Blood and Torture

Doctors office BlaughG. 

So, I was called in for some regular procedure blood tests and such and was told that after my blood is taken, I have to drink something and then wait for an hour to get tested again. I thought this whole shindig was going to be over in 20 minutes. I have a BOATload of work to do and NONE of my books or my laptop. Thank God for my iPhone. At least I can bloggit. 

Had to fast since yesterday. I am an inch away from eating the small child across the row from me. 

Ok...school stuff. 

Today I WILL FINISH my final. Mjon called to quash my obsessive over-writing. It was the classic movie bitchslap I needed. 

See below for top movie Bitchslaps if unsure as to what exactly I am talking about:

http://www.ranker.com/list/the-10-greatest-bitch-slaps-in-movie-history/ian-tindell

Anyhow, I am trimming my first section and focusing on important representative shtuff from each country covered. NO MAS on the over-doing it. THANK you, Mjon for the intervention, you are kind and wise. 

It occurred to me today that I should have kept a hard copy of all syllabi I was given for my LSU courses. I am fairly certain that it won't be too arduous a task to get that done but I sure wish I'd had the foresight to start doing that religiously from the beginning. My notes prior to this semester are all over the place. I finally, in my LAST semester, have come up with a note-taking system that serves me well as far as generals prep goes. If only I had started earlier. 

(Just got kicked SO hard from Izzy that my whole abdomen jumped. How CRAZY is that? Baby wants CAKE!)

Ok, must fill out paperwork so they can commence with the bloodletting. How appropriate that they should be torturing and bleeding me on Halloween. 

A Near Miss!!!

Ack! I ALMOST went to bed without blogging! No doubt, I would have made-up with a tardy post tomorrow and I KNOW the world would not have noticed had I missed an entry, but Dr J-Fletch noted the benefits of committing to the discipline of writing a little every day…for one full month. I am not generally flawless with such things. I usually find myself playing catch-up a bit here and there…but I do adore month-long challenges. And there’s just something that makes me happy about not having missed a post yet. With just TWO more required posts and no infractions thus far, it would have gnawed at me had I missed tonight’s entry.

Silly, but…

So, what am I up to today? Chipping away at my LSU To-DO list…

I’ve been working on the “final” for my 17th/18th century course. I seem to have reverted back to some uneasy habits. To be more specific, I am taking FAR too long and making things far too complicated. The assignment, though vague, was to respond in written format to the material covered in the classroom. The task should have taken two hours, the time we would have been allotted for an in-class exam. From what I understand, the response should be roughly 5 pages, double-spaced.

Because we jumped around so much in the class, and because some material was omitted and some material was covered in a hit-and-run manner, I have been unsure as how to approach the assignment.

I finally decided to just follow the syllabus even though the syllabus doesn’t map the track we took in class. I am already well beyond five pages and haven’t gotten a quarter of the way through the syllabus. What I believe I NEED to do, is to be more general. Responding, in detail, to everything on the syllabus would not be possible if I were crafting a written response to the course IN the classroom, with a two-hour limit.

SO…I believe I am going to modify the format and start giving short identification-style descriptions for key practitioners/movements/treatises. Why am I making this difficult for myself when I have so much on my plate? I have two plays to write, grading, class assignments and a boat-load of reading. MUST. EASE. UP.

On another note, I feel shy saying this but I got another nice compliment in my 1020 class this afternoon. After I released everyone, the usual gathering of 5 or 6 random folks gathered to ask questions. I recognized one of the people as having been really engaged and involved in the discussion we’d had. He introduced himself and told me how much he enjoyed the afternoon. Apparently, he has a friend in the class and had heard a lot about me, so he decided to crash the lecture. He was really glowing and specific in his compliments and asked if I’d be teaching the course next semester. It made me smile.

I really hope I can find a class to teach while I am dissertating.
Teaching fuels me.

Voiced

So, each semester, around midterm, I have my 1020 students write a monologue. To get the started, we review a few monologues and talk about structure and purpose and I have them jot a few brainstorming notes about happenings in their lives or the lives of people they know…as fodder for their stories.

I cannot voice strongly enough how very MUCH I love this assignment.

To come entirely clean, I must admit that a portion of my enjoyment of the assignment is entirely selfish. Reading these monologues reminds me of the humanity of the 1020 room. I LOVE teaching. I am not one of those profs who scoffs at the Intro or Appreciation courses. Though I love the intimacy of a small classroom, I don’t need it in order to feel fulfilled. The larger classes are inspiring to me. But it IS easier to lose individuals in the crowd when your class is comprised of 100 or so.

