if I continue to spend all my time in a classroom.
Cynical? Maybe. I should, perhaps, adopt the role of the idealist and assume that all my dreams will come true when I get to Yale, NYU, New School, the Mischner Institue, or wherever I end up. Perhaps I should believe whole-heartedly that I’ll graduate from one of these exemplary institutions ready to revolutionize the literary and theatrical worlds. But I can’t buy it.
I’ve recently had a crazy idea bouncing around in my head, a wild hair, if you will. I want to be a high school teacher. I KNOW! I haven’t given up the dream of teaching at a college or university either. And I find myself passively looking for other employment opportunities, perhaps something part-time, something to tide me over while I’m making my way as a writer or director. Or something else.
It’s frustrating, but it’s kind of exciting. I have a little while until I need to make any real decisions. But they need to be made. Soon enough. Let me know if you have any guidance for me. But for now I’ll leave it at that.
Class is over.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
A love letter to the theatre...
Sometimes I wonder why I do what I do. Let’s be honest, I’m not going to become a millionaire (unless I can indeed write the next “Twilight”-esque phenomenon) and theatre is not the easiest filed in which to carve out a life for oneself. I still have days when I consider throwing in the towel and becoming a civil engineering or business management major. However, today was not one of those days. Today was the antidote to days like those.
The designers came to the “Berenice” rehearsal tonight and gave their presentations to the cast to show what they’re looking at in terms of how the show will look sound and feel. (“Berenice” is a new script that I wrote/adapted, in case you didn’t know.) I listened to the director talk about how she sees the script and the story she wants to tell. And I heard the actors talking about their characters and the major themes that speak to them in the script I wrote.
This was an incredible feeling! People are sketching costumes for characters I created and scoring scripts full of lines that I wrote. People are finding meaning in something that I generated, something personal and close to me. I was honestly awestruck seeing the coming together of diverse talents to create something that will hopefully be a beautiful work of art. I put words on a page and for the first time I think tonight I saw what that can actually mean. Creative minds are coming together and synthesizing; I don’t know if there is much that is more exciting than that.
I love theatre. I love creation. I hope to create things of worth, things of beauty. I feel that this is something divine that I have been given, the ability, as Racine put it, to create something out of nothing. And, like I said, it’s nights like these that can get me through the frustrations that inevitably follow an obnoxious temperamental artist such as myself.
The designers came to the “Berenice” rehearsal tonight and gave their presentations to the cast to show what they’re looking at in terms of how the show will look sound and feel. (“Berenice” is a new script that I wrote/adapted, in case you didn’t know.) I listened to the director talk about how she sees the script and the story she wants to tell. And I heard the actors talking about their characters and the major themes that speak to them in the script I wrote.
This was an incredible feeling! People are sketching costumes for characters I created and scoring scripts full of lines that I wrote. People are finding meaning in something that I generated, something personal and close to me. I was honestly awestruck seeing the coming together of diverse talents to create something that will hopefully be a beautiful work of art. I put words on a page and for the first time I think tonight I saw what that can actually mean. Creative minds are coming together and synthesizing; I don’t know if there is much that is more exciting than that.
I love theatre. I love creation. I hope to create things of worth, things of beauty. I feel that this is something divine that I have been given, the ability, as Racine put it, to create something out of nothing. And, like I said, it’s nights like these that can get me through the frustrations that inevitably follow an obnoxious temperamental artist such as myself.
Learning the Rules
(This is another piece I wrote for that creative writing class last semester.)
It must have been a strange day, the first time my father led me into a public restroom and introduced me to the amenities there. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine it was quite a relief; boys who are young enough to go in the women’s bathroom with their mothers are still old enough to be humiliated by it. I wonder what he said to me, or what I’ll say to my own son when the time comes. What’s funny, I suppose, is the fact that going to the bathroom is the most basic, most uncomplicated process I can think of. We’re born without inhibitions but that freedom is squashed soon enough and rules are gradually introduced. We are told when to go, where to go, and, as soon as young boys are brought into the bathroom, how to go.
