tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43675318231332151832024-02-19T01:27:08.397-05:00BethweekA weekly essay from the continually wandering and wondering Beth.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-43661873868088580462009-09-14T10:36:00.001-04:002009-09-14T10:37:26.315-04:00New AddressI'm now blogging at www.writinglikebreathing.blogspot.com<br /><br />I never learn.<br /><br />:)Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-43870533611433543492009-04-05T23:41:00.002-04:002009-04-05T23:44:14.871-04:00That's It.I think I'm going to shut this blog down.<br /><br />It's not that I don't have anything to say... it's that I never seem to say it here.<br /><br />Also, there are other projects underway, and in order to give them the time and attention they deserve, maybe this little exercise has served its purpose, and can quietly saunter off into the sunset as the new cavalry rides in.<br /><br />I'll decide by next week. (With word on where to stay tuned for the aforementioned upstart cavalries.) Good night, y'all.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-68962872787866805462009-03-29T23:26:00.002-04:002009-03-29T23:54:59.910-04:00WeekendingSitting here on another Sunday night, wondering where the weekend went. I'm almost finished with the piece I planned to publish here <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">last</span> week. It will eventually be posted, but tonight is looking less and less likely. This weekend was very productive, with some dashes of good social time as well... in fact, so much was packed into the last two days that it seems like a whole week. Such is the odd math of weekends: the start of the weekend can feel at once long ago and immediate, just-past, too recent to be that far gone. There are strange lazy hours, alongside hurried ones, and all these hours somehow add up to two all-too-short days.<br /><br />The odd math applies to life, too. The days sometimes drag, but the weeks, months, years fly by. I keep thinking I'll have "time to catch up," but that seems as mythical as a unicorn. So I need to come up with a revised game plan, rather than the catch-up-plan. If I come up with some magic formula, I'll let you know. But math has never been my strongest suit.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-72756246726179834772009-03-15T18:38:00.005-04:002009-03-15T18:53:48.626-04:00In Memory of Bubbe<span style="font-style: italic;">My grandmother passed away Wednesday night of this week. Thank you to all my friends who have been so sweet, supportive and compassionate to me and my family at this difficult time. Below is a memorial I wrote for my grandmother, some of which I shared with some friends on Thursday night. (I have omitted some identifying information.) May her memory be a blessing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" ><img src="http://mail.google.com/mail/?name=ccf32a38c42f1f28.jpg&attid=0.2&disp=vahi&view=att&th=1200c4d7dcd06397" alt="Your browser may not support display of this image." width="1" height="1" />This is in memory of my Bubbe Lill, who passed away on March 11, 2009.</span> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >She was born Karoline Lill J----- in Michelovca, Czechoslovakia on June 9, 1918. (Quick quiz: anyone know what else hails from Michelovca? Michelob. That’s right – Budweiser. When my father told that to my grandmother, she approved; although she wasn’t much of a beer-drinker, she preferred sweet plum wines and sherries.) Her Hebrew name was Chana Leah – a name she shared with her mother. To anyone who knows about Jewish naming traditions, this is odd. Traditionally, you’re supposed to be named in memory of someone who has already passed away, not after someone still living. That’s why there aren’t a lot of David Goldberg IIIs. Well, my grandmother sadly was named traditionally: her young mother died giving birth to her. One Chana Leah left this world as another entered it, and so my grandmother began her life. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >For the first part of her life, though, Chana Leah/Karoline Lill was called by another name – the colloquial Czech “Laisczu.” The first part of her life is like a fairy tale – just as sad and somber as a genuine fairy tale, not a sparkly Disney version. Her father remarried, and her stepmother was not kind to her. A few years ago, I interviewed Bubbe about her life, and getting her to talk about her early days was difficult. We had to talk a lot about now before she opened up about then. It was partially that the memories were painful, but partially that she didn’t want to speak ill of family, or say something that might hurt anyone’s feelin</span><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >gs. Family always, always came first, and even if there was pain, that’s not what she felt should be emphasized. She did, however, speak very lovingly of her grandmother – her mother’s mother, still a young woman herself, with a young child of her own, who was my grandmother’s uncle but seemed to her more like a brother. My grandmother found refuge in her own grandmother, and would run away to go stay with her. But ultimately, she needed to run further away, and she made her way to America… and by escaping her unhappy home life, she also wound up escaping Hitler. Her father, stepmother, and all but three of her siblings perished in World War II; all of them who remained in Europe suffered at the hands of the Nazis.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >In America, the spelling of her name became Caroline instead of Karoline, and she went by the more simple “Lill.” Young Lill took a job at a bakery, began navigating her new country. She was introduced to Jake K------, a man living in Toledo, Ohio, with his four children, whose mother, his first wife, had died. Jake was a kind man with a good sense of humor; born in Lithuania, he was 21 years her senior, and had emigrated so long ago that he had fought for America in World War I. When they married, legend has it, Jake stood on a phone book hidden beneath Lill’s wedding gow</span><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >n train to make him look taller (neither of them were over five feet tall). She took on a new name – Lill K---- – and became a stepmother herself… but she was one who connected with her stepchildren. She also had another three children, bringing the number of Kander siblings up to seven: Irving, Herman, Sy, Esther, and Lill’s three youngest children: Rochelle, Marton, and my father, Ken. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >As I said</span><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" > and will keep saying – family was of the utmost importance to my grandmother. She loved her children, and loved feeding them. Sadly, when she was still a young woman, in her forties, her husband Jake became ill, and passed away. My father was only 16 when he lost his father; I never knew my Zade Jake. But the family kept him present through stories, because sharing family stories (okay, and sometimes gossip) is one of many traditions we all keep… and non</span><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >e more so than Bubbe! But I’ll get to more Bubbe-stories momentarily.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >Bubbe mourned the loss of Jake, but always embraced life, her family, her community, her faith and heritage. And later, she married again – a wonderful man named Al R--------, who gave her his love and yet another name – Lill R------. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >After Al passed away in 1980, Bubbe did not seek to remarry. (But she never missed an opportunity to grill her grandchildren about their boyfriends and girlfriends.) Lill J----- K------ R------- remained the family matriarch, a family favorite for many, known as Ma, Aunt Lill, and mostly, Bubbe.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >My family has so many great Bubbe stories. We had our favorite Bubbe fact and favorite Bubbe stories. And here are some of mine:</span></p> <ul type="disc"><li><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >I was always impressed with the “Bubbe Fact” that she spoke seven languages (I always remember making her list them for me when I was a child, and she would list them off, always ending with “…. and, you know, a little English”). </span></li><li><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >“Holy Toledo!” Toledo, Ohio was Bubbe’s hometown for decades. “Holy Toledo” was one of our favorite exclamations. Why? I don’t know why. It was just a Bubbe thing.</span></li><li><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >Every Thanksgiving, Bubbe would settle in at the counter over a mountain of potatoes and begin peeling away for the vats of mashed potatoes our family required. She would talk and tease and jokingly complain the entire time: “Oy, oy, oy, look how hard they work me here, here I am, Cinderella Potato Peeler!” Cinderella Potato Peeler. That’s one of my strongest Bubbe memories, and it will always be linked to Thanksgiving for me. </span></li><li><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >“Potch you on the tushie.” Somehow, pairing the words “potch you on the tushie!” with a little c</span><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >ackle made it okay for my grandmother to grab absolutely anyone’s butt. Well, she probably never grabbed her rabbi’s butt. But she sure grabbed all of ours.