um..

why is it so difficult? why does someone have so much trouble saying "i love you" and meaning it? i say "i love you" every day to a dozen people. that doesn't mean it loses it's significance. i mean it every time and i make sure i do before i say it.

so why is it so hard for everyone else? i simply don't understand.

The Eve of All Hallows...

Less than three weeks until Halloween. What to do, what to do...

Here's the thing. I've never sexed-up a Halloween costume before and am now in a serious debate with myself as to whether I want to start now. I'm thinking that if I were to go all out with the hotness, I'd go as Amber Sweet from "Repo! The Genetic Opera". A little intense, but still...

And then there is the option of keeping it classy as I have done in the past. I do happen to own the perfect dress if I chose to go as Trudy Campbell from "Mad Men".

Decisions, decisions...

STEEEEE-RIKE! you're out

Today we struck the set for "The Importance of Being Earnest". For those of you who don't know what "strike" is, the entire company spends a day taking down absolutely everything. We stored furniture, took down lights, cleaned up the dressing rooms... didn't actually dismember EVERYTHING... just most of it. "Earnest", by the way, is the show I have been beating myself upside the head over for the past eight weeks. I know I've mentioned before I stage manage.

Anyway... now that the show is over and the set pieces are gone and I have far fewer excuses to hang around the theater, I find that I am completely lost. What will I do without it? I know I claimed to hate it throughout the process. That was a lie. I loved getting as close as I did with everyone involved. I love that I have grown as an SM and as a friend to so many. I've strengthened relationships and learned how to handle so many things I never knew I could get through.

Yes, I've had two meltdowns within the past month, partially over this show. Yes, I wanted to rip heads off when things did not exactly go according to plan. Yes, I am SO EXCITED to have my life back in my own hands rather than in Oscar Wilde's (sorry, Oscar. LOVE you're work and all, but...). All the same, I will miss it so much.

Strike itself went relatively smoothly. There were a few times when I wanted to say "fuck it" and leave (people get snippy, one in particular -- I hate snip; it pisses me off), and yet by some miracle, I was able to pull through and deal with it.

Over the course of the past three weeks or so, I have felt almost entirely useless in all other aspects of my life. I can't fix this, I can't do anything about that. Worries, worries, worries that I have absolutely no control over which not only angers me, it scares me to death. Why can't I do anything to help? So much of it is personal crap that usually isn't my business (I have a ridiculously overdeveloped "Mothering complex"). But then I'd go to rehearsal. Even when the director decided to take charge and overrule me, I was the one the company would listen to. If I had something to say, they actually shut up and paid attention. In that, at least, I was able to do something worthwhile for people.

So, what the fuck am I gonna do now?? Shit.

untitled poem

my childhood corners and grand adventures
no nonsense of age or decay
what beauty could hold those treasures past
or keep with me the joys of what was once every day

those memories of me dancing on toes
where it felt as though we could fly
can anyone tell me how anyone knows
however we change and why

the moments are now blurred equations
keeping up is not as simple or kind
we rush through the hours and hope things remain
as we left them in our childhood minds

Damn tricks of fate...

As a general rule, I really hate being lazy. It's not that I begrudge others their laziness. Just me, personally. Lazy Mary is also Bored Mary.

But here's the rub: more then I hate my own laziness, I really really REALLY despise a lack of choice in that department. Because, of course, when I am sick, like now for example, I have no control over my motivationlessness (is that even a word?).

I had things planned for today. I was going to pack for the week and for the move back to school. I was going to properly celebrate my little brother's birthday. I was... oh, wait, I'm still going to have to go to work. Anyway, point made, right?

Laziness/Illness does a number on a gal's creative thought process. Therefore, do not expect much artistic insight for a while. My humblest apologies.

Unique Kitchen Decor

You like?

It's going in my kitchen in (can you believe it?) TEN DAYS.

The idea came from a very similar piece of art I found online (ffffound.com eats my life, I swear). Originally, I thought I'd just get the one I found blown up and printed, but it would have been something crazy, like twelve bucks.

Anyway, I decided I could save money and do better with my own interpretation. TA DA!

Debating on whether or not I want to frame it. Things tend to look messy without frames, especially in places like kitchens, but I really don't want to spend the twelve dollars I just saved on not having it printed instead on a frame that may or may not fit.

And out comes the tape measure and a visit to amazon.com.

Silly Mary...

I know, I know... nothing for weeks at a time and suddenly twice in one day. I'm sporadic and awful, I know. :P

Anyway, I had a marvelous evening and felt the need to share it.