Rules are important. I’ve always appreciated them and the comfort they seem to provide. I was never a Tom Sawyer or a Dennis the Menace. I was never “up to no good.” I liked to do what I was supposed to do; life was manageable then. I learned that in the bathroom, when your first choice urinal is taken, you take the one furthest from that in use. After that, you fill in, leaving a buffer zone between you and the man to your side. This presents an uncomfortable grey area for a law-abiding citizen such as myself who needs structure in order to feel at ease. Still, ruminating on options means loitering and another potential infraction. So a decision has to be made. I learned that your eyes face front and that before you turn to move to the sink, a decisive step backwards from the wall must be taken before truing to one side or another. (This is especially imperative in the unfortunate circumstances in which no “privacy barriers” are present between the urinals.) I think even Dennis the Menace would agree that these rules aren’t worth breaking. That is, if we ever discussed these rules out loud.
I’ve been told that when I was three years old or so, I would watch my mother iron. Always the inquisitive little tyke, I asked her one day if I could touch the iron. She told me I could not. As the story goes, I asked if I could touch the “white part” of the iron (the handle I knew full well was not hurting her) and she conceded. My curious little finger got closer and closer to the “hot part” until a quick burn met with three-year-old tears and a loving scolding from my mother. My finger swelled under cold running water and I determined in my young mind that the “hard way” is not the wisest choice when a lesson needs to be learned.
The “hard way” was often unavoidable, however. When I got a few years older, I would learn that I was not an athlete. My one-year tee ball career culminated in being awarded the “best dancer in the outfield” honor when my coach handed me the trophy my parents had paid for. I’ve wondered what possessed the man to crush a little boy’s athletic dreams with a single joke. I doubt this occurred to him, though. In a desperate attempt to find something to say, he must have remembered a fateful afternoon when his outfielder, in desperate need of a bathroom, couldn’t stand still and pay attention to the game. Little did he know, perhaps, that the snow cone at the end of the game was the only motivation keeping me out there. Even before the pizza and trophy party, I knew I didn’t share my teammates’ dedication to the sport. The other boys watched baseball games, spent hours a day playing catch, and knew terminology so mysterious and useful that I wondered why we never covered it in Mrs. Menz’s kindergarten classroom. With every trip or screw-up came an assertion that the baseball diamond was not the place for me. But the other boys stayed.
I remember little else about my life as a baseball player and even less about my early bathroom experiences; I do remember the same way walking into a crowded restroom that I’d felt in the Little League dugout: exposed, intimidated, under scrutiny. The bathroom isn’t a frightening place, but the same meticulous care is taken to avoid a misstep, one that might get you labeled as the “best dancer in the outfield.” That team party was forgotten for years, until it turned from a painful memory to an amusing anecdote. I was thrilled a couple years later as opening night of my first play approached. Excited as I was, I was careful whom I invited to the occasion. Boys don’t do plays and, though I’d seen plenty of men onstage, I knew this very well. The confidence that I’d found my niche was tempered with a healthy does of self-consciousness with regard to where I’d finally resolved to “belong.” I’d broken some mold. I was a maverick, an exception to the rule, and too young to feel anything but embarrassed.
I certainly wouldn’t say I never break the rules. I defy expectations and push boundaries when I feel secure in doing so. But for the most part I think there is strength in security. And rules give security. A calculated risk loses its flavor when rebellion becomes a habit and I take pains to ensure that the charm of a step out of line remains a “special occasion” of sorts. I often skip breakfast, I cut across the grass, I don’t brush my teeth on nights when I’m especially tired, and I eat Top Ramen far more often than I ought to. I’m ashamed, sometimes, by how fervently I want to “fit in.” But there is a time and place for living on the edge, I suppose. And I’m grateful for those who showed me the rules.