</span></li><li><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >Bags of stuff. If we went to visit Bubbe, we left with a bag of stuff. Toilet paper, cereal, stuff like that. Every. Time. </span></li><li><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >Pictures. Bubbe’s house was always full of pictures of her family. She always surrounded herself with us, bragged about us, celebrated us. Her love for us was incredible. </span></li><li><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >Yiddish curses. Yiddish curses are incredibly creative in their imagery (“you should be like a chandelier – hang by day and burn at night!”). Bubbe’s favorite, which always made us laugh, was gay kaken afen yam… which in her words, loosely translated, meant “go poop in the lake.” Trust me, at any age, this is a hilarious thing for your grandmother to say. </span></li></ul> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v7vcymZE6qudoaRbXoZaaG7NbLoxuVI87XXMcRuQaIK6UI8vExNIalolddMvLMv2PscdkXFwHmbzYTNlgoUl1H_KtnRvSjXJJgqYu11kT7rmbDaQTKaKLLH-5HpKWuxJ9nJ0TsEjFHI/s1600-h/bubbepic.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 161px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6v7vcymZE6qudoaRbXoZaaG7NbLoxuVI87XXMcRuQaIK6UI8vExNIalolddMvLMv2PscdkXFwHmbzYTNlgoUl1H_KtnRvSjXJJgqYu11kT7rmbDaQTKaKLLH-5HpKWuxJ9nJ0TsEjFHI/s200/bubbepic.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313550341195322018" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >There are so many more Bubbe stories…. but the most incredible story of all is her life. Though sometimes, especially when I was younger, I felt that we had so much that differentiated us, there is so much that I have inherited and so much more I can still learn from her. She was a true survivor, a strong and stubborn woman who always loved her family - whatever we wound up looking like, she loved us. (Even if she might tease us: “My grandchildren, they’re so ugly! I don’t like them… I LOVE them!”) That was her – Chana Leah/Laisczu/Karoline/Caroline Lill J--------- K----- R--------. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" >Holy Toledo. What a blessing. </span><br /></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" ><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Calibri;font-size:100%;" ><b>Psalm 23: </b> A Psalm of David.<br /><br />The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness For His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; And I will dwell in the house of the LORD Forever.</span></p>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-56590360752732698502009-03-09T00:27:00.004-04:002009-03-09T00:38:54.564-04:00Ladies & GentlemanWhat constitutes "gentlemanly" these days?<br /><br />How about "ladylike"?<br /><br />When it comes to defining these terms, I think it's getting more and more difficult to discern cliche from compliment, polite from posturing. Is being demure ladylike, or nowadays does that just mean being a pushover? Is being commanding gentlemanly, or would we now just call that being controlling?<br /><br />I'd like to give some thought to this. But in all honesty, I spent a lot of time writing this weekend - finished a full-length play that I've been chipping away at for some time! - and my mind is, simply put, spent.<br /><br />So while I'd like to have something eloquent to say about this, at the moment, I do not. I'm just putting the thought out there, as something to return to at a later date. If you have any brilliant insights (or not-so-brilliant... look at this post... who am I to judge?), feel free to post. Otherwise, all I can say for now is, I'll try to devote a bit more time to the ol' blog next week, and come up with something more thought-provoking.<br /><br />(Somehow, "ol' blog" sounds decidedly unladylike to me...)Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-18018759752437203492009-03-02T00:24:00.004-05:002009-03-02T01:12:00.380-05:00EmoetrySeven years ago, I discovered a handy service called <a href="http://www.blogger.com/briefcase.yahoo.com/">Yahoo Briefcase</a>. An online storage "briefcase" for your files, it was an easy way to back-up my writing someplace other than my computer or a flash drive. I loaded many files to the Briefcase from about 2002-2006. Then, since I had other online storage available, the Briefcase sort of slipped from my mind. Until I got an email last week, informing me that the Yahoo Briefcase service was being discontinued, and advising that I download any files I had stored there before they disappeared forever.<br /><br />It was like finding a treasure chest - some fool's gold, to be sure, but a few gems in the rubble. Story ideas, lines of dialogue, even a few complete scripts and shorts I wrote years ago and had forgotten about. Most of the files were scripts, fiction-prose, or lesson plans - but there were two poems, each saved as their own small .doc file. One of them was entitled, simply "loneliness poem."*<br /><br />The poem is from about three years ago. I wouldn't say it's a good poem; playwright, I can claim, but great poet, I shall never be. [I do admire those who can distill emotional depth in a few stanzas, and envy their skill.] But reading this poem, though I couldn't suppress an eye roll... I also have to admit that it made something stir in me. I could not remember the exact day or moment of gathering these words, yet I could remember how I felt when it was written.<br /><br />Here is the poem:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">loneliness poem</span><br />the danger<br />- as i see it -<br />is that the lonelier you are<br />the lonelier you will become...<br />because loneliness repels<br />and attracts the attention<br />only<br />of the other<br />lonely<br />who glance over<br />briefly, quickly,<br />see your<br />solitude<br />and murmur<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">i know, i know...</span><br />soothingly,<br />to<br />themselves.<br /><br />It's funny how much a poem can at once reveal and conceal. When I wrote this poem, three years ago, I was a graduate student, in a social work school [or as I referred to it on my more bitter days, an antisocial work school]. I have always been one who can connect, one who longs to be part of the cast, the team, the family - and now I suddenly had few friends in proximity. I was constantly surrounded by people, but connected with few - and could see that I was not the only one in that predicament, yet still felt unable to break the barriers and find a way to reach the other loners.<br /><br />And maybe on some level, I didn't want to - I needed to learn what it was like to spend a lot of time on my own. Though I logically knew this was a finite phase of my life, I was also afraid that even if I needed to learn something about solitude - what if this foreign period, this newfound loneliness, lingered and self-perpetuated for too long? Both of these emotional truths, I think, come through in the poem.<br /><br />However, one who doesn't know me well might also infer from this poem that I was single when I composed this piece... while those who do know me well will know that the opposite was true. One might think I was calling out the other lonely people; I was, and I wasn't. I was just trying to acknowledge the chasm surrounding us.<br /><br />I felt sad reading the poem, but also profoundly relieved. It is from a chapter now closed. I did gain strength and learn some important things about myself during that period of frequent solitude. I'm also glad to be past it. In my life now, I have moments of loneliness, but they are just that: moments. Not months. Not oppressive. Not all-encompassing. Just... human.<br /><br />Finding this poem brought back some memories, not all pleasant, but all important. It also reminded me of the power of writing, for ourselves and for others. Eras can be preserved, emotions made tangible once more, by encasing our experiences in our stories, scripts, and yes - our poems. Though to clarify, "being inspired to write more poetry" is not on the list of things that have resulted from finding this one. As my mother and I have joked on more than one occasion, I pretty much only write poetry when I'm down, and I pretty much only write bad poetry. For both these reasons, I'm happy to report that I haven't been cranking out much poetry of late.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">*When I mentioned this to the boy, his comment was "Oh, baby. You wrote emo poetry?" Hence the title of this blog post.</span></span>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-88809363886536581152009-02-23T00:41:00.003-05:002009-02-23T00:57:24.482-05:00Dear OscarDear Oscar,<br /><br />It's been a year since <a href="http://bethweek.blogspot.com/2008/02/love-letter-to-little-man.html">last I wrote to you</a>. Another year, another night of longing from afar. Where do we stand now, one more year gone by? In this past year, have I come any closer to holding you in my arms?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvl6f2cuI8Kvdnm70smLTYU2mqlAW3FGGnaJvlISDlNOL3Zs40XFcPKWxW9FKyJhbJ32wRsJK5Kffrr3zdlEnzRsTyLz1-ki6BfmAMFpOKXgkToNRvdbxuWeyovG0BuA5x0Z8CEZeOuY/s1600-h/oscars_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvl6f2cuI8Kvdnm70smLTYU2mqlAW3FGGnaJvlISDlNOL3Zs40XFcPKWxW9FKyJhbJ32wRsJK5Kffrr3zdlEnzRsTyLz1-ki6BfmAMFpOKXgkToNRvdbxuWeyovG0BuA5x0Z8CEZeOuY/s200/oscars_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305865574545450354" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Well, I'd like to think so.