But to sit down with a stack of handwritten monologues…it is SUCH a humbling, intimate experience. I always feel refreshed in my connection to the humans in my room as I read those stories. I understand I risk sounding sappy here, but I am ceaselessly amazed at how well my students write.

I also love listening to the discussion outside the classroom as students in the hall tell each other what they chose to write about. Seems like monologue day is always a day when people speak to each other more than they customarily do.

I LOVE being cognizant of voices. How do I explain this?

I am a HUGE fan of libraries and book stores. When I walk down aisles and scan shelves of books, I am often very aware of the many voices housed within the binding of those books. I imagine these places are full of all the voices speaking at once and suddenly the room sings with every human need.

In a way, the monologues remind me of this. All these people who sit for an hour or so every Tuesday and Thursday in my classroom contain such brave, funny, heartbreaking and powerful stories. And through the course of this assignment, they have VOICES beyond the give and take of our normal classroom discussion.

How LUCKY those of us are who are able to teach within a discipline that gives voice to the human condition.

Jumping Borders

Border crossing seems to be among the hot topics of this scholars’ era I have inherited. From Cyber-Vato to roboticized humans to the subjects of Monday’s reading assignments, the present-day Caminata Nocturna and the Chop Suey Circuit of the mid-20^th century. We seem fascinated by notions such as creating races through the creation of spaces, we are on the lookout for instances of assimilation in tension with cultural pride, we like to talk about the subversive act of departing areas of belonging.

When we look to maps, city limits, district zones and state lines, we can speak with confidence about border crossing because even highly theoretical or philosophical musings somehow seem based in tangible fact when we have a measurable “space” to ground ourselves in. The more porous and less regulated the border, the more ethereal the dialogue becomes. Who can reign in dialogue when we address borders of understanding, borders of memory, and borders of self-identity? It seems that the less stable the actual GROUND, the more abstract we become in our relationship to it.

I am interested in the perpetuation of delineation in instances where the borders are not neatly marked or defined. How can the simple IDEA or SUGGESTION of a border be effective in containing humans be it physically or mentally done? Do we cross “borders” internally? If a fence is not discernible, if no wall or physical barricade is there, what substance are we dealing with? Fear? I can think of instances where fear succeeds in creating borders. Is there anything else? Pride? Can I decide to remain within my assigned spot because I have pride in the culture or place of my origin? The Caminata enactments are reportedly steeped in pride of this kind. If so, is it reasonable to say that the suspicions of those believing the performance to be a dry run for actual illegal border crossing is debunked?

And aren’t all borders imaginary, anyway? I recall, early in my LSU college career, being exposed to material which altered my perception of time. Time always seemed very REAL to me. I live in a society where time is one of the main measurements that regulate my actions. Time dictates when I can and cannot carry out certain physical tasks. It is what ensures that I am in a certain place when I have to be. It is frowned upon if I have a loose faithfulness to deadline, class time, work time. I always felt frustrated with those who claimed that time was not real.  Try living as though time does not exist and you will end up paying dearly. BUT…in a very real sense, time does not exist, it is simply a construct…an agreement. I feel the same about borders. Borders are born of a sense of entitlement, a sense of fear, a need for protection. In the pre-ordered world, did they exist? If we stopped talking about them, would they diminish in power? If border-crossing was no longer a sexy scholar’s topic, would they take over and become unmanageable or would they simply atrophy?

I have no aversion to the border banter, just interested in what might happen if we ceased talking about things we seem to have simply made up in the first place.

Wishing I Was Buildning a Haunted Gingerbread House Instead

Woke up to bacon cooking in a cast-iron skillet, wind whipping over the tin-roof, a fresh-mown tract of land, fallen leaves, a bright blue sky and chilly morning air. This place is stunning  today.  How I WISH I didn’t have an LSU to-DO list as long as my leg. Today is the EXACT type of day I would like to be doing a million things OTHER than reading, researching, or writing yet another play-for-a-grade…

I really am struggling this morning with what to include in this blog-post.

I don’t care about theatre today, or higher education or articles, reading assignments, theory, 17^th and 18^th century catch-up work, contrived one-acts or anything of the sort. I care about them in general, I care a great deal. Tomorrow I will care, but not today.

I would rather go buy some pumpkins and carve them, or find some recipes for fun Halloween chow and whip them up, or go buy preggo-lady clothes, or get a cheap manicure, or drag my canoe to the water and paddle around a bit or find a book store and sit outside with a NON-work related book and sip  iced chai.

