hello, good friend

My family’s visiting! (Well, my family minus one brother.) Godspell sold out Friday through Sunday, so I hope you’re in possession of tickets. It’ll prove a riotous time.

In other news, this semester’s hitting a significant lull. My roomies and I have resorted to TV-watching, homeworking, and gyming. (Maybe that happens during the final semester. Dramatic deceleration. No complaints here.) For fun, I spent yesterday afternoon chucking ice sheets from my car roof. Today I Swiffered our kitchen. We anxiously anticipate sunshine and all things green. That’s why we’re already planning our spring break excursion to South Carolina.

Of the gym-frequenting: my girlfriends have suddenly kicked their work-out motivations into high gear, and I’m struggling to follow suit. I met them at the gym circa 5pm Wednesday night, and I will probably never venture into that territory again. Now I know where the entire student body hides out on weeknights. From now on, I claim 8am. Maybe. If I can coax myself out of bed.

My fiancé and I would like to use this forum to formally advocate elopement. Bring your parents, bring your sibs, bring your closest, wealthy-enough-to-fly-to-the-Caribbean friends. But, please, consider the advantages of small, private, tan-included affairs.

Sure, you say you won’t budge on hosting anything larger than the mythical “intimate family gathering.” But intimate family gatherings propagate exponentially when they include Great Aunt Mildred (Who is that anyway? She’s apparently related to everyone in the world but me.), who casually mentions the occasion to her Bunko cronies, and word travels to distant acquaintances, who all want inclusion on the please-buy-me-a-gift list, then suddenly you’re inviting your former preschool teacher, your penpal from North Dakota, and your bunkmate from the overnight camp you attended the summer after first grade.

A few days ago we entertained this idea: why not lever our unintentially lengthy guest list (no, seriously, we want y’all there) and request that our friends/strangers/random attendees pool their money and pay for our first year of rent? See, even if we do receive these lovely household items, we’ll have nowhere to store them. That’s because we don’t own an apartment. And that’s because we can’t find a single one-bedroom domicile in Baltimore-D.C. suburbia for less than…well, what we consider an atrocious amount of money.

Call it a rude awakening, but we’ve spent the past weekish in irritable states. We blame the housing market.

And while I’m recounting this predicament to my trusty cubicle-mate, Dan, he presents the most brilliant idea yet:

“Well, they make nice tents. That’ll last you at least a year.”

Maybe we’ll haul a pop-up residence to an island flight site. The weather’s certainly nicer.

Last night the actors donned their headset microphones for the first time. The sound system makes such a difference, I think. Especially in a musical. Up til this point, we’ve relied on the actors’ stage voices for projection, but the mikes contribute such a feeling of performance.

Yesterday the cast performed three full run-throughs: one at 10am, another at 1pm, the last at 6pm. By the 6pm rehearsal, they seemed exhausted. Rena, the student director, had difficulty encouraging energy during warm-ups. If you think about it, that kind of non-stop, fully-engaged practicing takes a physical toll on people. Props to them for making it happen.

Today, the actors only run two rehearsals: one at 10am and a second at 1pm.

On Saturday the tech crew runs a wet tech rehearsal at 10am. They’ll run through the entire musical with the actors, checking for functioning microphones, official prop placements, lighting transitions, etcetera. Later the actors will run a sitzprobe, a rough musical rehearsal sans costumes, scenery, and acting. Basically, the actors sing through the musical numbers while the orchestra accompanies them, and Tim Dixon, the conductor, will focus on integrating the two groups.

Here’s my J-term confession: free theatre is a beautiful thing. I would choreograph every musical if it meant attending daily rehearsals. Granted, I’m not doing the grunt work of acting. (Half-guiltily I admit that the difficulty of my job ended about a week ago, after I finished choreographing the dances). Now I get to bask in creative energies and performances gratis.

Opening night: February 7, 8pm. Come see the show!

I don’t know why I always tell people that I love the unexpected. You know, the interviewer prompts, “Tell me something about yourself,” and you say (on cue) “I’m totally a people person, and I just love spontaneity!”

(False. Sometimes I thoroughly enjoy isolating myself in my apartment with a few movies and junk food, and I flip out when I don’t have every life step planned to the most minute detail.)

“I can definitely roll with the punches. I’m organized, yet flexible!”

(False. It unnerves me to not know what I’m doing next year, month, week, day. Actually, at the moment, I loathe spontaneity.)

“I’m up for whatever life throws my way! I just love new opportunities!”

(False. Actually, I have a lengthy list of things which, if life were to casually toss them my direction, would trigger in me a severe mental breakdown.)

So, yes, this optimism comes effortlessly on sunny days when my hair looks great, my GPA solid, my employment prospects promising, my relationships intact, my future secure, and my finances stable.