<br /><br />It was when Tina Fey and Steve Martin took the stage that my heart truly began to flutter. Not only because I adore them both (now, don't be jealous, love), but because as the page from a screenplay rose majestically behind them, it felt familiar. The format. The courier typeface. The line breaks, the spacing. These are the pages that I so often stare at, filling them with my words and stories, hoping that someday, they might catch your attention.<br /><br />I've realized, though, that you are not the only tiny little statue over whom I swoon. I do have other crushes... Tony, Obie, Pulitzer... I feel that I should come clean, confess this now rather than making things awkward down the line. But you were my first, and for that, as well as for your sheer glamor factor, you will always hold a special place in my heart. (And let's be honest - you get around, my dear, and are not always entirely discriminating in your selection of consorts.)<br /><br />I've also realized that, even if our love goes unrequited for years to come, well, not to bring up the not-always-discriminating thing again, but - my heart will go on. You're just sitting there, waiting. Though it's not usually my way, I know that I have to make the first move here.<br /><br />I'm working on it.<br /><br />Yours,<br /><br />BethBethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-4863263861046856582009-02-15T23:08:00.006-05:002009-02-23T00:44:23.442-05:00The Actual TemperatureWhile I was deciding what to wear today, I turned on the weather report. On the main screen, it said in giant letters: "Today's high will be 57 degrees." The monotone voice reading the words onscreen repeated the same: "Today's high will be 57 degrees."<br /><br />But then the small ticker at the bottom of the screen caught my eye: "Current temperature: 66 degrees."<br /><br />So. The station continues to report that the high will be only 57, even when their own equipment is simultaneously feeding the information that, in fact, it is already five degrees warmer than the projected high temp.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdIvbqGX74lUMH1TspTcpL_rGeST4OV9Vmr9voDtaMpP_CqNO7p_3hj11jwP79sCL8SAkETSQrHimqJ1_FPGKhbWOv2zBpfbUmmyZvTJ3tiEXbjlJS6qr3hv60rnu6h_11M9HoYllWvM/s1600-h/weather.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdIvbqGX74lUMH1TspTcpL_rGeST4OV9Vmr9voDtaMpP_CqNO7p_3hj11jwP79sCL8SAkETSQrHimqJ1_FPGKhbWOv2zBpfbUmmyZvTJ3tiEXbjlJS6qr3hv60rnu6h_11M9HoYllWvM/s200/weather.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303261378612084162" border="0" /></a><br />Hmm.<br /><br />There's something off about this. New evidence is right there on the screen, and yet the powers that be are unresponsive. No, no, they seem to say - our prediction was 57, and come hell or high water (or higher temperatures), we're sticking with it.<br /><br />Hmm.<br /><br />I don't think this issue is limited to weathermen. [Live or automated.]<br /><br />It's a problem I've had. Staring at that tiny 66, while the authoritative high projection of 57 loomed above it, my mind began cataloging times that I have made decisions, stayed in situations, took action - or didn't - based not on the 66, but on the 57. It's an important reminder: though sometimes harder to see, scrolling along the bottom of our proverbial screens, sometimes, quietly, there's been a shift. Things didn't go the way we thought they would; initial forecasts were inaccurate. Rather than continue to work with the older information, the theoretical projected high temperature which we've been planning for, expecting, clinging to -- we need to periodically look around, and see if more accurate information has become available.<br /><br />It's hard, sometimes, when we were so confident that things were going to go one way, to accept that our projection was wrong. But it's usually better to make our decisions, take action, and, when we need to, get out of situations ... or get into them... not based on what our original forecast was, but based on the<span style="font-style: italic;"> actual</span> temperature.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-60427052643460860622009-02-08T23:00:00.002-05:002009-02-10T00:40:23.656-05:00...blocked...When people think of "writer's block," they tend to think of nothingness. No ideas. No clue where to go next, how to fill the page, what to write about. They don't really mean "block" - they mean "blank." I posit that most cases of "writer's block" are misdiagnosed (or at least, misnomers): most are actually referring to Writer's Blank.<br /><br />I can't remember the last time I suffered from Writer's Blank... but lately, I am absolutely chronically afflicted with a more literal writer's <span style="font-style: italic;">block</span>: like a clogged sink, or blocked arteries, my problem is not one of nothingness but one of being overwhelmingly <span style="font-style: italic;">stuffed</span>. Stuffed so chock full of ideas that they cannot flow from me; like a backed-up pipe, I am unproductive not because of vacancy but because of crowding.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNK5crBhT51IfwB1sGta9SyqcLP0Cj3MDDKZmK9LAdBw3s11plLpln9GwxXa3NiyVNIHZu75WeKSTYSL66z8YDi0tY1C6f9FjQGpapLiVJRCIpbot43AH2mllS1HEGL5X1YStR_LfSrOI/s1600-h/writers-block.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNK5crBhT51IfwB1sGta9SyqcLP0Cj3MDDKZmK9LAdBw3s11plLpln9GwxXa3NiyVNIHZu75WeKSTYSL66z8YDi0tY1C6f9FjQGpapLiVJRCIpbot43AH2mllS1HEGL5X1YStR_LfSrOI/s200/writers-block.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301038829867993906" border="0" /></a><br />I see inspiration all around. It's getting suffocating... but mostly in a good way. Thus, I can't give it up. I'm having trouble focusing because I'm so grateful for so much rich material, I can't let any of it go. I take notes here, there, everywhere. Characters, slips of dialogue, whole storylines. I jot down notes and try to not lose any of these ideas... and now I have so many just-begun projects that I fear I will never finish any of them.<br /><br />I think if I were to lay on a metaphorical medical table, and a team of Doctors of Composition were to do a little biopsy, they would be astonished at the findings. Upon opening me up, they would rush to page all their colleagues.<br /><br />"My God! Get down here! Hoo boy, you have GOT to take a look at this writer! She's suffering from extreme playwrightitis; her novel cavities are filled beyond belief; she has multiple outbreaks of character infection, and the worst case of one-liners I've ever seen! I keep cutting and cutting, and it just keeps on coming out... I can't staunch it... get this woman a laptop, some caffeine, and a year of her time being her own, STAT!"<br /><br />That, folks, is a serious case of writer's block.<br /><br />The recommended cure is hard to come by. Keep me in your thoughts. I may never recover.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-21549501430777179162009-02-02T01:07:00.006-05:002009-02-10T00:27:27.172-05:00The Year of Reading Frequently[***Warning: first-ever<span style="font-style: italic;"> Bethweek</span> book review***]<br /><br />This year, one of my resolutions was to return to my roots, and become a bookworm once again. The time has come; I'm nearly two years out of graduate school now and no longer need to recoil at the thought of picking up a book. I used to love books. I need to rekindle that love. Thus, as a starting point to my year of reading frequently, I began with <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to follow the Bible as Literally as Possible</span>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEQQA0H2Q8r8Ux1Dwa57pdPBsdMDF6iunVwrzdVawNyUJXCeT-LndBLKPA_0ILnid8OK8iHL63WYYbQeWhFagnfsCsGHpFI-Kk9kzxHCbdZygDsGux_Tb54QKSfdTI0UfNorxIUh8q1Y/s1600-h/year+of+living+biblically.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEQQA0H2Q8r8Ux1Dwa57pdPBsdMDF6iunVwrzdVawNyUJXCeT-LndBLKPA_0ILnid8OK8iHL63WYYbQeWhFagnfsCsGHpFI-Kk9kzxHCbdZygDsGux_Tb54QKSfdTI0UfNorxIUh8q1Y/s200/year+of+living+biblically.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300887785250538002" border="0" /></a><br />The book, written by cheeky Esquire columnist A.J. Jacobs, is an interesting journey. Jacobs does not begin the quest as a religious man; he describes himself as a Jew who is "as Jewish as the Olive Garden is Italian." He is confounded by the religious fervor that permeates our society, and decides to explore it for himself. However, rather than taking on contemporary or mainstream religious practices and incorporating them gingerly into his life, he decides to dive in to a full year of literally carrying out every law, no matter how obscure, found in the Bible. (Hey, makes for a more intriguing premise than <span style="font-style: italic;">The Year Of Gradually Trying to Understand Religion by Joining a Congregation and/or Incorporating Daily Prayer Time Into My Schedule, </span>or <span style="font-style: italic;">The Year of Reading a Lot of Dusty Religious Tomes</span>.)<br /><br />Clearly, literally following all of the commandments found in the Bible is impossible. (Jacobs spends the majority of his year focusing on both the Hebrew Bible, though the last few months are dedicated to the New Testament.) However, even exempting the laws having to do with the ancient Temple, animal sacrifice, and so on, Jacobs has plenty of fodder for exploration. Some of his anecdotes are laugh-out-loud funny; some poignant; some borderline insane.