I want to think about ANYTHING other than education.

Ugh. Arrrgh. Ok. Ok…

Um, WORK. Ok, I have loads to do.

Going to start with my reading for Monday.

Next I will try to get closer to finishing my 17^th/18^th century play.

Then I will complete one of the two hours I’m supposed to spend on my 17^th/18^th century “final” document.

Meanwhile, outside, the most gorgeous day I’ve seen all year is passing me blithely by…

Which way do I GO, Which way do I GO?!

So, my mind had been drifting repeatedly back to the idea of Fringe-studies for my dissertation. I’m actually pretty excited about the idea.

A part of me feels that the abandonment of my two previous ideas is, well…weakness, but the OTHER part of me knows that mode of thinking is simply a self-sabotaging waste of time. YES, I have a great deal of passion for helping to create a reputable Tennessee Williams archive in the playwright’s home town. But I can help to accomplish this without dedicating my dissertation to the task. In fact, I am guessing that I would be MUCH more effective at getting things done on that front if I was NOT saddled with the formalities of dissertating. An approach to this work, were it done through the university, would likely turn into a theory-heavy venture which would probably fail to serve the actual building OF an archive.

There…so I’m off of the hook on THAT front.

And as for my interest in examining prize-winning drama as a canon representative of national identity and social ideals, I’ve been beaten to the finish-line. I found a book which accomplishes just that. Yes, I could certainly find a fresh angle of analysis but I’d simply be looking to find a fresh angle of analysis and LOOKING for fresh angles without being inspired to do so through a personal passion or perception of a NEED is exactly the self-serving and contrived kind of scholarship that makes my stomach turn.
I feel that if I were to dedicate myself to this focus of study, I’d be tap-dancing.

On the other hand, I DO feel that there is a dearth of Fringe scholarship and I DO feel very strongly that the Fringe phenomenon deserves more attention. I feel that my research in this area would be worthwhile, timely and needed. I feel like my background with the Fringe would position me to do the needed research with a behind-the-scenes understanding that would serve the work immensely.

So now what?

Dr. J suggested I might consider taking a close look at 2-3 or 3-4 festivals. I would certainly want to look at the Orlando International Fringe as one of the oldest/most successful in the states. I would also like to look at the New Orleans Fringe as one of the newest .

I think that all of the theory and history-heavy work that we do at LSU has caused me to be a smidge irresponsible in forgetting that criticism is also part of what we do. I LOVE the idea of case-studies and analysis of the NOW. But I don’t know where to start. I feel like this is the area where I have the least amount of training. What NEXT?

Women, Write Your Bodies

While I did enjoy recently reading Helene Cixous, I have had to learn to navigate an awkward relationship with some feminist philosophy. This is an uneasy admission. I feel that I should wish to carry banners and bullhorns but the honest truth is, I’m of a generation that has enjoyed the fruits of the warriors for women that came before me. I am just removed enough from blatant oppression to rarely feel infuriated. I am not proud of this.

But today is different.

Today I am feeling petulant and angry and hormonal and distressed.

Today I finally got an email containing the list of doctors I must choose from in Lake Charles. These are the only doctors in the area who deliver babies and are covered by the insurance I have through LSU. Men. They are ALL men. On the list was a man in particular who came recommended by an acquaintance of a cousin of mine. He’s the ONLY person on the list who I have even HEARD of in my multi-week search for a comfortable match. He is also the man who I was warned would, under no circumstances, prescribe birth control. His convictions dictate that he requires women to give up all agency concerning when or how many children they are willing to have. I struck him from the list. The only man recommended had to be struck from the list.

I am so angry. I have absolutely NOTHING against men who wish to be OB/GYNs. I have the utmost respect for anyone who wishes to dedicate their medical practice to the health of women and the successful delivery of babies. But I do not want a male doctor. A man can only theoretically understand the birthing process. I did a massive amount of reading concerning the physiological, psychological and emotional changes that a pregnant woman goes through. I have often been aware of what would happen to me BEFORE things happened with me. And yet, for all the reading and theoretical preparation, I have been ceaselessly amazed at how the EXPERIENCE blows the book-knowledge clean out of the water.