Stopped by A.C. Moore to pick up a delightful compartment box for stage management this fall. Did I mention I was a stage manager? I must have. Anyway, this box is beautiful. It can hold everything and is still about a quarter of the size Nick's was, which gives me an odd sense of pride, that I am fully able to consolidate. No offense, Nick. Your SM kit was godly, I promise.

Pretty, huh? It's just my style, and I don't care if anyone says SM kits absolutely have to be black. I disagree. Kate's was yellow if I remember correctly.

As for the rest of my evening, "Roman Holiday". I've seen the ending dozens of times, but not so much the beginning. I watched the first half hour, made myself a cup of tea (black spice, which I really love), and watched the ending anyway. It was fabulous. Did you know it was Audrey Hepburn's first leading role in a motion picture? Originally, the producers wanted either Elizabeth Taylor or Jean Simmons, who were much more well-known at the time, because so few had heard of Audrey, who'd only had any fame because of "Gigi" on Broadway. Just a little trivia. ;-)

Bloggers Who Love Food

I saw "Julie and Julia" last night. It was adorable.

As a matter of fact, it got me thinking about cooking. Not that I cook everyday. Not when Dad has a recipe straight out of his "Food and Wine" catalogue collection that he'd rather make for dinner (and I can hardly blame him). However, you can bet I'll be cooking anything within reach (and within reasonable price range) once I move into my kitchen-equiped apartment next week (holy shit, I move in next week... THANK GOD).

Anyway, I do really love to cook. Not quite so big on the French food unless it's pastries. Actually, come to think of it, most of the cooking I do is actually baking. All day, I have been thinking about cakes.

Ever seen the show "Ace of Cakes"? Hunt it down, bask in its glory, delight in its delectability. I was thinking along those lines today. I could do that. Make cakes with ridiculous layers and impossible colors. I'm pretty good at decorating things.

I'll write more on the subject once I've acheived baked perfection.

memories that remain (however unexpected)

My brother Henry and I went for a bike ride downtown today. The intended destinations were the library and Piccomolo (the best gelato you can find in the state of Virginia - I don't care what anyone else says), so I figured a bag to carry my wallet and books would be wise.

After digging my brown messenger bag out of the pile of things I haven't touched since coming home in May, I emptied it to find the following:

- my sketchbook from "Fundamentals of Theatrical Design" (more commonly referred to as "fundies" by most theater students) class from last semester
- a blue bic lighter
- several Studio show programs
- my "love, luck, wish" necklace (I knew I hadn't left it at Jake's)
- one of my external harddrives
- my copy of the dorm checkout list
AND (my personal favorite)
- a "to do" list Emma must have written MONTHS ago in the green room

The "to do" list is my favorite because it recommends such activities as:
- steal shit
- teepee Corey's house
- glitter Justin's apartment
- skinny dip
... among several others.

Dear Emma,
If you happen to read this, I think we need to accomplish all said tasks.
Please and Thank You,
<3 M

If you've never seen "Centerstage", you have no idea what you're missing. I must have watched this movie a thousand times but it has never bored me. Attached is the final dance sequence. Watch it now and pay special attention to the last few minutes. You will not be disappointed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EoBTuIsB3ls

to hating dear old mom and dad

36 days. Just 36 more days until I am back in Indiana, far far away from my whack-job family.

Five weeks. I can make it five more weeks, can't I? Honestly, I'm not so sure. They're all insane. Henry barely talks anymore. Alex yammers on and on and on about nothing important. Dad's spineless and only yells when he feels like Mom wants him to. And if I get started on the list of issues I have with Mom, this blog post will turn into the length of one's average Russian novel.

Yes, I have every intention of paying back the $900 I owe. Yes, I will clean the fucking living room by Sunday afternoon. No, I don't have work this weekend. Yes, I was up late last night on the phone. What of it? No, I REALLY don't want to talk right now. Drop it and let me be.

Please and thank you.

35 and a half more days. You can do it, Mary. You can do it. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...

I think I can drive myself crazy if I have to put up with this for so much as one more hour.

It's not that I don't love them. I do. I just think we function much MUCH better while seperated. The four hour distance was a GODSEND. And now that I am under they're roof, I am in hell all over again.

Five more weeks. Just five more weeks. Compartmentalize and... BREATHE.

The Underground

Right, so I posted stuff about "The Sounds" a little while ago, having listened to five or six songs off the new album. This past Monday, my best friend introduced me to a new one.