<br /><br />Jacobs himself is a neurotic narrator, alternatively likable and frustrating. His dry wit and tongue-in-cheek observations place the reader in a position of understanding what it must be like to be a generally-sensible, modern person living out generally-considered-archaic, ancient daily practices. However, his constant self-referential examples and interpretations, coupled with his frequent references to his obsessions with pop culture and the success of his writing (including this book) occasionally took me out of the narrative itself.<br /><br />Nevertheless - his book benefits more than it suffers from his self-involvement. Jacobs' stories of his family members' reactions to his quest are priceless. Halfway through the book, I decided that his wife, Julie, is possibly the most patient spouse on the planet. Make no mistake - she fights back aplenty (one of my favorite passages is when, in observance of the laws of purity, Jacobs informs Julie he cannot touch her, or anything she has touched, while she is menstruating, because she is "unclean"; she promptly sits on every usable space in their apartment), but she sure puts up with a lot as her husband winds his way deeper and deeper into a life of literal Biblical living.<br /><br />Clearly, the "spectacle" is what sells the book: the trials and tribulations of The Beard, the stoning of an adulter, the stereotypically-ancient-Israelite practices are the images conjured by the book's title. But what, really, is the thrust of the book? One individual's social experiment? A modern commentary on ancient customs? It's classified as a "Humor" book - so at the end of the day, is it all a big joke?<br /><br />Ultimately, the book steers clear of providing any answers, which I think is wise. But even without offering answers, and even while quickly seasoning most of the touching revelations with healthy dashes of humor, the book raises important questions. It didn't leave this reader raring to go take up religion, but it did leave her thinking about spirituality, community, finding ways to consider incorporating tradition into our lives in meaningful ways. We don't live in biblical times, but we do live in complicated ones - and taking the opportunity to consider ways old and new to sort through the chaos seems wise. (Even if we don't take all the fashion risks Jacobs does.)Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-25634954663854815952009-01-26T12:18:00.002-05:002009-01-26T12:19:49.761-05:00Kleenex & NortonDue to both the writer and her computer currently having a cold/virus, Bethweek is delayed this week. Thanks for your patience; stay tuned.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-43595626593156210332009-01-26T12:18:00.000-05:002009-01-26T12:19:22.359-05:00Kleenex & NortonDue to both the writer and her computer currently having a cold/virus, Betweek is delayed this week. Thanks for your patience; stay tuned.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-91296080830388588302009-01-19T00:38:00.009-05:002009-01-19T12:24:39.058-05:00U.S. and ThemI was listening to the radio this past week as I drove home from work. An academic was sharing his opinion about the economy. At one point, he referred to the "us economy." I had never heard the phrase "the us economy" before, and wondered what it meant. I was eager for him to explain. However, after a few more minutes of listening, I realized that he had simply mis-read his notes: he meant to say "the U.S. economy." There was no "us economy" agenda or concept he was promoting.<br /><br />Even having figured this out, instead of allowing "us economy" to simply be a line mis-read, I couldn't shake the phrase. The us economy. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Us Economy</span>. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like something that could be developed into an actual concept.<br /><br />America is a capitalist economy, and I'm not suggesting that change - but even within our capitalist system, I think we have become too much of an <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span>economy: "<span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> economic interests revolve solely around<span style="font-style: italic;"> me</span>; whatever deal <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> can score, whatever <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span>will most benefit from, that's how<span style="font-style: italic;"> I</span> make <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> economic decisions."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2d1PgwnWhgYYW-o0plv1ce8ZOfG34er1MTGN_XeXbFpu0owk2iIi1g57umESHv5lDSwuu4FFlnrF39gFMLSDQKlvnv1DIIXyOT7l0HzwTWDpYl7wg7wGdEDS7DoB1oePWNmiDmm_QJU/s1600-h/globe+hands.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2d1PgwnWhgYYW-o0plv1ce8ZOfG34er1MTGN_XeXbFpu0owk2iIi1g57umESHv5lDSwuu4FFlnrF39gFMLSDQKlvnv1DIIXyOT7l0HzwTWDpYl7wg7wGdEDS7DoB1oePWNmiDmm_QJU/s200/globe+hands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292878403071002450" border="0" /></a>It's a large part of why our economy is currently in the tank; businesses and individuals operated for too long with this sort of thinking. Rather than thinking communal and big-picture, America has been a nation of individual and instant-gratification. What if we were less of an I Economy, and more of an US Economy?<br /><br />I'm not suggesting communism, socialism, or any other "-ism" that makes our citizens reflectively shudder. To quote Ferris Bueller, a person shouldn't believe in -isms, he should believe in himself... and to take that one step further, he should believe in his neighbor. Nothing dramatic, nothing overly-self-sacrificing, but something nonetheless revolutionary. The US Economy.<br /><br />In the Us Economy, before just buying the cheapest head of imported lettuce, the consumer would stop and think: "If I spend just a little more and buy the locally grown lettuce, I'm taking care of what I need and helping out local farmers... and by extension, my community."<br /><br />In the US Economy, picking up a few extra groceries or socks when we can afford to do so, and bringing them to a local food pantry or shelter, would be a regular habit rather than a holiday tradition. Each purchase would help out someone else, and pump a little more money into the economy.<br /><br />In the US Economy, <span style="font-style: italic;">an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure</span> would be both common sense and common practice. This would apply very directly to our health care system. It could also apply to our foreign policy, our environmental initiatives, and of course, our individual spending, since, after all, we are talking about the economy.<br /><br />In the US Economy, there would be less stratification - US would not just U.S. We'd need to be more than just domestic-minded. When we DO buy a shirt or coffee or spice from another country, we should be shopping with free trade, fair worker conditions, and peaceful international relations in mind.<br /><br />Little steps, but a big concept: each time we spend, thinking about the purchase's impact on more than just our own immediate wallet. Let our minds go instead to our collective future. Do I do this now? No - not nearly to the extent that I should. But hearing someone's live-radio gaffe inspired me to at least start pondering the possibility of changing the conversation about how we spend our money. Now I'm sharing the thought. That's how we start, right? Taking it from something to just <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> am thinking about, to something <span style="font-style: italic;">we</span> can talk about...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >**Note: I did Google "the us economy," but neither periods nor capitalization factor in to their searches, so any search I've been trying turns up every reference to "the U.S. economy" out there. Someone else may well have coined this phrase intentionally. It's very likely, in fact. Please feel free to post if you know of someone who has put some more time, thought and articulation into spinning out this idea.</span>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-13592335096862484932009-01-11T15:05:00.013-05:002009-01-11T23:08:47.189-05:00Why I Hate My Blog (And How I Will Start To Love It)...<br /><br />I am sick and tired of this stupid blog.<br /><br />There, I said it. In fact, earlier this week, I went so far as to refer to this blog as "my punishment for wanting to be a writer." It's true: I set up this blog and named it Beth<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">week</span> as a writing exercise, a weekly requirement I gave myself. No matter how stuck I was, I was supposed to write something, anything, because that is what writers do. We write. And if I consider myself a writer, then yes, my punishment is that I had to enforce a weekly minimum-writing regimen.<br /><br />I have occasionally neglected this blog (though to my credit, it's usually when I've been doing a lot of other writing, and thus a minimum-writing requirement was a moot point). When I do keep up with it, I have tended to shy away from anything too candid or too controversial. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYXYJ3iMRYH_nc6iI3ZEWkiuhqFR5yV7ZVimzcY9GnTVS_Lch8z_sblEb_D25CFB8lnx4-pKq-b2wyyq4RUlfRT8xBpg29U8ZrLSmumVCBUatDxaCATBQvYh6OAQPrVOYHzMckOTpRp0/s1600-h/blog_comics_4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 144px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYXYJ3iMRYH_nc6iI3ZEWkiuhqFR5yV7ZVimzcY9GnTVS_Lch8z_sblEb_D25CFB8lnx4-pKq-b2wyyq4RUlfRT8xBpg29U8ZrLSmumVCBUatDxaCATBQvYh6OAQPrVOYHzMckOTpRp0/s200/blog_comics_4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290249972528507490" border="0" /></a>Occasionally I'm proud of what I write here, but I often find it overly safe, and sometimes even boring.<br /><br />So what's to be done? Abandon this blog like I did the last one? (Poor, wretched thing.) Or attempt a re-branding? The staff* here at Bethweek has reached a crossroads. We** cannot continue on as we*** have been going.<br /><br />At least at the moment, I am going to push (punish?) myself into trying to revive this blog. Though it feels scary, I will make it more controversial when necessary, will make it frequently more deep and consistently more honest. I will also make it a more structured blog. For example, in keeping with another recent resolution - Read More Books - one of my posts each month will be a book review. In the coming months, look for reviews of a range of books, including <span style="font-style: italic;">The Year Of Living Biblically, I Am America And So Can You!</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way</span>.<br /><br />Look, too, for the aforementioned more-deep-and-controversial blogs, including one already in development, tentatively titled "A Liberal Explanation, or, What Do You Mean My Heart's Bleeding?" and another that will explore eavesdropping in local bars. Stay tuned.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >*That'd be me<br />** I<br />*** I</span>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-55216568777562861742009-01-05T00:20:00.003-05:002009-01-05T00:46:43.759-05:00Sunday NightA thunderstorm, a mug of warm spicy-chai tea, a sleepy dog curled up at my feet: the end of another weekend.<br /><br />It sounds like a peaceful scenario, but as Monday looms, my neck is aching and my mind beginning to race. I have a stressful day ahead of me tomorrow, I'm already struggling with one of my new year's resolutions - well, at this moment, feels like I'm already lapsing on nearly all of them. This is probably due to the fact that I'm trying to relax while also trying to be productive. I really should have divided my time rather than combining these goals into one evening, because in the pursuit of productivity, I made a long list of tasks I wanted to accomplish this weekend that have yet to be completed - and in the pursuit of relaxation, I'm drinking tea and watching <span style="font-style: italic;">Law & Order</span>, and thus accomplishing very little of the to-do-list - and thus stressing out, and thus not relaxing.<br /><br />So I am neither productive nor relaxed at the moment. Fail and fail. Sigh.<br /><br />--I just got up and washed my dishes and swept the living room so I can at least half check-off the "clean my apartment" line on the to-do list. Was that progress on my tasks, or simply procrastination on blogging?--<br /><br />I have so much I wanted to do that has yet to get done. Honestly, though - there's also a lot I <span style="font-style: italic;">did do</span> today. I had lunch with friends, I went to a board meeting, I went to a rehearsal, I drove the boy to the airport, I went to another meeting, I had coffee with friends, I wrote a few thank you notes, I submitted two play entries, I started two new writing projects, and as just mentioned, swept my living room and did my dishes.<br /><br />Why is it the scene or story I have yet to write holds so much more promise than the one I actually wrote? Why is the task left undone so much weightier than any task I actually completed?<br /><br />Maybe it's time for the "shifting of perspective" facet of my resolution. I'll give it a try; we'll see how it goes... that which I did not accomplish today, I will try to peacefully shift over to tomorrow, with as little self-judgment as possible. The to-dos still in queue will be given another chance to be completed. Because as a fictional Southern woman once noted, tomorrow is another day. And so:<br /><br />A thunderstorm, a mug of warm spicy-chai tea, a sleepy dog curled up at my feet: the start of another week.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-39869876638019537672009-01-01T23:57:00.005-05:002009-01-02T00:34:43.468-05:00Resolved.I remember an assignment from years ago, some civics requirement, where I had to write a resolution using the appropriate language and format. Thinking back about the task, I recall appreciating the structure of a formal resolution. The first section is several "WHEREAS" statements, which outline the current situation (ie, "WHEREAS, there are not enough traffic signals in Smallville," "AND WHEREAS, studies have shown traffic signals can significantly reduce automobile accidents..."); the second section outlines the proposed solutions to the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hAPZXwcF10MCdxqd2Ac6fTP4nMunniD7w_v8st0YoTnBgfBC17VuUOmfOWHQOA1uFOjPRxSpgBgaZdeUzIt_3HGYu9nqE_kIyH01EsQJRyUl2VS6mrkmHwTV-Qmx-hkDhZm_zLLROPM/s1600-h/declaration.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hAPZXwcF10MCdxqd2Ac6fTP4nMunniD7w_v8st0YoTnBgfBC17VuUOmfOWHQOA1uFOjPRxSpgBgaZdeUzIt_3HGYu9nqE_kIyH01EsQJRyUl2VS6mrkmHwTV-Qmx-hkDhZm_zLLROPM/s200/declaration.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286565239279726258" border="0" /></a>situation, stated in terms of "THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED,""BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED," and "BE IT FINALLY RESOLVED."<br /><br />This structure enables us to first encounter the reality, concretize the issues and allow the existing status to inform not only the writer, but the reader, as to why the proposed resolutions are sound. THEREFORE, instead of informal but specific resolutions like "eat breakfast every morning" or "take real salsa-dancing classes again" (though both of those are things I'd like to do), I am making more all-encompassing, formal resolutions; to that end, I am writing my new year's resolutions here this year following the language style noted above. We'll see whether or not this idea's a good one; Congress passes many resolutions, and as they say, if the opposite of pro is con, then the opposite of progress must be... but nevertheless. Here goes.<br /><br />RESOLUTION: 2009<br /><br />WHEREAS, I have had many reminders lately of how important it is to appreciate the friends and family with which I've been blessed, AND<br /><br />WHEREAS, staying healthy and being productive in my work and writing is crucial to my basic survival, AND<br /><br />WHEREAS, a balance of work and rest, productive time and downtime, social time and one-on-one time is critical to peace of mind,<br /><br />THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED that I will spend more time enjoying my loved ones and being grateful for them, and less time worrying or stressing out about trivial matters, AND<br /><br />BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that I will be more disciplined about going to the gym and eating healthily, and more focused and productive about both my work and my writing, AND<br /><br />BE IT FINALLY RESOLVED that in the coming year, I will not only try to more evenly balance my time and commitments, but also that I will expend less energy on regret and stress; instead I will take more deep breaths, shift perspective whenever possible to see someone else's point of view, and regularly, sincerely take the time to feel and express gratitude for the good that surrounds me.<br /><br />HERE WITNESSED THIS FIRST OF JANUARY, TWO THOUSAND AND NINE OF THE COMMON ERA.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-42489493283126672652008-12-31T11:26:00.005-05:002009-01-01T23:57:35.370-05:00Hasta Lavista, 2008I keep seeing news articles today about how relieved everyone is to say <span style="font-style: italic;">adios</span> to 2008. Harsh, unequivocal, "good riddance and don't let the door hit you on your way out" sort of sentiments. Understandable. On the macro-level, this year we've seen extreme violence, national disasters, the crash of the world economy. On the micro-level, it seems like everyone I know - myself included - had to encounter significant, often painful challenges, ranging from loved ones' deaths to health traumas, heartaches to unemployment and financial woes.<br /><br />Before making any resolutions or talking about 2009 - that post will come tomorrow - I just want to acknowledge 2008. It's been a brutal, trying, testing year. I can't soften that for anyone with any platitudes. But to 2008, in the abstract, I say:<br /><br /><ul><li>You better have been trying to teach us something, somewhere along the way.</li><li>I hope we learned those lessons. I hope we passed most of the tests. I hope very few repeat-classes will be required. </li><li>Perspective, huh?</li><li>So long, farewell, auf weidersen... adieu. </li></ul>That's all. I'm holding onto a few of those hard-won lessons, but otherwise... I'm letting this year go, and tomorrow, I'm embracing the new one.