This process is indescribable. There is something overwhelmingly astounding and humbling and beautiful and scary and exciting and inconceivable about it all. There is also something inexplicably isolating about it. I do not mean this is a morose manner. It isn’t a depressed isolation I speak of, its just that during this process, you must necessarily experience the MOST intense “stuff” you’ve EVER been faced with, largely by yourself. You sit in restaurants, classrooms and offices while people around you talk about whatever it is they speak of in day-to-day conversation and meanwhile you can feel your child learning to move. This puts you into dual-consciousness. You can be present in the pizza parlor or the conference room but you are also sitting with life, death, fear, God, hope, development, spirit and movement. MOVEMENT of the most intense and fluid kind…movement of thought, movement within, movement of the machinery in your mind whirring to handle the logistics, movement in your heart. And with ALL this movement, you physically remain still. You sit still until class is over, you sit still until the meal is done.

I feel like this is where the women SHOULD be communing. I feel like I should be with mothers, grandmothers, sisters. A tribe. My intuition strongly and clearly shows me that THIS is the time to be mindful, deliberate, aware.

I understand that access to medical help is important…especially since I am older and especially since there have been previous losses in my family throughout this process on both sides. But I feel like I should be able to go through this with a woman to guide me. I feel like I should be in a birthing center and not a fluorescent-lit stark and soul-less room.

Lake Charles is not a micro- town. How can there be no women doctors there who are covered my insurance? I feel like waving banners. I feel like picking up a bullhorn.

Dreamers Awake

Dreamt last night that Dr J-Fletch came to class and performed a musical number. His hair was short like it was in his high school pictures and I realized that he could be the twin-brother of my good friend Mike Lane, a talented actor from Orlando. In the dream, Dr J was singing his lecture. He'd choreographed the piece as a surprise performative experimental and  interactive piece. My fellow PhD pal Macy jumped up and joined in. I remember being surprised that Macy was the first to jump up as she usually prefers research to performance. She was trying to compliment Dr J's movement by making extensions of his gestures rather than by mimicking or mirroring him. She left the singing to him. 

I remember thinking that it was an engaging number and while I cannot remember the lyrics of the song, I know it was about Professing Performance. I think the chorus was a kind of cheer-leading directive for students to remember that genealogy of performance studies should be FUN. In the dream, I was thinking that the lecture-show was fun but that the reading had not been fun. Not fun at all. 

I wish I could  clearly identify what it is about Shannon Jackson's writing that fails to engage me. I recognize that her work is important. I recognize that she is thorough. I can see that she clearly states her intentions, illuminates her interventions and makes known what she is intentionally leaving aside for other scholars to suss-out. I feel like her work represents something I ought to want to aspire to. Truth is, there is something in my brain that shuts down after every five sentences. I absorb the first line and a half and then I seem to go into some sort of auto-pilot mode. My eyes move over the text, I acknowledge what I am looking at as words. I attach the words to a notion of scholarship and further take note that I am encountering a dialogue about the fraught relationship of performance studies to the university empire. But aside from these vague pockets of awareness, I am reading blind. Eventually I will get five sentences in and realize that I have failed to absorb anything meaningful...the way a person does when looking at a menu without realizing until a waiter asks to take the order that they have failed to really look at the menu items closely enough to consider what they do or do not want. 

I spend more time LOOKING at Jackson's words than I spend absorbing meaning. 

Anyhow, that's my confession for the day. Perhaps that's why I dreamt of Dr J's lecture performance. I am looking for ways to feel engaged with this text. Wonder if anyone will sing tomorrow.

Regulating Aversion

After reading selection of Brown’s Regulating Aversion  for my Grad studies class, it has come to my attention that I have taken tolerance for granted in ways I’ve been wholly and spectacularly ignorant of. I am guilty of accepting the term as descriptive of high moral aims. I have automatically associated the term with equilibrium and with generosity of individuals and groups towards others, be they othered through race, sexuality, spirituality and/or culture. I am one of the masses who has accepted tolerance as a transcendent and universally positive concept instead of considering it as being historically and politically discursive.

I have always haphazardly thought of tolerance as a lofty goal…something I ought to achieve, something masses of like-minded people ought to be able to do for people with ideologies different than said masses. I am sensitive to instances where I feel I have been intolerant of someone. These instances generally cause me sensations of guilt. I am also intolerant of others who I feel are being intolerant. A closer investigation makes me realize that the game of tolerance is precariously balanced on points of, well…self-righteousness, really. I never considered tolerance as a mode of modern governments which perpetuates power-struggles between those in power and those deemed deviant.

I feel the need to confess that a breaking-down of my tolerance-beliefs briefly, just briefly caused me to feel disheartened.

So now even tolerance is suspect?! TOLERANCE is now OPRESSIVE?! Great!

