Relocation.

I am now blogging at Games, Cake, Booze, Truth!.

It was time for another change.

Update! Update!

Right. So. After a long and somewhat exhaustive day, I decided to settle down and begin to make my way through a pile of DVDs that magically appeared on my bedside table earlier today (imagine! DVDs just falling out of the sky!). It would not be a night of film-watching on my computer without checking my e-mail first, so I did the usual plug in, dial up, wait for aqua blue light, go. Much to my chagrin, however, my super-awesome (and super-expensive) portable broadband modem decided to break, so I spent an hour-and-a-half on the phone with tech support, trying to coax my modem/Internet back into submission. Everything is fine now, but it seems as if every time I'm forced to interact with tech support, the urge to take a gun and pump a wall full of bullets increases. This is usual for most, I'm sure, as tech support always seems to bring out the most irritated in people, but when it's me and the other person, who seems baffled by the fact that an answer to my problem might be nice, the notion of singularity and uniqueness in anger really sets in.

Once everything was back to normal, I treated myself to a trip to the music blogosphere, a journey I haven't made in a while. Along the way, I discovered some pretty good bands (Okay and We/Or/Me among them) and snagged a killer tune by CSS. Oh, and I learned that Aimee Mann and Ben Kweller just played a show at the Minnesota Zoo! If confronting lions and tigers and bears meant I could've gone to that, I would've done it in a heartbeat. No questions asked.

At the moment, life in Dublin is fairly low-key. Some craziness happened over the weekend, but that's cleared up, and my new flatmate is American (from California!), but he hasn't moved in yet, so the excitement has yet to begin. Other than that, just been cooking (teriyaki rice with egg and sautéed mushrooms and onions! yum!), thinking about how much washing I need to do, and drinking in moderation.

Oh, and I'm going to be producing a short film. I guess that's news of some sort.

Like Spinning Plates.

Look, I don't know if more than one or two people ever read this and I don't really care, but let me spin it how it should be spun:

My life is exciting. Finally. I feel like my eyes are no longer glued shut or glued to the wall or plain ol' glued. I feel like I can use that word, "exciting," and mean it with utter sincerity. I don't feel like a liar. I am sitting in my bed in a flat where my name is signed in hard-pressed ink on the lease (adulthood!), and I am thinking of all the things I've done since my study abroad program ended at the beginning of May (adventure!), and to recount it all would mean writing a book of some sort, which I may or may not do, perhaps in the near or distant future. Let's just take a moment, though, and revel in the fact that life is good. Life is this thing that bounces up and down and is constantly threatening to go anywhere, at any time. Life is...exciting. And to be able to say that, well, that's just exciting in and of itself, because of all the things I feel, I feel freer now than I've ever been. And maybe it's the distance between me and the Statue of Liberty, or me and the Sears Tower, or, more abstractly, me and the American flag, but my head is full of such clarity, and it's wonderful, joyous, a call to giddiness, to euphoria. I know I've said this before, but now, more than all the moments combined in the past few months, now I feel as though anything is possible. And that is just indescribably beautiful.

I am a girl of impulse, and sometimes my instincts are right, and sometimes they cause me to suffer debilitating consequences. But this time: I believe I have made the right choice. Living in Dublin for the summer. Living in a country that is not my own. Who knew? Who could predict this is where I'd be, right now, at this very minute, in the wee hours of the morning on Friday the 13th? And I can't spell it all out, and perhaps this is cheating (because I'm copying and pasting something I wrote to a friend not too long ago), but here are five things I've done within the past two weeks. A way, if you will, to show you I am not kidding about such excitement:

1. Went to a film quiz last night. My team, The Avid Shoe Wearers, came in third to last. We were given a prize, however, for Best Team Name (which was totally rigged, because the hosts, our friends, felt sorry for us losing so badly). After said film quiz, went out drinking. Had at least 5 Jameson & Coke's over the course of the night. Got home at 3 in the morning to find my flatmates more pissed than I was. Made sure The Enigmatic Dean, my roommate, got to bed all right. This, after watching him attempt to work and then ring friends (or enemies?) on his mobile. We tried to communicate with one another, but it was all gibberish on his end. This morning, his mobile rang loudly, and due to his still-drunken state, instead of switching it off, he just switched the ring tone. Normally I'd be mad, but it made me giggle in my half-awake state.