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This post is in memory of Richard Donahue, Dr. Paul Schoen, Bryce McVety, Dorothy Childress, and several more friends' and neighbors' parents and grandparents whom I never had the pleasure of knowing; entertainers from Heath Ledger, George Carlin, and Paul Newman to the year's-end passages of Eartha Kitt & Harold Pinter; the victims of disasters both natural and incredibly unnatural in Myanmar, India, China, the Middle East, and throughout the world. As a whole, we survived 2008; but in this year, we lost some of our best and brightest. May all of their memories be a blessing as we move forward into the new year and all coming years. </span></span>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-15879153823912387722008-12-29T00:39:00.001-05:002008-12-30T02:06:06.522-05:00No Place Like ItI've complained about my apartment many a time, including here on this blog. But for nearly two years now, it's been my home base - which means I've officially lived in this little space for more consecutive months than I've lived in any other place since moving out of my parents' house in 1999.* I still might have my complaints... but.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.mms.gov/mmsKids/Energy/SavingEnergyatHome3.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 224px;" src="http://www.mms.gov/mmsKids/Energy/SavingEnergyatHome3.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>After spending most of the last two weeks traveling, not having slept in my own bed for quite some time, I got home Sunday afternoon, let myself in the door, and felt an oddly comfortable thought cross my mind: <span style="font-style: italic;">Ah, I'm home.</span><br /><br />My couches. My books. Holiday and birthday cards from friends and family lining the bookshelves. Photographs of favorite faces. And of course, Sof wagging her tail (probably no more excited to see me than to see the friend who dog-sat for her all week, but oh well).<br /><br />Sometimes it takes being away to make us appreciate these little comforts of home. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose. I felt genuinely grateful to putter around my apartment, fixing myself some tea, curling up on the couch, doing some writing in my own little corner of the world. It's not so bad, this address. It feels cozy. I'm lucky to have a place as nice as this, and glad to get to spend some time here.<br /><br />Still wish my windows could open, though.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">*This is true. Since 1999, I have lived:</span><br />1999-2000 East Quad dorm<br />2000-2001 Castle Suite with the boys<br />2001-2002 Rosenthal Suites as an RA<br />2002-2003 In a lovely apartment in a haunted-mansion looking house near Watertown, MA<br />May-July 2003 The infamous CRAPHOLE cottage in Belhaven (Jackson, MS)<br />July 2003-2004 The cool 1950s "GE House of the Future" in Belhaven<br />July 2004-July 2005 The Seminole Kids House in Fondren (Jackson)<br />August 2005-May 2006 The odd Colgate apartment in Oak Park, MI<br />Summer 2006 Ridgeland, MS<br />August 2006 Terrifying Apartment Where Someone Got Shot Right Outside My Window, Ypsilanti, MI<br />September 2006 My parents' place (hell of a commute to grad school)<br />October 2006-April 2007 The Townhouse, Ann Arbor, MI<br />April 2007-now: This Place (well, this building; I lived in a one-bedroom for April-June 2007, and moved into a two bedroom in July 2007. This Place still wins for longest residency)<br /></span>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-65072128736933789962008-12-22T00:02:00.003-05:002008-12-22T00:14:16.402-05:00The Good Kind of TiredIt's been a heckuva month, and it's caught up to me. I'm feeling it, and evidently I'm showing it. People are actually telling me "You look really tired." That's not generally synonymous with "you look great."<br /><br />Sometimes, when life is exhausting, it's for unhappy reasons. Losing sleep over health issues, work stress, a breakup, a fight. To clarify for all those who might be worried because they can see fatigue in my face, or read it in the subtext of what I write lately - yes, I'm tired, but it's largely "good" reasons draining my resources. In the past few weeks, I've had huge work projects, multiple holiday parties, I finished a draft of one play and started outlining another, crossed state lines a few times... The next week will continue to be hectic, though still all for happy reasons - a visit for a grandparent's birthday-celebration, holiday celebrations, a wedding celebration - more crossing of state lines (but maybe a little more down time in each place). <br /><br />It's the good kind of tired - and in order to prevent it from becoming the kind of tired that leads to falling under the weather, I'm taking a rain check on a "real" post... look for one midweek... and am going to bed. Sweet dreams, dear readers.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-50188710115743029922008-12-15T00:14:00.003-05:002008-12-15T00:31:48.211-05:00What Comes Next?I'm racing to finish a script that I want to submit for a December 31 deadline. Well, I say I'm racing; it's not a marathon, though, more like I'm doing a series of sprints to try to get it done. I haven't been able to sit down and work on it for more than one consecutive hour for the past several days.<br /><br />The script is very different in tone and structure than my usual style. Without revealing anything about the (slightly bizarre) plot, I can say that one of the central questions of the play is "What comes next?"<br /><br />One of the characters desperately asks another: "What comes next? What am I supposed to do next? I don't know, and I need you to tell me - please - what comes next?"<br /><br />I feel as if right now that bit of dialogue applies to my process of writing this script... and to my life in general.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEpQaJKSUjcdAWS5jUIp80MP9ijvS-DxAYvqWALK6LW6zMiQAbGMWaLuLco-IgdA7Rii7h5JFIeeTyr_lwaRgp-RfdE2YYkUTJXvCDSq1yne3exM3EXbBZngnW4g71cwHyMHhe_3jPwgo/s1600-h/calendar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEpQaJKSUjcdAWS5jUIp80MP9ijvS-DxAYvqWALK6LW6zMiQAbGMWaLuLco-IgdA7Rii7h5JFIeeTyr_lwaRgp-RfdE2YYkUTJXvCDSq1yne3exM3EXbBZngnW4g71cwHyMHhe_3jPwgo/s200/calendar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279884652861736834" border="0" /></a>I realized today, while driving from one Sunday appointment to the next, that I'm well into my second year of really not knowing what comes next. Clearly, we never really know - but at least for me, all the way up until I went to college, "college" was what would come next. Then I put in four years of college, not knowing exactly what would come next - but before graduating, I signed on for a finite two-year job. So I knew two years of work would come next. And then I was pretty set on the idea that after that, graduate school was what would come next. That too came to pass, and that too was finite and structured - another two years of knowing, at least basically, what was in store for me. Those two years ended in April 2007.<br /><br />Now, what comes next?<br /><br />I took one job after graduate school and then unexpectedly moved into another. I didn't expect to change jobs. I moved into a "temporary" apartment with a month to month lease, and expected to move out of that within a few months - but nearly two years later, I'm still in this apartment. I have no quantifiable life timeline at this point. No schedule. No "next."<br /><br />I have goals and dreams and deadlines, of course. I have busy days, weeks, events on the calendar scheduled for months from now. But no big moves on the immediate horizon, no academic calendar to follow, no next step charted out. Liberating? Terrifying? Depends on the moment.<br /><br />It's eleven thirty on a Sunday night. I have a conference to attend tomorrow. What comes next? Bedtime. That's all I can say definitively right now.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-47773625753983341882008-12-10T00:05:00.002-05:002008-12-10T00:24:25.282-05:00Erstwhile Weekly PostingsThis poor blog is suffering yet again.<br /><br />If it's any consolation, dear readers... every night, when I come home tired from work, I dutifully turn on my computer and begin writing. Not blogging, clearly - but I have a full-length play I <span style="font-style: italic;">must</span> finish for a December 31 deadline; a dissertation that a soon-to-be-Ph.D. needed some feedback on; a periodical I edit is going through an exciting overhaul and I'm working on that this week as well...<br /><br />Don't give up yet. This site is neglected at the moment, but not yet officially abandoned!Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-75604729919692532772008-11-24T23:45:00.005-05:002008-11-25T10:00:58.434-05:00If The Glass Slipper Fits...<meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CBeth%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CBeth%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CBeth%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> 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mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} /* List Definitions */ @list l0 {mso-list-id:1646667557; mso-list-type:hybrid; mso-list-template-ids:-661999416 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693;} @list l0:level1 {mso-level-number-format:bullet; mso-level-text:; mso-level-tab-stop:none; mso-level-number-position:left; text-indent:-.25in; font-family:Symbol;} ol {margin-bottom:0in;} ul {margin-bottom:0in;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">I've been remiss in keeping up with this blog, due to a whirlwind of other activity. However, a friend recently asked me to contribute to<a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.themcdadepage.com"> his theater blog</a>... so while it's a bit of a cheat, perhaps, to re-post what I wrote, that's what I'm doing. In this forum, I may have some family members who will add to/correct/recall additional anecdotes on this piece... about my very first time acting. On another note... this is my 100th post here on Bethweek... enjoy, and happy Thanksgiving, y'all! </p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"If The Glass Slipper Fits..." </span>