It occurred to me that PEACE would be next on the chopping-block. PEACE has certainly been manipulated as a tool for political and religious organizations to wield in operations of governance and regulation. HOWEVER, I found relief in Brown’s assurance that tolerance need not be demonized, and I DO very much see the value in considering the relationships between tolerance and depoliticization as well as in the simple act of noting ambiguity in meanings attached to tolerance. I am also humbly prepared for the debunking of airs of superiority. I can bolster myself through a belief that alongside the political and social constructs of tolerance bandying, there may still dwell a childlike and innocent intuitive breed of tolerance which may be inextricably bound to curiosity and wonder.

And had I forgotten that there was a Museum of Tolerance? I do have a vague recollection of hearing it spoken of and thinking, et the time, that I ought to find out more about it. MUST make a trek out to LA to check it out. Perhaps I will send some of my west-coast cronies out there to report back on the dazzling sound and light shows. How frightening to know that the museum purportedly supports bloodshed in Afghanistan and Iraq. At the same time, how fitting an example of how “tolerance” is hijacked for seemingly misguided acts.

Guess I’ll have to wait a while to visit the MOT myself. No bathrooms are a sure-fire way to keep Preggo chicks out of the place.

Hey WAIT a dang minute!!! NO bathrooms inside?!
OBVIOUSLY the MOT is intolerant of women in their child-bearing years.
Preggos UNITE! I say we SUE the MOT for intolerance!

Bluestockings RUNNING behind

Today my body is in knots. It feels like my neck is made of metal rods. Tension. There are so many things that are depleting the lives of the people I care most about and I am largely powerless to fix things.

Today I did not get to school in time for my first two classes. I thought I’d make my second but didn’t succeed. Rushing towards something you know you are going to miss is unbelievably frustrating. Each red light, road-block, slow driver clogging the fast lane…each of these reach a larger-than-life magnitude.

This isn’t the state I wanted to be in once it was time for the class to critique my play. I intended to get myself into a jovial and peaceful state-of-mind. Ah well. All went exactly as I expected it to go during the critique. I’m not frustrated by that class anymore, I now accept it for what it is and what it will be. I’m not looking to write what will matter to me down the road, I am looking to write what needs to be written now and I definitely have a sense of humor about the whole thing to replace the angst I felt before.

I now have a secret project. My next piece will be crafted to fit the “formula” of proper playwrighting…as can be gleaned from THIS class.  I will write in one-act form and finally cease the goal of a full-length. I will adhere to STRICT unity of location guidelines. I included a porch AND interior in this last piece and it didn’t go over well. The next location will consist of a single room, I may go so far as to make it a prison cell or cubicle. I will also adhere to STRICT unity of time guidelines. All will happen within a thirty-minute period. I will ensure that the piece is devoid of ANY blackouts. There will be NO break in the linear, forward motion of the action. There will be three characters, tops.

I’ve decided not to feel cheap about this plan.
I’m looking at this as a legitimate challenge.

In the mean-time, I am going to knock out three more hours of homework and then I am shutting down the work station and am going to soak myself in a tub and wash this stress down the drain.
I am going to get centered and be peaceful and I will wake up tomorrow refreshed.

To Do

Today I woke up anxious. Ended up in the hospital with my grandma again and my sweet papa is having a harder time with the chemo than I realized. Ma is taking care of everyone and is in Hell with her work. And I about all of the transitions that I am going through. I feel like there is too much to do and that time is rapidly slipping away from me. AM I worrying too much? Am I worrying too little?

Perhaps I should dedicate today’s blog to facing my fears.

Maybe if I write down everything I have looming, the worry will dissipate?
Maybe I can expel it from the pit of my stomach…like an unruly hair-ball.
Here goes…

To DO before graduation:

Ask committee members for their hand and blessing

Design a study plan for my general exams

Make a check-list for my dissertation project

Create a calendar with all of the above included

Sit down with my husband and discuss financial responsibilities if giving up funding

Research conferences and plan which I will submit for while I am dissertating

Attend McNeese production

Find out how I might apply to guest-direct or teach a course

Write my dissertation

Defend my dissertation

To get through the semester, I first must:

Write another one-act

Prep for final projects in my Intro To Grad Studies and US course

Prep for week two of US class-leading

Prep for my final ten-minute presentations and working group proposal

Submit my 17^th and 18^th C work

Keep blogging

 

And not to be forgotten:

Find a new doctor in Lake Charles

Get a baby-appropriate automobile

Move out of my apartment

Build a nursery

Grow a baby

Decide whether I think I can deliver without pain medication

Deliver a baby

Learn how to be a momma

Get a job

Ok.

Ok…

I’m not sure if that was cathartic or terrifying.