Let us go back to the underground
It was the place where we all used to hide away...

The lyrics reminded us of Cinema Arts, a small independent film theater where we worked after school and weekends during our senior year of high school. Every now and then, when we come back to visit, we'll pick up a shift. It always seems like a good plan... but here's the thing: it's changed so much. And I don't mean just the appearance. That alone would not deter us. I mean the overall feeling of the place. Peoples' drama, the way they act toward everyone, it puts off an entirely different vibe.

It's no longer our "underground".

Belated Book of the Week #2

Okay, so this is a day late, but here ya go...

I'm obscenely Irish and this has been one of my favorite books for a few years. Frank McCourt is easily my favorite author and I find myself re-reading his books out of genuine love of literature.

"Angela's Ashes" along with "'Tis" and "Teacher Man" paint vivid and evocative stories of McCourt's life as an Irish Catholic with a talent for words struggling to find his place in the world.

"Angela's Ashes" begins with a small explanation of McCourt's parents (Angela and Malachy) and his first few memories. The memoir continues as his family leaves New York for Limerick and faces many small but significant cruelties of life.

"'Tis" picks up where "Angela's Ashes" leaves off, with McCourt's return to New York at the age of nineteen. "Teacher Man" goes through his career as an English teacher at Stuyvesant High School, where he finally finds his place.

Exquisitely told, the story of Frank McCourt's life is a treasure and the impressions his years have given him are lessons everyone can accept and cherish.

Yellow Envelopes

I love writing letters. Whenever I feel the need to return to the good-ol'-days of snail mail, I'll pull out a plastic polka-dotted case in which I keep my envelopes and stationary. I'll write on a piece of stationary decorated with music notes, fold it once and slide it into a large, yellow envelope.

I found both the stationary and the envelopes in Staples about two years ago and immeadiately stocked up on each. I have sent hundreds of letters since, often covering them in stickers and sharpie drawings.

A good friend of mine is in Basic Training for the Army and is one of the few people who will send letters back. In his last, he wrote this:

You realize, don't you, that you've enchanted my bunkmates? None of them ever get letters, not even from their girlfriends and you send them twice a week. We get our mail just before lights out and we all wait for another one to slip underneath the door. I read them aloud sometimes and they ask about you, the girl with the yellow envelopes.

Crossing the Rubicon

My best friend got me into a band called The Sounds about two years ago and I never looked back.

Well, their new album just came out and I think I'm in love. Attached is the link to the first single off of the album (titled "Crossing the Rubicon").

Look, listen, love.

"No One Sleeps When I'm Awake"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Muci-5Yt0o

Other gems off of "Crossing the Rubicon" include "Beatbox", "Dorchester Hotel", and (my favorite) "4 Songs and a Fight". SO GOOD. CHECK THEM OUT!!!

Yesterday Morning

I spin slowly beneath the patterns of pear tree branches drawn upon the back porch. I lift my head against the thick air of Virginia summer and look around. The not-yet-ripe pears swing back and forth in a calm June breeze. My cheap, dark sunglasses slide down my nose as I tilt my head even further back to rest my head against the back of my swivel chair. I drum my fingers on the tiled surface of the table and breathe deeply in. My exhale comes out as a sigh. I love how everything smells after it rains. I can feel the coolness of leftover raindrops seeping through my jeans and the back of my thin button-down shirt, but I don't care. I cross my legs, close my eyes and cradle my coffee mug, silently wondering whether I could sneak a cigarette while Dad is out. He only just left a minute ago. I could pop inside and... maybe not. Henry and Alex will be home soon. Wouldn't want to smell like nicotine.
I take another deep breath, enjoying the clean air, banishing the thought of ruining it with smoke.

Boomer, my ten-year-old miniature poodle, is sprawled out in the concrete, soaking up the dappled light. I smile and shake my head at him.

"You've got it all figured out, haven't you?" I ask him, "Not a care in the world."

He's too tired to lift his head to look at me, the source of noise in the now-broken silence, but I know he hears me.

I set my mug back down upon the tile and uncross my legs to stand. Slipping off my sandals and removing my sunglasses, I cross to the very center of the backyard. I rotate slowly, taking in every smell, every sight. No blue jays today at the bird feeder that Dad carefully maintains. No squirrels either, bothering poor Boomer. Just a small robin hopping around the lily pond.

The gate leads out to the common area, a large field that looks like its own park. I recall games of catch with my brothers. Maybe I'll ask Henry to play when he gets home from school. I can't believe he's starting high school in the fall. I push that thought to the back of my mind while I gaze at the field, remembering the two of us playing catch.
I look down at my toes, tapping them gently against the damp grass. What a wonderful feeling.