My dad is an obedient man. He’s also a strong man. He knows what to obey. He’s religious, and I’m fully confident that if he were in Abraham’s place I’d be tied up on the altar and he’d raise a knife in faith to sacrifice his son according to his God’s command. That thought is strangely comforting; the father taking care of me always had a Father taking care of him. And my dad follows His rules. He also likes to fall into line when convenient and when doing so doesn’t disrupt his highest priorities. When he steps up to a urinal, he faces front and takes a step back before turning to wash his hands. And my dad always washes his hands. I’m sure as I was running out of the bathroom to rejoin the rest of my family he made me stop at the sink and wash thoroughly. I have always trusted my father, and for the most part I still do what I see him do. He watches ESPN but he’s been at every opening night performance and has always made it clearer than the boys in the dugout ever could what it means to be a man. And I think that dancing in the outfield or loitering by the sinks can be forgiven. Some rules overrule the rest.
It must have been a strange day, the first time my father led me into a public restroom and introduced me to the amenities there. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine it was quite a relief; boys who are young enough to go in the women’s bathroom with their mothers are still old enough to be humiliated by it. I wonder what he said to me, or what I’ll say to my own son when the time comes. What’s funny, I suppose, is the fact that going to the bathroom is the most basic, most uncomplicated process I can think of. We’re born without inhibitions but that freedom is squashed soon enough and rules are gradually introduced. We are told when to go, where to go, and, as soon as young boys are brought into the bathroom, how to go.
Rules are important. I’ve always appreciated them and the comfort they seem to provide. I was never a Tom Sawyer or a Dennis the Menace. I was never “up to no good.” I liked to do what I was supposed to do; life was manageable then. I learned that in the bathroom, when your first choice urinal is taken, you take the one furthest from that in use. After that, you fill in, leaving a buffer zone between you and the man to your side. This presents an uncomfortable grey area for a law-abiding citizen such as myself who needs structure in order to feel at ease. Still, ruminating on options means loitering and another potential infraction. So a decision has to be made. I learned that your eyes face front and that before you turn to move to the sink, a decisive step backwards from the wall must be taken before truing to one side or another. (This is especially imperative in the unfortunate circumstances in which no “privacy barriers” are present between the urinals.) I think even Dennis the Menace would agree that these rules aren’t worth breaking. That is, if we ever discussed these rules out loud.
I’ve been told that when I was three years old or so, I would watch my mother iron. Always the inquisitive little tyke, I asked her one day if I could touch the iron. She told me I could not. As the story goes, I asked if I could touch the “white part” of the iron (the handle I knew full well was not hurting her) and she conceded. My curious little finger got closer and closer to the “hot part” until a quick burn met with three-year-old tears and a loving scolding from my mother. My finger swelled under cold running water and I determined in my young mind that the “hard way” is not the wisest choice when a lesson needs to be learned.
The “hard way” was often unavoidable, however. When I got a few years older, I would learn that I was not an athlete. My one-year tee ball career culminated in being awarded the “best dancer in the outfield” honor when my coach handed me the trophy my parents had paid for. I’ve wondered what possessed the man to crush a little boy’s athletic dreams with a single joke. I doubt this occurred to him, though. In a desperate attempt to find something to say, he must have remembered a fateful afternoon when his outfielder, in desperate need of a bathroom, couldn’t stand still and pay attention to the game. Little did he know, perhaps, that the snow cone at the end of the game was the only motivation keeping me out there. Even before the pizza and trophy party, I knew I didn’t share my teammates’ dedication to the sport. The other boys watched baseball games, spent hours a day playing catch, and knew terminology so mysterious and useful that I wondered why we never covered it in Mrs. Menz’s kindergarten classroom. With every trip or screw-up came an assertion that the baseball diamond was not the place for me. But the other boys stayed.