But on those mediocre, borderline–frazzled days when the slightest wrinkle in my starched-and-pressed plans exposes its imperfections, I just smile…and fake it. Recitation breeds authenticity, right?

“I’m totally up for anything!”

Hello, kids, and welcome back to sunny Grantham. The temperature is 66 degrees, believe it or not, and I just drove five hours from home with the windows down. Guess I won’t need those 983741 sweaters I packed after all.

Welp, back to work. I don’t know about your breaks, but mine was a whirlwind of (positive) busy-ness, and it’s possible that I’m slightly more exhausted now than before I left. Funny, though, I don’t mind it so much. It’s liberating to be a mere semester away from graduation. (And the spring-ish weather certainly helps.)

On the agenda for this J-term:
1) choreograph Godspell ! (Come see the show!)
2) watch season 3 of “The Office” (I’d like to acknowledge my brother Tommy for giving a most excellent Christmas present)
3) take a road trip to the Jersey shore (ya know, I’ve only set foot in New Jersey once)
4) watch movies
5) bake food

Hm, maybe we should grill out tonight…? Actually, that’s a splendid idea.

6) grocery store trip after work

My dad reminded me at the beginning of the semester, “It’s a blessing to work hard.”

I think he jinxed me.

I’m gonna be candid: a few months ago, when I still felt energized and not like I had been hit by a Mac truck, I had lots to say. Now, at the end of this ridiculously arduous semester, I just enjoy sitting. And occasionally breathing. (That was sufficiently melodramatic, eh?)

So here I am, reading the temporary filler text on some of the office publication proofs. Susan delivered a sample aloud – a delightful, impromptu “filler text slam,” if you will – and it made me wonder. If I were to arrange these words in blank verse, could I attribute the genius to myself and publish it as poetry? Brilliant.

Progressive tickets easily bought the subway even though
two sheep laughed uncomfortably.
Umpteen chrysanthemums sold
two tickets while Kling-ons tickled the warthogs.
Pawnbrokers auction off Mercury.
And Paul marries the mostly angst-ridden kisses
silly lampstands.
Sheep towed Paul.
Purple aardvarks, the dog gossips, all fight
the progressive cats. The botulism tastes
like a Macintosh.

Besides the utter absence of meaning, that totally belongs in a literary anthology.

Saturday mornings are my favorite times. There’s so much potential in a Saturday, ya know? You have two solid days of weekend with which to do absolutely anything. This Saturday was one of my favorites of all favorites, a real testimony to the “make your own fun” principle. True, sometimes Carlisle-Mechanicsburg-Harrisburg-Grantham gets a tad slow, but you learn quickly to create your own experiences. Anyway, here’s what went down:

After waking up early to mail my first application (triumphant fist pump) my boyfriend and I celebrated with a lovely cup o’ coffee at Cornerstone Coffeehouse on Market Street. I’d heard people rave about it, but this was our first trip. I highly recommend it. In fact, we’re already planning to visit next Saturday morning. I’m psyching myself up for the chocolate peanut butter cupcakes.

My roomie’s parents delivered the tree, and we (meaning my roomies, primarily) decorated the apartment for Christmas. It looks quite home-y. My contribution took the form of a chocolate-caramel-fudge cake. We also initiated the German Advent calendar – the label reads “Kinder Uberraschung: Alle 8 fleiβigen Weihnachtswichtel Garantiert!” (so you know it’s authentic) – a tradition my friends started sophomore year. Every day we get sweet toys. Yesterday, however, we got a flip book. That was the worst one ever.

Later in the eve – after watching the LSU game (Go Tigers! You got lucky.) – we ate at Nino’s Bistro, also on Market Street. Friends of ours recommended the restaurant to us, and we’ve visited several times since. Oh! Which reminds me, another excellent recommendation: Pakha’s Thai restaurant = delicious.

This Saturday’s agenda: bake Christmas cookies.

Ladies and gents, we have officially propelled ourselves past autumn into full-blown winter. It snowed yesterday. I asked my mom to send winter coats. Humbug. Meanwhile, my darling brother sweats bullets in the near 70 degree South Carolina version of fall. Which reminds me, I’m going home soon.

I enjoy college, don’t get me wrong. But every year, without fail, Thanksgiving break arrives much too late. Tensions are mounting in our apartment . . . and most likely every other apartment and dorm room on campus. And probably off. It’s contagious. Here’s a brief inventory of the recent (by “recent” I mean within the past five days) catalysts for B302’s emotional explosions:

roommate A breaks up with boyfriend
roommate B gets engaged
roommate C accepts a job offer
roommate D’s boyfriend accepts a job offer, roommate D commences job search, roommate D hires lawyer to combat her newly-acquired “criminal charges” (traffic violations, nothing felonious)
roommate E completes grad school applications before December 1

In addition to regular schoolwork, of course.