Book of the Week #1

As a habitual writer, I also read. A lot. And have therefore decided to incorporate a Book of the Week choice into this blog. Look forward to some fantastic literary recommendations every Thursday. ;-)

"The Saffron Kitchen" by Yasmin Crowther is a favorite of mine about an Iranian family in London. Much of the novel focuses on the love between a mother and daughter (an ironic theme for me, personally) and the price of freedom.

I picked this up last summer on the clearance shelf outside the entrance of Borders. To go along with the cost versus value motif that appears in the story, I bought this for less than three dollars, but wouldn't give it up for thirty.

"The Saffron Kitchen" beautifully describes London and Tehran, sweeping the reader away, and gives a unique portrayal of family ties.

A Girl's Guitars

I don't claim to be a great musician, but the strum of a good acoustic guitar is one of my favorite sounds in the world.

My own playing skills are somewhat mediocre. I'm always too busy during the school year and over the summers, what little knowledge I had has faded along with the callouses on my fingertips. Still, I plug along, hoping it doesn't sound too awful.

Below is a picture of me with Johnny, my acoustic and Jimmy, my electric. Not the most original idea in the world to name your guitars after John Lennon and Jimmy Page, but I'd rather have "Johnny" and "Jimmy" for my two favorite instruments than "Noodles," my brother's name for his.

Pictures of Dreams

Remember when I wrote that I only painted at two or three am? Yeah, I wrote that yesterday. Scroll down a little and go back over that part before you keep reading this post. 'Kay, thanks.

Anyway, below are three of my paintings. All are the same size, 16x20 inches, not too small to restrict me and not too big to intimidate me. Yes, that's me peeking out from behind each of them. Had to make sure the webcam got the whole thing.

I actually decided this one looked better rotated one-quarter turn clockwise. Or at least, that is the way it hangs in my bedroom. It's the last thing I see before I go through the door.

My favorite doodle is swirls like the ones on the left of this one. I added little frays or "feathers" as I like to think of them because for some reason, just the swirls made the canvas seem too empty. I left a lot of the rest un-swirled because I felt like that section had enough texture that it didn't need any more pattern. Does that make sense?

Color versus black and white. I find both equally beautiful, but they compete so often, I decided to integrate them. Chaotic, I know, but still compelling.

All have varying types of paper layered within them, some mod podge incorporated as glue for said paper, and lots of acrylic paint. Oil and watercolor paints frustrate me. So do pastels. I'm rather a particular painter.

Love Knots

Above is a picture of my basket of embroidery floss. To a stranger, I have plenty to last me the rest of the summer. To those who know me, I'm running low.

A favorite pasttime of mine while sitting in front of the television on a lazy day is making friendship bracelets out of this floss. I've made dozens so far with every intention of making more.

Below is a picture of a small box in which I keep... more floss. On the right - finished bracelets waiting to be sent in the mail. On the left - the extra string leftover from every finished bracelet I've made this summer. I tie the pieces and keep them with the sentiment that the person I gave the respective bracelet to is with me. A little cheesey, but what can you do?

Easy enough to put together. Basically, just a bunch of knots. I usually go off of a person's favorite colors, sometimes switching it up with colors I think describe them as people. Other times I just pick colors I like and wait for someone to come along who might like them too.

Whichever way it happens, the same amount of care goes into each knot. Whether I am thinking of a specific person or the people I love in general.

An Introduction

I am a theatre student, but seldom do I perform. You'll find me backstage or high above in a booth or a catwalk. I dress in black and wear a headset. I'll only perform if someone asks me to.

I have a hard time saying no.

I dance any way I want when I'm alone. It's one of the few things I keep from people.

I paint, but only at two or three in the morning. Probably because that is the only time I feel inspired.

I take pictures, but would hate to take a photography class, so it will therefore, never take me anywhere. I refuse to have someone else tell me what I discover to be art is wrong.

I write. A lot. That will never change. My harddrive and mulitiple journals are overflowing and so will all those I will come to own in the future.

I sing, mostly along with a radio. Often in a car. Someone else's car, of course. I, myself, do not have a car. I do, however, have a few radios.

I knit, macrame, braid, bead, stitch, weave... in a million colors and forms. And I love it.

For all the artwork I have made, you'd think I would try to sell it. Whether I am afraid it isn't worth anything or I am too attached to part with it, I still don't know.