I remember little else about my life as a baseball player and even less about my early bathroom experiences; I do remember the same way walking into a crowded restroom that I’d felt in the Little League dugout: exposed, intimidated, under scrutiny. The bathroom isn’t a frightening place, but the same meticulous care is taken to avoid a misstep, one that might get you labeled as the “best dancer in the outfield.” That team party was forgotten for years, until it turned from a painful memory to an amusing anecdote. I was thrilled a couple years later as opening night of my first play approached. Excited as I was, I was careful whom I invited to the occasion. Boys don’t do plays and, though I’d seen plenty of men onstage, I knew this very well. The confidence that I’d found my niche was tempered with a healthy does of self-consciousness with regard to where I’d finally resolved to “belong.” I’d broken some mold. I was a maverick, an exception to the rule, and too young to feel anything but embarrassed.
I certainly wouldn’t say I never break the rules. I defy expectations and push boundaries when I feel secure in doing so. But for the most part I think there is strength in security. And rules give security. A calculated risk loses its flavor when rebellion becomes a habit and I take pains to ensure that the charm of a step out of line remains a “special occasion” of sorts. I often skip breakfast, I cut across the grass, I don’t brush my teeth on nights when I’m especially tired, and I eat Top Ramen far more often than I ought to. I’m ashamed, sometimes, by how fervently I want to “fit in.” But there is a time and place for living on the edge, I suppose. And I’m grateful for those who showed me the rules.
My dad is an obedient man. He’s also a strong man. He knows what to obey. He’s religious, and I’m fully confident that if he were in Abraham’s place I’d be tied up on the altar and he’d raise a knife in faith to sacrifice his son according to his God’s command. That thought is strangely comforting; the father taking care of me always had a Father taking care of him. And my dad follows His rules. He also likes to fall into line when convenient and when doing so doesn’t disrupt his highest priorities. When he steps up to a urinal, he faces front and takes a step back before turning to wash his hands. And my dad always washes his hands. I’m sure as I was running out of the bathroom to rejoin the rest of my family he made me stop at the sink and wash thoroughly. I have always trusted my father, and for the most part I still do what I see him do. He watches ESPN but he’s been at every opening night performance and has always made it clearer than the boys in the dugout ever could what it means to be a man. And I think that dancing in the outfield or loitering by the sinks can be forgiven. Some rules overrule the rest.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
In Defense of the Innkeeper
Every time I hear the Nativity story, I wonder about the innkeeper. There wasn’t room. I certainly don’t believe he was lying. I tend to think he was having a stressful night, knowing the “tax rush” was upon him. I’m sure he was pleased to see the revenue he did, knowing that it would help him feed his family, maybe buy his wife something nice. He was probably tired and weary of turning away travelers; Mary and Joseph were surely not the only ones who got there too late.
I wonder what he thought when he saw the unfortunate couple at his gate. It would be unfair to assume he had any inkling who these two were or Who would be born that night. He probably just saw a young couple that he couldn’t possibly accommodate. The woman was pregnant, very pregnant I imagine. He certainly couldn’t turn them away. To his credit, I believe, he found a place for them. Not an ideal place, but the only place he had.
What was he to do? No room. Honestly, no room. He couldn’t displace his own family and, with what limited understanding I have of the cultural context he found himself in, he couldn’t leave them alone with the strangers gathered in his inn. Order had to maintained, I can appreciate that. And I tend to think that if room could possibly be made he would have done so.
Dramatic portrayals of the innkeeper show his as an impatient man who heartlessly turns his back on the mother of the Savior. But I like to think he did all he could to help them. I hope he sent an employee to tend to the young mother. I hope he prayed for their safety. And I hope he visited in the morning to make sure all was well. He would have had quite a surprise.
Maybe I’ll write a play about him someday. About the difficult choices we’re faced with and the lose-lose situations the Savior came into the world to remedy. About the miracle that took place that night and this sad, misunderstood man’s part in the great drama of Christmas.
I wonder what he thought when he saw the unfortunate couple at his gate. It would be unfair to assume he had any inkling who these two were or Who would be born that night. He probably just saw a young couple that he couldn’t possibly accommodate. The woman was pregnant, very pregnant I imagine. He certainly couldn’t turn them away. To his credit, I believe, he found a place for them. Not an ideal place, but the only place he had.