At least my Germanic wont for list-making was satisfied.

Unknown origins

Seems that most of the theatre-folk I know have stories, myths, wives tales and ghost-stories that they trade and re-tell again and again.

Lately I’ve been pondering the origin of a story I have been telling for at least a decade now. The story involves a mounting of Shakespeare’s Midsummer which was performed outdoors somewhere in the states next to a lake.

Here’s what I remember…the show was scheduled so that through the course of the evening performances, the sun would gently set. Oak trees surrounded the stage and as the stars began to twinkle above, fire-flys would begin to flit around.

The scenic designer took great care to incorporate the breathtaking surroundings into the set-design. It was arranged so that when it came time for the emancipation of Puck, Oberon led the sprite the water’s edge just as a veil of mist began to drop into the valley. Once free, Puck faced the lake in exuberant joy and with his parting lines, sprinted towards the water. But when the audience assumed that Puck would turn and veer along the shore to avoid the lake, he picked up speed and never changed his course.

The set-builders had created a ridged ramp just a few inches beneath the water’s edge. Puck appeared to run across the water and disappeared into the mist!

To this day, I have been unable to find out where this show was mounted.

I’ve told the story a million times. I am enchanted by the idea of it all…but I have absolutely zero recollection of where my tale began.

cut, straighten, bring light

 

 
“Withdraw into yourself and look. And if you do not find yourself beautiful yet, act as does the creator of a statue that is to be made beautiful: he cuts away here, he smoothes there, he makes this line lighter, this other purer, until a lovely face has grown upon his work. So do you also: cut away all that is excessive, straighten all that is crooked, bring light to all that is overcast, labour to make all one glow of beauty and never cease chiselling your statue…”

                                                                                               -Plotinus (The Enneads)

 

This bit of writing has followed me throughout my life…I have painted it, printed it, passed it to cast members, read it to classes and reflected on it.

I am a fervent believer in post-morts. I believe it is vital to pause a while after a show, festival, project, semester or year and look, REALLY look at what you have contributed to the success, failure, darkness and light of it all. I believe that shame over missed opportunities or botched attempts loses all of its deadening power once truth is faced squarely.

I do not handle failure well. If I so much as suspect that I have fouled a thing up or created something sub-par, I burn with shame. But I have learned to be gentler with myself through a sort of post-mort ritual. If I acknowledge my stumbling, I am more vigilant against repeat offenses. And if I am armed against a second fall, I feel less apt to clutch my failures to me.

I want, in my professional work, my art, my personal life…to cut away all that is excessive, to smooth all that is abrasive, to remove all that does not serve me, to release all that breeds confusion or pain. I want to acknowledge those things I help to strengthen. I want to nurture growth. I want to be forgiving, graceful, kind, peaceful and tolerant.

I realize that I am much more skilled at identifying my faults than I am at celebrating my strengths. I don’t want to pass that on to my child. I realize that I am prone to melancholy on occasion. I don’t want her to inherit that. I know that I have an immense capacity for love and that I have strong appreciation for life and individuals. I want that for her.

As for my work, I can say without reserve that I absolutely love teaching. I am humbled and inspired by the chance to watch students grow and explore and find strength, freedom, and excellence. For these reasons, I am equally as passionate about directing. And performing.

I am excited about the road that is unfolding.

I am ready.

Clean Breaks?

A day light on school-work = a home that no longer looks 100% like it was bombed.

My gratitude is overflowing.

I work better when my home is not in a state of chaos.

I believe that my home is a direct reflection of my inner state. When it is cluttered, stacked, dusty and unruly, I know that my sense of balance is off. Generally, mid-term week is horrid. Finals and grade submission week are worse. Perhaps I will set a goal for myself, this year, during finals, I will have a clean and orderly home. My laundry will be done, my dishes will be clean and in the cupboards, my bed will be made and I will not go days without checking my mail.

I spoke with administrators in the graduate department today. I need to talk to the health center tomorrow and sit down with my husband this weekend, but I suspect this may be the last semester that I am a class-taking college student. I want to try to savor the end of this era, if it is the end.

Touchstones (A running List)

　

　

I read once that a creative person must always vigilantly guarding against desensitization. To this aim, she must maintain access to things that awaken in her a sense of wonder, appreciation, passion, inspiration, gratitude, motivation…

FEED YOUR HEAD, as Jefferson Airplane would say. Or your heart, soul…

I used to keep a list of touchstones written on a beautiful piece of parchment paper to keep my passions in view. I used to make sure that every so often, I would treat myself to things from my list. It has been a long time since I thought about these things, but as a scholar and practitioner of creative work, I think it is vital to stay connected to things that enliven you.