I write this in the kindest tone possible: it’s a wonder we haven’t drop-kicked one another. To say we’ve been “edgy” would be a gross understatement. That’s why we’re all very thankful to our Rape Aggression Defense class which yesterday required us to suit up in sparring gear and legitimately pound … erm, defend … one another.

All this to say, tomorrow I will fly home, shut off my cell phone, and spend at least a few days riding my bike along the coast (and filling out grad school applicationsgrumblegrumble). Excuse my absence.

To share your emotional explosion stories, please e-mail me at ar1233@messiah.edu. I won’t publish your accounts, but I guarantee that the ladies of B302 will appreciate the humor.

I cannot work while listening to music. My boyfriend works to music all the time. In fact, I doubt he can work sans music. Music motivates him. My roommates, too, diligently complete homework while playing background music. My brothers do it, my sister does it, even my first-year roomies did it. (Granted, they all listen to worthy tunes, so I appreciate them.) But, seriously, people. For four years I have vainly attempted to coax myself into becoming a music-jamming-homework-tackler like the rest of you. I have tried and failed.

Last week, for example, my roomie and I settled down at our kitchen table for a nightly homework session. We are the night owls of our apartment (she even more so than me), and we routinely see hours like, say, 3:00am. We employ faithful iTunes to encourage ourselves through this seemingly endless stretch of time. However, on this particular night – who am I kidding, this happens every night – I spent the hours between 1am and 3am memorizing song lyrics and compiling new albums for my collection. When we finally called it a night, she had completed all of her assignments. Me? Zero.

Currently, I’m sitting at my desk in Old Main, attempting to harmonize my article-composing with Iron & Wine tunes. I’m remembering why this doesn’t work for me, music and writing: I’m infatuated with words. I like words so much that when someone like Sam Beam sets poetry to guitar melodies, I grow more distracted than a chubby kid at a bakery. (That analogy is more overdone than my mom’s Thanksgiving turkeys. Bah. Thanksgiving comes sooner than…ok,we’re done). After a mere five minutes of lines like “there are things that drift away / like our endless numbered days / autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made,” I lose myself. (How could you not, that’s what I’d like to know.) Suddenly, half an hour has passed, and I’ve only penned a headline. A lousy one, at that. Why am I so shocked? How can I generate barely coherent words when flawless ones are flowing into the other side of my brain? It’s like constructing a Lego tower – erm, attempting to – with the Egyptian pyramids looming over me.

Back to work. Over and out.

Let me paint a picture for you. Imagine with me that you and a friend are teaching a jazz dance class. (Hypothetically, of course. Hang with me.) All but two students in that class speak Spanish as their native language. None of them have ever taken a dance class. They arrive in jeans and sneakers, stumbling in from neighborhoods a few blocks down. They eye you with silence and awkward glances. As you start the music, they stand with hips popped, arms crossed, refusing to budge. You and your friend increase the enthusiasm factor, yelling work-out video battle cries like “C’mon move it! You can do it!” and “Lookin’ good!” to no avail. Although the two of you are bouncing around like five-year-olds on Red Bull, they don’t respond to your motivational energy. Or your bubblegum pop tunes. Or your irresistibly appealing classical choreography.

You obviously have no choice but to force them to learn more dance moves. Endless repetition, that’s the way to win ‘em over. More of tombé, bourre, chasse, grand jete combinations please. Boy, things are going splendidly.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice a boy in the back row. He looks about nine years old, definitely the youngest member of the class. He’s not watching you, or your friend, or even the other students. He’s not concentrating on counting the music or executing the proper choreography. He has his eyes closed and a goofy grin plastered on his face, and he’s just…well, flailing. Wildly. Like a windsock, actually. He’s throwing his arms across his body, jumping and skipping at tempos audible only to his ears, randomly tossing his head and shoulders at whiplash-inducing speeds…and he’s smiling. Laughing. He’s bumping and body-slamming into the other kids, and they’re shooting glares in his direction, but he doesn’t notice them, of course. He’s absorbed in his own world, cracking himself up. Dance-flailing.

Every ounce of training in you screams “Kid, just do the choreography! Stop rebelling against proper form! You’re ruining art!” The other kids are pouting now, but you just let the spectacle go. You and your friend exchange amused expressions. He’s kinda…entertaining?…to watch.

At the end of class, he offers you a running high five, accompanied with the signature cheese grin. “That was awesome!” he says.

Huh. Ok. Glad you had…fun?

I was thinking about the kid the other day, this dance-flailing extraordinaire. Currently, my world feels like a jumbled mess of protocol and procedures. Under these stressful circumstances, I can’t help but appreciate the dance-flailers of the world. Sometimes I have to encourage myself to abandon all the correct choreographies and just…flail.