What was he to do? No room. Honestly, no room. He couldn’t displace his own family and, with what limited understanding I have of the cultural context he found himself in, he couldn’t leave them alone with the strangers gathered in his inn. Order had to maintained, I can appreciate that. And I tend to think that if room could possibly be made he would have done so.
Dramatic portrayals of the innkeeper show his as an impatient man who heartlessly turns his back on the mother of the Savior. But I like to think he did all he could to help them. I hope he sent an employee to tend to the young mother. I hope he prayed for their safety. And I hope he visited in the morning to make sure all was well. He would have had quite a surprise.
Maybe I’ll write a play about him someday. About the difficult choices we’re faced with and the lose-lose situations the Savior came into the world to remedy. About the miracle that took place that night and this sad, misunderstood man’s part in the great drama of Christmas.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Thoughts on Priorities
My dad told me that in Korea, people will always offer you more food after your first helping regardless of what they actually have in the kitchen. He explained that social protocol is to refuse taking seconds the first time it's offered, then to feel free to accept if they offer again. The reason for this is simple: it's polite for them to offer, but sometimes that's all it is. I've always thought this little song and dance routine was a bit unnecessary until I recognized it in my own life.
It's Friday night and I'm at home. Alone. Writing. (And blogging, apparently.) This is certainly not a singular occurrence, as anyone who knows me will attest. I turned down a couple of invitations in order to have this privilege, the most pressing of which wouldn't back down easily. There was a veritable tennis match of "I need to get some things done" pitted against "Whatever, hang out anyway." This went on for a while until we all accepted the inevitable.
Now, let me qualify this. I am not averse to hanging out. I can think of more ideal weekends, but this particular week is a busy one and I need any spare time I have to finish a couple formidable projects before the semester's end. Thus, I have to sacrifice spending time with people I really care about. I'm used to this. I wish sometimes it wasn't necessary to make such sacrifices but I also acknowledge the fact that if I wanted things to be different they would be. That said, I've decided that, while I have been successful in keeping the commitments I've had this semester, I don't intend to take on so much in the future.
Maybe I'll have less productive-but-unsatisfying weekends next semester. In the meantime, I'm grateful for friends who extend invitations, play the game, and gracefully accept defeat. And I hope they know that on nights like tonight I'd rather be with them. I just have stuff to get done.
BONUS: Just because I know that anyone who knows me will laugh heartily at this...My arm and shoulder are killing me. I pulled a muscle making a dramatic hand gesture. Yes. It's the truth. Muscle pulled from over-gesticulations. It could only be me.
It's Friday night and I'm at home. Alone. Writing. (And blogging, apparently.) This is certainly not a singular occurrence, as anyone who knows me will attest. I turned down a couple of invitations in order to have this privilege, the most pressing of which wouldn't back down easily. There was a veritable tennis match of "I need to get some things done" pitted against "Whatever, hang out anyway." This went on for a while until we all accepted the inevitable.
Now, let me qualify this. I am not averse to hanging out. I can think of more ideal weekends, but this particular week is a busy one and I need any spare time I have to finish a couple formidable projects before the semester's end. Thus, I have to sacrifice spending time with people I really care about. I'm used to this. I wish sometimes it wasn't necessary to make such sacrifices but I also acknowledge the fact that if I wanted things to be different they would be. That said, I've decided that, while I have been successful in keeping the commitments I've had this semester, I don't intend to take on so much in the future.
Maybe I'll have less productive-but-unsatisfying weekends next semester. In the meantime, I'm grateful for friends who extend invitations, play the game, and gracefully accept defeat. And I hope they know that on nights like tonight I'd rather be with them. I just have stuff to get done.