And so I dedicate this blog to a list of things my senses respond to, things I enjoy, things that feed me in some way. The list is personal, some things on it are trivial, some frivolous, some meaningful…all are a part of me.

Should anyone read this, I would urge you to do the same. Make a list of touchstones. Post them here if you like, I love to see what makes other people happy. OR, write your list for your eyes only.

Then…TREAT yourself.

My Touchstones:

Whitman, strong winds, gingerbread houses, Vivaldi, Singing and playing guitar for my baby, wood floors, old houses, antique jewelry, 1940s fashion, old fashioned pin-ups, storms, trees, tree-houses, forts, bon-fires, hay-rides, hot chocolate, champagne, Vosges chocolate, buttered popcorn jelly-belly beans, black and white photographs, old churches, abandoned buildings, ghost stories, swimming without clothes, food from the grill, dance, live music, country men, vintage cars, pumpkin pie, book stores, libraries, fire-places, aquariums, Christmas, seeing family resemblances in faces, hearing people laugh, taking pictures, camping, waterfalls, mountain cabins, old town squares, thrift stores, my parents, Traveling, Road-trips, being alone in Italy, being alone in Ireland, School supplies, museums, museum gift-shops, stained glass, tanzanite, expensive perfume, doing volunteer work, fairy-tales and children’s books, playhouses, swing-sets, Halloween, pot-lucks, herbal tea, coffee-shops, being on the water, sail-boats, fishing, quilts, theatres, performing, directing, jasmine-tea sorbet, Beignets, New Orleans, Porch swings, rocking-chairs, symphonies, my cat, California King sized beds, hammocks, yoga, John O’ Donohue, outdoor festivals, acting coaching , incense, candles, Christmas lights, night-lights, pajamas, rehearsing, taking classes, treasure-hunting, geo-caching, shooting, vegetable gardens, satsumas, chai, coffee ice cream, Spanish Town Mardi Gras, unashamed karaoke singers, unashamed dancers, state parks, music collections, hand-written letters in the mail, poorly wrapped gifts, true friends, making and keeping traditions, family histories, long walks, boating, kissing, Pablo Neruda, being fit, violins and fiddles, driving, Sunday brunches, good hair-cuts, the Red Shoes, my God-papa, my family, feeling my little girl practicing moves, laughing with my husband, writing stories with him, feeling taken-care of, seeing students surprise themselves, watching growth, gardenias, wisteria, salt-water swimming-pools, vaulted ceilings, claw-foot tubs, film festivals, choirs, cheeses, being out in nature, fasting, journals, pocket-knives, biking, dart games at the marina, metal-detecting, kenny-ma jewelry, kittens, ducks, beta-fish, sleeping next to my love, rain on a tin roof, cottages, bed-and-breakfasts, maid-service once a semester, Christmas trees, giving gifts, costumes, the moon, wrought-iron, fire-pits, kerosene lamps, playing NERT, pubs, Hubigs Pies, spiced jelly-beans, ZUM Frankincense and Myrrh, Amber, fishing, flounder-gigging, climbing trees, Thai food, carrot-cake, cooking, lamps, sconces, frozen-yogurt, theatre conferences, master classes, farmers markets, fresh fruit, mint lotion, mint soap, mint shampoo, Aveda products, massage, pastels and charcoal, the New Orleans Saints, harmonica playing, body oils, jewelry, Tiffany designs, oriental soup-spoons, vacations, care-packages, bubble baths, chandeliers, historic buildings, humor, living mindfully, spiritual health, clean linen, decks, seeing loved ones and friends happy and healthy, solving problems, sleeping without an alarm, stretching, freedom, financial security, the idea of being a philanthropist, NPR, caving, socks, big hats, filmmaking.

Habits

I am wishing I had bought Eagleton’s Literary Theory instead of having relied on the Library’s copy. That said, I can always add it to the BOOKS WISH LIST I have been compiling.

I have made a habit, since entering grad-school, of keeping two lists at the end of the class notes documents I keep for each of my courses. One list is simply comprised of quotes from class. The quotes are often humorous, sometimes beautiful, sometimes brilliant and always entertaining. I also keep a list which I title READ/KNOW THIS. In this list I keep a tally of terms, movements, ideas and people I deem vital to my mental rolodex. This is also where I keep the staggeringly long list of books I want to read.