2. Went to Paris. Saw many famous sights. Saw Truffaut's gravestone. It was black and simple and that's how I want it done if I'm ever buried. A black cat crossed my path in the cemetery THREE TIMES. Dunno if this is actually good luck, or if these things are always ominous. Also went to the Sexodrome, which is three levels of neon and pure sex. Hanging out in the shop and looking at dildos and vibrators, all I wanted to do was burst out laughing. I felt like a child, but in the best of ways.

3. Got my immigration stuff sorted. Finally. But this has already been mentioned.

4. Saw Gone Baby Gone. It just opened in cinemas here, so it was nice to see it on a big screen. Mixed feelings about various elements, of course, but the acting and direction were solid overall, especially Amy Ryan, who grabs you by the throat with her intensity.

5. Went to arts & crafts night at Pantibar, a gay bar in Dublin. Arts & crafts night is formally called Make-A-Do-Do, and it's hosted by a drag queen who walks around and criticizes you while you're busy making art. The prompt of the night was as follows: "Your mam tries to go see the Sex and the City film, but it's sold out, so she comes home early. When she bursts into your bedroom without knocking, she is shocked beyond belief. What does she find?" We sculpted Barney The Dinosaur out of clay.

Title & Registration.

My computer's back and fixed, which means

My Internet's back and ready to be used, which means

I really am going to try to blog here every day, which means

Excitement?

Oh, and today, The Office of Immigration and Naturalisation stamped me through for the remainder of the 90 days I'm allowed to be here. So I will, as planned (and much to my happiness), be living in Dublin until late August. Big smile on that one.

The only absolutely irritating thing about my life right now is that all the burners on our stove top are completely fucked, which means the New Italian Flatmate and I can't cook. Oh bother!

Further Explanation.

In a little less than 2.5 hours, my laptop will run out of power, possibly for a very long time. In New York, I asked a Mac Genius what was wrong. He said, "It's not your adapter. Your computer just won't allow power to be supplied to it." I've been telling people my laptop is sick, which on many levels is true. It shuts itself down for inexplicably long periods of time. Its backlight goes out, forcing me to put it to sleep and wake it back up again. The screen buzzes like it wants something, anything. And now this. My laptop is sick, and I'm really hoping there is something the fine workers at Mactivate, Dublin's Apple care shop, can do for it.

This has happened at a bad time. I decided to spend the summer living in Ireland, mostly because I've made so many friends and I'd like to be in their company for as long as possible, but also because there's something about this place that makes me happier than I've been--at least on a consistent level--in my entire life. I've been taking care of business over the past few days, most of which has included visiting the Office of Immigration and Naturalisation, finding out how I can save myself from deportation once the 30 days the airport immigration officer decided to wave me in for (even though I can legally have 90) expires, and making myriad phone calls to my parents to get all this sorted. My life has, once again, become an alternation of sequences of events that are either emotionally taxing or emotionally freeing. Take your pick. Point is, it was bound to happen sooner or later, I just wish not here and definitely not now. For all intents and purposes, this is my last summer to relax, though I guess nothing comes for free.

Except food, when supplied at house parties and BBQs (one of which I'm going to tonight). And when supplied at dinner party birthday parties (one of which I'm going to tomorrow). It's funny, but since returning to Dublin from the States, I reckon I've become a bit of a social butterfly. Who knew this was even possible?

Everything's Gonna Be All Right.

This was never meant to be a platform for the kind of writing that could be labeled "emo" or even "emotionally exploitative," but for the record, I would like to say I am angry and frustrated and anxious about the following things:

1. My current legal status as an immigrant, tourist, and non-EU citizen in Ireland.
2. My housing situation, which is stable but dissatisfying, and too depressing to go into detail about.
3. The fact that my nearly-3-year-old computer is in bits. (For those of you alarmed at my use of the word "bits," it's meant in the Irish/British colloquial sense.)

All of these things will get sorted in time, but in an immediate sense, they are causing grave consternation.

Things, however, that are good:

1. I have the Internet again. It isn't unbelievably fast and sturdy, but it will do.
2. My housing situation for next school year has been sorted. I'll be living in one of the larger rooms in the house I lived in this past fall semester.
3. I've once again been given incentive and motivation to apply to grad school, though for a program completely outside of the MFA sphere of things. This line of thinking is completely independent of the hopes and desires of certain people who would like me to attend grad school for all the wrong reasons, which makes me feel capable of being able to make decisions for myself.

It's past 5 AM and light outside. Must be summer.

Such Is Life.