BONUS: Just because I know that anyone who knows me will laugh heartily at this...My arm and shoulder are killing me. I pulled a muscle making a dramatic hand gesture. Yes. It's the truth. Muscle pulled from over-gesticulations. It could only be me.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Confession
Okay, the answer to your question is: yes, I am thoroughly ashamed of how “tender” my last blog was. A couple friends were reading it in the other room and I heard an audible “awwww” when they were done. This is alarming. Especially since I wasn’t being dishonest by any standard. I produced an “awwww.”
The truth is, I like a girl. She probably knows this since I’m a very transparent person but she may not fully acknowledge the fact. Or she may be waiting for me to get the cajones to tell her myself. My head is reeling from a “holy-crap-I-really-like-this-girl” moment I had earlier this evening. It distracted me from the heavy-handed tragedy that is “Swing Kids” (this week’s Sunday night inspirational movie). I’m getting romantic again. It’s gotta be the cold weather…
The truth is, I like a girl. She probably knows this since I’m a very transparent person but she may not fully acknowledge the fact. Or she may be waiting for me to get the cajones to tell her myself. My head is reeling from a “holy-crap-I-really-like-this-girl” moment I had earlier this evening. It distracted me from the heavy-handed tragedy that is “Swing Kids” (this week’s Sunday night inspirational movie). I’m getting romantic again. It’s gotta be the cold weather…
Seventeen epiphanies and a slightly disjointed blog
I haven’t blogged for a long time. It’s funny, because I think so often about things I should blog. They’re brilliant ideas too. Believe me.
I just got back from Thanksgiving break when I spent a week at home with my family. Yes, it was great, thank you for asking. There’s something about getting away from life as usual that allows you to sort through the various departments of your life and feel a desire to change. We should all take vacations. It’s good for you.
I had seventeen epiphanies during my sojourn in Sacramento. If you ask me what they were, I will not be able to tell you. They keep coming back to me when I’m reminded of something I figured out or some task I have resolved to do.
One such epiphany was of the “Carpe Diem” variety and is nothing we haven’t heard before. Still, it’s stuck with me this long and I’m determined not to let its idealistic little self out of my grasp. This new zest for life materialized out of reading two fantastic books: The Road and A Thousand Splendid Suns. In putting myself into the world of these stories, I realized that if each day may be your last or if the bombs may wipe you out at any moment, there’s no reason to hesitate. No, this isn’t an excuse for impetuous and irresponsible behavior. Rather, it’s an antidote to the undesirable aspects of my analytical personality. So, you know, the basics: tell your mom you love her, ask out the girl of your dreams, apply for the program you don’t think you’ll get into, etc. Like I said, we’ve heard it all before.
I’ve noticed some things about myself as well. I don’t like dessert much. I usually am peer pressured into eating it, but I’m maverick enough (thank you, Sarah Palin for stealing my word) to order fries at an ice cream parlor and otherwise break with accepted dessert protocol. Also, I have learned that I should never commit to writing more than two major projects at the same time. Unless there’s money. And I can drop the pesky classes that require work that seems irrelevant to my education. But that’s another blog entirely.
I need to get over my dream of being an actor. I’ve made choices that have started me on a different path and I know that I’m doing the right thing and headed in the right direction. Good. Still, all it takes is the sight of an audition notice or watching a top-notch performance to reawaken the little kid inside of me who wants to move to New York and make it big on Broadway. Perhaps I should stop doing my indulgent acting gigs that keep that unhealthy little dream alive. Or perhaps I need to make room for it somewhere; it’s obviously important to me.
There are some people who just irritate me. They’ve all earned this special place in my heart, make no mistake about it. What’s funny is the way I react to certain things they do (jokes made, Facebook status updates, etc.) because I have labeled them as annoying. I roll my eyes and chastise myself for having such uncharitable thoughts, but I’m sure if someone outside the “annoying box” did the same thing, I would react in a totally different way. Most interestingly, perhaps, I wonder if I have been put in this box by anyone I know and I am almost certain I have. There isn’t much I can do about this. So I don’t think too much about it.
