Pictures and Ponderings

I'm in a mood. A good one, mind you, but still—a mood. I feel impish, you know? Maybe I'm rebelling or regressing or just relapsing from my recent epiphany that I'm growing up (I had yet another dose of reality when I bought a car and I'll explain why it felt way more grown up this time than it did eleven years ago). So yeah... feelin'... a little bit crazy (for me). Take, for consideration, this email which I recently sent to Keaton:

I cannot WAIT until this weekend! I'm getting all pumped for IVG. PUMPED!!! I have a nearly overwhelming urge to rip off my shirt, beat my chest, and let out some type of war cry. I am, however, at the office and that display might be seen as inappropriate and grounds for termination. So thankfully it's not wholly overwhelming---just bubbling there under the surface and it's making me all twitchy and wired (or that could be the M&Ms, Rice Krispy Treat, and Coke that I had for breakfast). I also have the sudden desire to watch "Dead Poet's Society", "Braveheart", and "The 13th Warrior"...not all at once... but then again... I think I needed one more snow day. Maybe two. Yeah...

"Recently," as in this morning. And it got weirder, but you get the drift. My brain is all... jumpy and very much michevious. I'm on a quick lunch break from an otherwise busy and eventful day here at the office—and I couldn't help but use this opportunity to play catch up on the blog and enjoy the randomness that is my brain.

Random fact #1: My favorite color and the color of my underwear are coincidentally the same today. See? Michevious.

So I own a car now. Which is nice. And surprisingly lonely. As much as it was a stress inducer and trouble for me and my good friends, I rather liked being shuttled around. Maybe it was the rich person imprisoned within my middle-class body, but I like to think it was the company I kept on these rides—getting to cruise into town with Zubov in the mornings, spending the rush hour home with Keaton, or Kirby, or on very special nights, Lucidity—that's something I'll miss.

'Cos now it's just me. And traffic. And morons who cannot, for reasons known only to them, learn to use a turn signal (really, not difficult to master and one of today's forgotten courtesies). So yeah, I'm just getting used to the driving without company. Though I will say that there are times when having thirty minutes to yourself is stupendously terrific.

Speaking of the automobile, I've tossed in a picture of it. Well, of one that looks amazingly similar (the beauty that is factory assembly). Mine's all covered in slush and street salt. It will have a bath, probably tomorrow.

It's blue. I know—never in my life thought I'd purchase a blue car. Though it is my second favorite color so I'm not sure why it's such a surprise. So there it is. All grown up isn't it? It's mid-size. Has nice interior. Some faux wood in there like a car garnish. V6 automatic (one day I will learn to drive manual—this I vow to you). Maybe it feels grown up, not because it physically fits into that camp of "grown-up" cars, but because I bought it on my own. First major purchase for me, really. The last "grown-up" thing I bought before this was a refrigerator. This one trumps that.

Random Fact #2: Odor-control litter does not, in fact, control odor. Rather, the odor makes the litter its bitch and it's we who suffer this Ouroborosic battle.

So directing is something I equate to experimenting with drugs. It's all innocent at first. You block a few scenes, tell a few actors where to go and that's good. But before you know it, the basic stuff just isn't cutting it. You start seeking out things that need honed... you're constantly re-reading the script, trying to find a new way to interpret the scene... a way that no other director has thought of. And that's the pure stuff. The heroine. The coke. Right into the vein—the high you get when you hit upon something and the actors run with it and... ohhhh.... yeahhhh.... it's this wave that pours over you. All the anxiety that builds in preparation becomes a rush of adrenaline when everything clicks. But you still want more. And so I guess that makes opening night a bit like rehab. It's boom, boom, boom, hit after hit up through final dress and then WHAM—you go cold turkey. Show's handed off to your stage manager. No more directing. It's still in your blood. You'll still want it. You'll ache for it. But it's not yours anymore.


March 2 will be both exhilarating and rough as that's my cold turkey day. They'll be awesome and the show will be in good hands... but I'll miss it. I'm having a fantastic time working on this show and damn, I'm gonna ache when it ends. Ache.

Random Fact #3: The air-bag warning light was omni-present in my old car. Then one day it wasn't—I think that whatever made the little red guy getting smashed by his airbag glow, simply died. Warning lights aren't meant to be on for a decade. And if they are, they politely shut themselves off since it's obvious that no one was paying attention.

And now I have this wonderful urge to go home and watch "Dead Poet's Society". I'm a fan. I learned long ago that hyping a movie only leads to disappointment on the hypee's end, so I'll just say that it's something I'd watch and that there are those who share this sentiment.

At the same time, I'm jonesin' for some good ol' fashioned "Starship Troopers". So yeah... bit of a dichotomy there. Nothing like bucking the system, be it with poetry and secret meetings or ray-guns and wailing on some giant bugs.

Aaaannnnddddd.... I'm crashing. The sugar buzz has finally been offset by a post-lunch drowsiness. Damn turkey, tomato, and pesto sandwich—you have stifled my creativity, taken away my muse, and left me fatigued for the remaining hours of my work day. Curses!

I shall eat the Pop-Tart in my desk.

That will bring back the muse. Oh yes, it will. It most definitely will. Until the muse returns, gentle readers... be safe. And don't forget to paint the roofs!