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Barefoot children, dirty tear-stained faces, and a girl marrying her own brother. </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">A sordid new soap opera, “Days of our Over-Stereotyped Incestuous Young Hillbilly Lives”? </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Nope. My first play. </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The year: 1987. At the ripe old age of six, I was the eldest actor in the show. The director/narrator/costume designer was my mother; <span style=""> </span>the assistant director/seamstress/harried producer was our neighbor; my co-stars were my two little brothers and the neighbor’s two kids; the show was “Cinderella,” and because someone up there has it in for me… yes, somewhere in the deepest recesses of my parents’ archives, there is video footage.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I was playing the title role, cast not due to any particular talent, nor really due to nepotism, but simply because a) I was one of only two girls in the gaggle of neighborhood ruffians, and b) none of the other kids could read yet. Public service announcement: literacy pays off, kids.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">My mother had the brilliant idea that our two families should have their kids <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrRv7ihtKjrKr49ScHdrdB3BurYNLd4ve-va2XO7O__M9LRSXyQkvn7SvK_8vuYi5U3vJzvBvTuZ9PWNqge2Rdg6KChRRun5ngqEdjtNfVSmXp5D2FcHkmLfLJaRKrbf4DH1h-7KO2FMQ/s1600-h/GlassSlipper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrRv7ihtKjrKr49ScHdrdB3BurYNLd4ve-va2XO7O__M9LRSXyQkvn7SvK_8vuYi5U3vJzvBvTuZ9PWNqge2Rdg6KChRRun5ngqEdjtNfVSmXp5D2FcHkmLfLJaRKrbf4DH1h-7KO2FMQ/s200/GlassSlipper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272453333711994002" border="0" /></a>rehearse a play, then videotape the final performance and send it off to our various scattered relatives as a truly meaningful and original holiday gift. She scouted a location – we would rehearse, perform, and film the performance in the neighbor’s mother’s country home. M & M’s were purchased to bribe any resistant children into becoming thespians. My mother then rented a video camcorder approximately the size and weight of Texas, and we were good to go.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The cast was as follows:</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Cinderella – me</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Evil Stepmother – voice of my mother (offscreen)</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Evil Stepsisters – my little brother Adam (age 2) and the neighbor’s son (age 3)</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Evil Stepsister’s Feet (for camera close-ups of the epic “shoe doesn’t fit” scene) – my mom and the neighbor</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Fairy Godmother – neighbor’s daughter (age 4)</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Horses – Adam and the neighbor’s son</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Symbol;"><span style="">·<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->The Prince – my little brother Jake (age 4) </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The play kicked off with me sweeping the hearth, learning of the ball, being told by my sobbing evil stepsisters (some bitter dispute between the neighbor boy and my brother over M & M’s led to them bawling throughout every scene they were in) that I was not allowed to go to the ball. When they exited, I sat on a chair and cried “Now I shall never go to the ball!” with appropriate melodrama – completely upstaged by my underwear flashing the audience.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">(Let’s recall that this is all caught on film. My parents threaten that when I bring home a fiancée, they will break out this VHS, and if he can watch our “Cinderella” and still want to join the family/hold my hand, he will be officially vetted.) </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">But then, of course, came the fairy godmother. In our production, however, the benevolent spirit was a petulant little girl who screamed each line at the top of her lungs. As in: “I AM YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER! I HAVE COME TO GET YOU READY FOR THE BALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Then, completely deaf but in a beautiful dress, I went out to my carriage – a Radio Flyer wagon with puffy-paint and glitter-glue decorated cardboard cut-outs enhancing its “carriage” look. The carriage was drawn by two horses – my brother and the neighbor kid in sweatsuits, with yarn-manes and yarn-tails stapled to them, howling over some M & M injustice. Arriving at the ball, the prince (a.k.a. my other little brother, very bitter about having to be involved in this production) grabbed my hand and began yelling at me. This provided me with very little motivation to look sad when the bells began to toll and I told him, flatly, “Oh no. I must go.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Kicking my foot furiously to make sure I left a shoe behind, I raced off. My prince/brother shouted, “Wait!” and went to pick up the shoe, then decided it hadn’t been dramatic enough, so put down the shoe, backed up, yelled “Wait!” again, and picked up the shoe for a second time as the horses wailed in the background.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">In one of my all-time favorite “This American Life” episodes, Ira Glass dissects the meaning of “fiasco” – and, appropriately, uses the story of a community theater production of “Peter Pan” gone horribly wrong to illustrate just what a “fiasco” entails. My “Cinderella story” truly is more aptly dubbed a “Cinderella fiasco” – but more than two decades later, it’s interesting to note where that cast and production staff has landed.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style=""> </span>
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">My mother, the strung-out young director chasing young children around a makeshift set, is currently writing the final pages of her dissertation on youth theater. No joke – with four kids grown and living on their own (one of whom was not even born at the time of the now legendary ’87 off-off-off-off-off-off-off-Broadway Cinderella revival) she’s finishing up a Ph.D. in theater. My sobbing horse/step-sister brother, A, is pursuing an acting career in Chicago. I’m still a theater junkie, usually involved in some production and constantly trying to write the next great American play. </p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">We all start somewhere. My first play might have been a fiasco, and could have been a one-shot-deal, a good childhood story that never led to anything… but that’s not how this tale ended. Because for some of us, theater never becomes a pumpkin – it’s always that magic carriage (or Radio Flyer wagon decorated with glittering cardboard). It’s what keeps taking us to the ball, the prince, the next happily-ever-after we share with the next audience. We get to be the fairy tale. What’s better than that?</p>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-9171830890889265092008-11-02T23:21:00.006-05:002008-11-03T11:01:09.843-05:00To Kill A Mockingbird<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8kQG5oYYL5V6BCIyBjZbjhf5MT7CAm2Ed-zA8ItKibk22OqCvWK8DEgKGLg89QpC-j8rOv6vNnF5UbdzaPwhJTbfBLJyMC1vaKR00_8fidWQRfROTZ1v815_4OPHCYouXjThU6dq-SY/s1600-h/to-kill-a-mockingbird-at-intiman-theatre.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 168px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8kQG5oYYL5V6BCIyBjZbjhf5MT7CAm2Ed-zA8ItKibk22OqCvWK8DEgKGLg89QpC-j8rOv6vNnF5UbdzaPwhJTbfBLJyMC1vaKR00_8fidWQRfROTZ1v815_4OPHCYouXjThU6dq-SY/s200/to-kill-a-mockingbird-at-intiman-theatre.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264284464833828994" border="0" /></a><br />Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird" is one of those books that I remember reading as a child. I don't just mean I remember the book itself, the plot, the characters - I mean, I remember<span style="font-style: italic;"> reading</span> it: fighting against sleep at night to stay up and read it, devouring paragraphs in the way-back of the family station wagon until I got motion sick, curling up on the couch and turning page after page. I was probably ten or so when I first read "Mockingbird." There were so many things I learned from that book: like the child narrator Scout, I didn't know what rape was, what injustice really meant, what "social mores" were until I encountered that story. Tonight, I saw a production of the stage show for the first time, and encountering that story again, it made me wonder: how far have we come?