Almost every day I drive past a sign advertising a florist’s shop where you can buy a dozen roses for $9.98. The price hasn’t changed since I first arrived in Provo and I’m a little ashamed to say that it makes me feel a little wistful when I see it. I think of who I might eventually buy those roses for. It’s been such a long time coming, I’ve got to make it count when it finally happens. And I firmly believe that it will. Maybe that’s because not believing won’t get me anywhere and Logical Matthew has figured that out. But I believe it nonetheless. I can find someone to take a dozen roses to. And if she knows me, she’ll know I wasn’t bargain hunting, but that for a reluctantly optimistic flower buyer, she has finally arrived. I hope she knows someone is waiting for her. And I hope she hurries up and gets here.
I just got back from Thanksgiving break when I spent a week at home with my family. Yes, it was great, thank you for asking. There’s something about getting away from life as usual that allows you to sort through the various departments of your life and feel a desire to change. We should all take vacations. It’s good for you.
I had seventeen epiphanies during my sojourn in Sacramento. If you ask me what they were, I will not be able to tell you. They keep coming back to me when I’m reminded of something I figured out or some task I have resolved to do.
One such epiphany was of the “Carpe Diem” variety and is nothing we haven’t heard before. Still, it’s stuck with me this long and I’m determined not to let its idealistic little self out of my grasp. This new zest for life materialized out of reading two fantastic books: The Road and A Thousand Splendid Suns. In putting myself into the world of these stories, I realized that if each day may be your last or if the bombs may wipe you out at any moment, there’s no reason to hesitate. No, this isn’t an excuse for impetuous and irresponsible behavior. Rather, it’s an antidote to the undesirable aspects of my analytical personality. So, you know, the basics: tell your mom you love her, ask out the girl of your dreams, apply for the program you don’t think you’ll get into, etc. Like I said, we’ve heard it all before.
I’ve noticed some things about myself as well. I don’t like dessert much. I usually am peer pressured into eating it, but I’m maverick enough (thank you, Sarah Palin for stealing my word) to order fries at an ice cream parlor and otherwise break with accepted dessert protocol. Also, I have learned that I should never commit to writing more than two major projects at the same time. Unless there’s money. And I can drop the pesky classes that require work that seems irrelevant to my education. But that’s another blog entirely.
I need to get over my dream of being an actor. I’ve made choices that have started me on a different path and I know that I’m doing the right thing and headed in the right direction. Good. Still, all it takes is the sight of an audition notice or watching a top-notch performance to reawaken the little kid inside of me who wants to move to New York and make it big on Broadway. Perhaps I should stop doing my indulgent acting gigs that keep that unhealthy little dream alive. Or perhaps I need to make room for it somewhere; it’s obviously important to me.
There are some people who just irritate me. They’ve all earned this special place in my heart, make no mistake about it. What’s funny is the way I react to certain things they do (jokes made, Facebook status updates, etc.) because I have labeled them as annoying. I roll my eyes and chastise myself for having such uncharitable thoughts, but I’m sure if someone outside the “annoying box” did the same thing, I would react in a totally different way. Most interestingly, perhaps, I wonder if I have been put in this box by anyone I know and I am almost certain I have. There isn’t much I can do about this. So I don’t think too much about it.
Almost every day I drive past a sign advertising a florist’s shop where you can buy a dozen roses for $9.98. The price hasn’t changed since I first arrived in Provo and I’m a little ashamed to say that it makes me feel a little wistful when I see it. I think of who I might eventually buy those roses for. It’s been such a long time coming, I’ve got to make it count when it finally happens. And I firmly believe that it will. Maybe that’s because not believing won’t get me anywhere and Logical Matthew has figured that out. But I believe it nonetheless. I can find someone to take a dozen roses to. And if she knows me, she’ll know I wasn’t bargain hunting, but that for a reluctantly optimistic flower buyer, she has finally arrived. I hope she knows someone is waiting for her. And I hope she hurries up and gets here.
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