The READ/KNOW list is daunting. Glancing at it makes me nervous sometimes. There is an uncomfortable imbalance between what I KNOW and what I WANT to know or THINK I should know. That’s the part of the list that makes me feel fidgety. The book part of the list just makes me WANT.

I have a book addiction. I can’t get enough of them. I have a few shelves, boxes, cabinets and stacks of them here in Baton Rouge, more stacks at my home with my husband, and I have boxes and boxes of them stored in the home of my parents.

I have relied on the library a good deal since coming to LSU. Not because I want to but because finances made it necessary. This has kept my library from eating me out of house and home. But OHHHHHH once I have money and time again…boy howdy. The book buying is going to be staggering.

I have long envisioned a home of my own…one that I design from a book of images I’ve been compiling. The room in my dream-house which I day-dream about the most is the library. I want a library with rolling ladders, a fire-place and chunky plush antique chairs.

Oh, and I would like to read by osmosis.

I want the power to touch a book and simply absorb it.

That’d be an excellent super-power.

Speaking of book absorption, I best get back to my Eagleton.

My bed is calling and I ache with longing for sleep but I must, must, must keep GOING!!!

Do NOT go into your bedroom. Do NOT close your eyes. Do NOT rest your head on this armchair.

!@#$&

What an incredibly aggravating, art-stifling class we had this afternoon. What an irresponsibly managed conversation. A student’s play was read aloud and discussed. It was the third play we have discussed and the first with a central character driven by a clear and strong objective, the first with clear stakes, the first with build and flow.

And what do we do? We tell him a multiple-act play should not have blackouts or scene changes. Huh? We suggest that he shouldn’t have multiple locations. What? We posit that there are extraneous scenes. No. None of these things are true.

I am frustrated because there are no guidelines for student reactions to these works. Many of the students in the room have little to no experience with theatre and yet they are given leave not to just ask questions but to tell their peers what they should be doing to fix their scripts.

It is absolutely not true that a blackout is an inherently bad thing. We’re simply being expected to cater to an individual's preferences. This is exactly why courses devoted to creativity require vigilance. This kid’s work is better than his peers and now he’s going to go back to the drawing-board to strip things down, rearrange scenes, cut locations, shift focus and remove scenes.

We are just sitting around throwing out “what-ifs” for narratives. We could do that all day long. Why are we writing each others stories?

"Maybe a dog could come in from outer-space."
"What if we swapped main-characters?"
"What if..."

Why aren’t we just asking questions or identifying areas that might need clarification?

(Ok...I have edited this rant a bit. Well, I edited it considerably. I believe that what remains is reasonable.)

Ughhhhhhhh.

Strategy

Packing up for Baton Rouge again. The commute with half a week in BR and half a week two hours away one direction or another is getting tedious. And now that the air is out, I have to keep the windows down which means for two hours I get hair whipping in my eyes.  One more half semester before I get a break.

Cannot WAIT.

This morning I am preoccupied with logistics. I want to square things away. Right now I am scheduled to TA for a large Intro class next semester and am having my HM duties clustered at the end of the semester so that I can have a few months off with my newborn. It will not be possible to pay rent for an apartment I am not going to be in for a few months, so I am going to need to rent a room and plan to commute. I don’t know how that will work with a baby. Luckily I am married to a man who is eager to pack the kid with him all the time. While most women I know have a difficult time getting their partner to take a reasonable amount of the load with baby-rearing, mine has confessed that he’s already imagined the arguments we will get into because he will constantly want to cart the baby around himself. For all the things that are up in the air, nebulous and worrisome, one thing I am thrilled to NOT be worrying about is how that man is going to be as a father.  I can say without an ounce of hesitation that there is NOBODY I would rather do this with than my husband.

But as for logistics, mightn’t it be easier to gracefully decline my assistantship as a colleague of mine recently did? I asked him how everything equaled out financially and he said he figured it would cost him $1,000 per semester. I don’t see how that could be correct but if it was, the math would be easy. It would cost over six times that much to maintain a second household for that duration. And besides, I have lost my chance to direct or perform at LSU as I'd hoped to do. If I stayed on, I'd only be staying for the drudgery work. I need to figure out what I am doing as soon as I am able so that the department can prepare as well. It makes me happy to think that if I declined, another individual may be able to realize the dream of pursuing a PhD.

My to-do list is getting hairy and monstrous.

Speaking of, I was just informed that a storm is coming which means I need to beat the weather to Baton Rouge or I will be condemned to a 2 hour drive with no air circulation and my windshield wipers aren’t stellar and my windows aren’t very clean so I best be off.

Until  tomorrow…