<br /><br />The surface answer, of course, is very far. Our schools are desegregated. A "jury of our peers" does not mean "limited to white men." We even have a mixed-heritage/African-American Democratic candidate for president. As a nation, we are more "tolerant."<br /><br />But that's only the surface answer.<br /><br />This post is not an endorsement for any particular candidate, but as we're heading into an historic presidential election, with this Tuesday looming near, my only plea is this: don't let hate, fear-mongering, and latent fear of "the other" dictate your vote. More than that - whoever you're supporting, take a stand the next time you hear someone make the election about fear and intolerance. Because the undercurrent, and sometimes overt use of such fear-mongering, is what really scares me - particularly because of how much attention children, our own contemporary, real-life Scouts, are paying to this election.<br /><br />I have seen several posts on Facebook, as well as comments on blogs and YouTube, from kids I know to be as young as eleven, saying terrifying things. Calling Obama a devil-worshipper, for instance. Saying that anyone who doesn't "vote Christian" isn't a "good American" - upsetting on so many levels. These statements from such young people are perpetuating such old, dangerous ideas. And what's most unsettling is that so many of these young people, because they hear these falsehoods from adults and find "evidence" online and all around them to support them, really believe that they have accurate information. Here's a post someone who identifies himself (herself?) as "too young to vote" left in response to a silly Hockey-Mama-for-Obama Youtube video:<br /><br />"dumb bitch why don't you study up on politics. I'm not old enough to vote but i know for damn sure i did more homework on this election. OBAMA IS A TERRORIST. Send his punk ass back to Africa."<br /><br />This sounds like one angry kid - one angry kid utterly confident in his/her opinion being not only right, but also based on "fact."S/he can certainly find plenty of similar sentiments online, "evidence" to back up these claims (though it's all about how you run the search: go to Fact Check, Snopes, or any number of other political OR apolitical sites and the race/religion/anti-American/fear-based rumors about Barack Obama are pretty instantly disproved). Bias exists on both sides, and if you only want to confirm what you think you know, it's easier and easier to do so.<br /><br />My politics are no secret, but as I stated earlier, this isn't an endorsement post. I have many dear Conservative friends who will be supporting McCain/Palin, and when it's because they agree with their policies, I can respect that. However, when I run in to people who are voting for the Republicans because they are "terrified of what would happen if That Obama gets elected" - it makes me shiver.<br /><br />All the more so when I hear and see hateful messages from those too young to vote. It is our responsibility to be better role models. Having two major political parties is one thing; fostering violent divides, and fanning the flames even more when race/religion come into play, is flat-out dangerous. When adults encourage children to think of people who don't share their skin color, or go to the same house of worship, or attend the same schools, as being separate and unequal from them, we are teaching a terrible lesson. So please, don't take us backwards. Don't let difference continue to divide. Let's remember to be United, not stratified; let's do it for every Scout waiting to see how the jury will respond.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-56411709931304375632008-10-27T11:04:00.002-04:002008-10-27T11:09:38.050-04:00Dramamine's Not Enough<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://assets.nydailynews.com/img/2008/05/18/alg_carnival-ride.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 323px;" src="http://assets.nydailynews.com/img/2008/05/18/alg_carnival-ride.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />See, <a href="http://www.mikeshard.com/weekend/newsStory.php?id=MjU2NDM=">this is why I don't ride carnival rides</a>.<br /><br />(And having WAY too much going on this week is why I'm taking the lazy way out in terms of a post here this week...)<br /><br />AND YIKES - this <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/us_world/2008/05/17/2008-05-17_24_injured_as_carnival_ride_collapses_at.html">real article</a> turned up when I was searching for a carnival ride image...<br /><br />...so much for me making light of my fear of rides.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4367531823133215183.post-80615450760846053492008-10-19T20:12:00.004-04:002008-10-19T23:02:37.046-04:00Tap. Tap. Tap.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiknxOsiHQONd3ti8XrBtUylqBH3EID6-rNQlSQd_REDMPrqHuJxiRXNtlfIF6E4_gUddZu7-qSKswWn8LwLJLGp2GG6OEV1VqVnWiB3WA-FtMZRuFKUasKSyu78po_JMVrqlLF6-8XW0/s1600-h/tap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiknxOsiHQONd3ti8XrBtUylqBH3EID6-rNQlSQd_REDMPrqHuJxiRXNtlfIF6E4_gUddZu7-qSKswWn8LwLJLGp2GG6OEV1VqVnWiB3WA-FtMZRuFKUasKSyu78po_JMVrqlLF6-8XW0/s200/tap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259060952943576770" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tap. Tap. Tap.</span><br /><br />Theater has been a part of my life for almost as long as my memory extends. I was recently cast in a role that requires quite a bit of dancing. Not just group dance numbers - but solo dance numbers. Including a solo tap dance. I've never taken tap; never even donned tap shoes prior to a few weeks ago. I've been acting since I was four years old; I've done a fair amount of singing; but, a tap solo? I was frankly terrified. I have to admit: I questioned the casting. Why would the director give me this part? I thought. This is not my a role that emphasizes my strongest onstage assets. This is not the role I would assign myself.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tap. Tap. Tap.</span><br /><br />News came knocking two weeks ago; on the heels of the death of a dear friend, now there is the failing health of my grandmother. She fell several weeks ago, stayed with my parents in Michigan for awhile, then returned to her home in Toledo; then seemed to be slipping, and went to live with my aunt in Chicago; then, slipping further, was admitted to Lutheran General Hospital in Park Ridge, Illinois - the hospital where I was born. Soon after being admitted to the hospital, she suffered a stroke.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tap. Tap. Tap.</span><br /><br />Learning the basics of tap in one crash course, knowing I subsequently have to learn the actual choreography, and be ready to perform the routine confidently in front of an audience by month's end, is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. The tap solo isn't my only dance in the show; though I've given up kickboxing during this rehearsal period, my muscles ache from practicing the dances over and over and over, trying to make my body accept that it needs to move in new ways.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tap. Tap. Tap.</span><br /><br />Staying in touch with family, getting daily updates, hearing over and over the phrase two-steps-forward, one-step-back: this is part of my new routine. On top of working full-time in one office, part-time in another, while also teaching a night class at a local college, and rehearsing the show, is taxing enough; worrying about my grandmother, and my father, and my mother, and my brothers and sister and extended family... the routine only gets more complicated once we learn the basic steps. Fortunately, I have some good partners; a steady rhythm; and other things to think about, like learning choreography.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tap. Tap. Tap.</span><br /><br />So I've just about learned the dance. I still mess up, but of course, the main rule is: keep going. If you falter, if you get off-beat, if you miss a step - you just keep going. Sometimes I have to go back and re-learn the parts I thought I knew; and then other times, unexpectedly, my mind will be blank right up until my cue and then, without thought or hesitation, I am suddenly at the end of the dance, having remembered every step, hit every mark.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tap. Tap. Tap.</span><br /><br />I still worry about my family. I am far away, but never removed from them. I spoke to my grandmother on the phone the day before her most recent stroke; she joked about finding a boyfriend in the hospital. Unexpectedly, we laughed.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tap. Tap. Tap.</span><br /><br />Sometimes we're cast in roles we wouldn't assign ourselves. The expectations are unclear, the damn shoes are more expensive than we want them to be, our muscles ache, our feet are too slow and fall behind the music. And then bit by bit, we learn the basic steps, and as we start to learn the dance, we really just have to bear in mind the main rule: keep going.Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800658910236777200noreply@blogger.com0