I don't want to say much, but my life is probably going to be far less cinematic from now on.

Even though I'm living in Dublin this summer. And I'm going to be filming a movie this weekend. And I'm in the process of revising a full-length play I somehow managed to write in a month. And I'm going to be writing extensive papers over the next week-and-a-half. And I'm going to Vienna at the beginning of next month. And back to the States for a brief hello-and-goodbye less than a week after that.

Things have happened that mean everything and nothing all at once, and while some of it's caused a bit of consternation, I wouldn't give any of it up for the world.

I Would Like This To Last Forever.

It’s the end of March. This is where I’m at right now:

On Easter Sunday, I arrived back in Dublin from a quick holiday in London. Over the course of two days, I saw my cousin (whom I hadn’t seen in about three months—a strange and surreal fact, considering we’re close on many literal levels), met my cousin’s friend Mara and her New Zealander husband Justin (and stayed in their lovely flat in Chiswick, the Park Slope of London), played with Mara and Justin’s baby, ate some of said baby’s gourmet food, watched In The Night Garden with said baby (and concluded that show is like being on drugs) and Green Wing with everyone else, and cavorted around London. I actually walked the expanse of Brick Lane and ate the best bagels of my life, finally made it to Hyde Park (which wasn’t nearly as cool as I’d imagined it to be), downed a Cadbury McFlurry (and walked into a McDonald’s for the first time in years), visited the Victoria & Albert Museum (which is now on my favorite museums list…it’s the equivalent of a candy store for adults, except you can’t buy or taste anything…during my visit, I had the pleasure of viewing this exhibit, which was so indescribably kick-ass), and went for high tea at The Orangery at Kensington Palace.

On Easter Monday, I went to back to Bray, where I walked along the coast, played air hockey at an arcade, and went bowling for the first time in months. I’m rusty. Go figure. (It was totally worth it, though, for reasons I can’t name here.)

Yesterday, during my day off, I went to Malahide. It was beautiful and sunny—a rare thing in Dublin—and so there was a walk through woods, a walk along the coast, and a walk up to the doorway of Malahide Castle, which did, as the person I was with said, look less like a castle and more like a mansion with turrets. Also, it cost money to go in, so I just looked at it and smiled.

Yesterday night, I finished the first act of my play. It’s due on Tuesday. I’m about to play a game. It’s called: Will This Abroad Student Make Her Deadline? Something tells me there will be much isolation from human folk and plenty of creative introspection within the next few days…

Oh, and to cap off this entry/prove just how cinematic my life has become as of late: on St. Paddy’s Day weekend (which was, in fact, one of the best weekends I’ve had here), I was evacuated from the now-infamous Whelan’s because of a fire next door! As I was with film fest folk, there was much adventuring around the rainy streets of Dublin and into a fest friend’s house, where drink and buttered toast were had and part of a stair railing was broken. Don’t ask. Just imagine laughter and craziness and debauchery, and the night I’m attempting to describe is pretty much summed up.

Fever Pitch.

Tonight, I went to a football match. An Irish football match. I don't think I've ever said "fuck" that many times in a 90-minute period. My life has been very cinematic as of late. Tonight, Tarantino was writing and directing. There were no visible guns, but there was a fight!

In Which I Say "I" A Lot.

Back in Dublin.

The weather has been spastic. (But I apparently control it, so go figure.)

The heat in our building's ceased to work. Which is grand, considering how cold and windy it's been. Hopefully, this problem will be remedied soon. At least the water pressure in my flat is fine. (Knock on wood.)

Tomorrow (today?) marks the beginning of St. Paddy's Day festivities. This essentially means that Dublin goes wild with drunken tourists and even drunker locals. Everyone has fun. Word on the street says it's pretty joyous.

The end of Oxford was the end of a very short era. Spent Sunday lazing about in my friend's flat, watching Anglo-Saxon nerds make weaponry, defensive gear, and costumes for their upcoming reenactment battle in York. Also drank a lot of orange mango juice. Spent the evening feasting on garbanzo and dill soup, pancakes, and spaghetti and meatballs (all homemade), and watching The Mighty Boosh.

Tonight, I went to see Be Kind Rewind, which, despite lukewarm reviews, was very funny, if not a little sentimental. As my film-going mate aptly pointed out, we laughed the loudest. If you love film, I think Michel Gondry's latest means a lot more.

I am in a nice place with my play right now, although writing today was emotionally draining. One day, I'll write a comedy, and everyone will be shocked, most of all myself.

Even though I enjoyed the UK, it feels good to be back.

This is not a lie: pictures coming soon.

In Like A Lion And Out Like A Lamb?

Two things this blog proves:

1. I am a liar.
2. My lies tend to be little and white, so that’s okay.

I’m trying not to beat myself up about leaving people in the dark. I started this blog so various individuals (but specifically family members) could keep tabs on my life whilst abroad, and while it all started out all fine and dandy, everything has somewhat deteriorated in my own little part of the blogosphere, at least as of late. This isn’t really an attempt at a half-apology, but more so an attempt at half-explaining what happens when one’s life begins to improve exponentially, not to mention becomes filled with priorities and “things to do.”

A month has gone by since I last wrote anything substantial. Over said month, I visited the Dublin Zoo (one of the oldest in Europe), the coastal suburb of Howth (twice), and continued to spend sunny and lazy days watching the ducks at St. Stephen’s Green. I experienced the most exciting and best week I’ve had abroad so far, which was volunteering for the Jameson Dublin International Film Festival. During this time, I saw the equivalent 10.75 films (I only got to see ¾ of In Bruges), attended several after- and festival-related parties, met tons of amazing people, scouted some celebrities (including, but not limited to, Daniel Day-Lewis, Colin Farrell, Martin McDonagh, and Mike Leigh), ingested loads of free whiskey and many not-so-free pints, found myself on the winning team of the festival’s annual volunteer Film Quiz Night (wherein I was given a free bottle of Jameson, worth, perhaps, 20 Euro), and had a lot of fun ripping tickets, directing human traffic, doing crowd control, folding Audience Award ballots into paper airplanes, and just being involved with the festival, in general. I even found myself a part of this year’s JDIFF volunteers documentary:



There is, of course, still coursework, which is something in and of itself. The first draft of my play is due in two weeks. I won’t divulge myriad details here, but let’s just say it involves the circus, magical realism, mental illness, food graffiti, philosophical questions about art, dualism, memory, unrequited love, and a monologue about duck rape. I’ve been feeling very productive as of late, which is both gratifying and ego-boosting, and it’s my hope to return to the States (and to SLC as a senior) with something substantial under my belt.

As for this very minute (yes, right now), I’m in Oxford, enjoying the tail end of my mighty UK spring holiday. The adventure began in Scotland, where I visited a high school chum in St. Andrews and spent a lovely day to myself in Edinburgh (pictures to come). Then I took the train from Leuchars to London, which, considering our route along the Scottish coast and through the English countryside, with unending hills, farms, greenery, and sheep, was one of the best things I’ve ever done. Spent three days in London just hanging out, seeing Big Ben and Buckingham Palace all lit up at night, walking along the Thames and past the London Eye, wandering around and trying to find Brick Lane during the day, eating a delicious Indian meal, and perusing the Portobello Road Market shops and stalls in Notting Hill with my friend Tracy. And now I’m in Oxford, where I’ve been chilling/relaxing at my friend Gwen’s flat with other SLC students in the program. My first night here, I went to Catweazle, which is an old hippie club located in a community center, and I had the pleasure of not only hearing/seeing my friend Chris play music for the first time since September, but also listening to a tango band of sorts, as well as poetry and the sixty-something-year-old treasurer of Catweazle, who was all about telling stories and sticking it to the Man. Yesterday, I went to a protest against the chopping down of ancient Oxford trees, which was a bust, and then I had high tea, which involved the most delicious finger sandwiches, a scone with jam and clouted cream, a slice of coffee mascarpone cake, and vanilla tea. Later, we all sat around and ate homemade risotto with onions, tomatoes, and red peppers, and chatted about the structure of Sarah Lawrence’s writing courses, before watching a bootleg copy of Vantage Point, which was both horrible and horribly entertaining.

And now we are up-to-date.

Holiday.

For the next twelve days, I'll be partying it up (or chilling out) in the UK. In less than 12 hours, I'll be en route to Scotland.

So much has happened since I last entered the blogosphere. I promise, promise, promise to have a post of sorts whipped up within the next day or two. This whole absence thing has not been intentional or fulfilling at all. Let's just say my life has taken a turn for the immensely better.

Murphy's Law.

I was going to update today, but I just slammed my right index and middle fingers in a door. Nothing was broken (just pain and bruising), but this kind of setback isn't exactly conducive to blogging. So it goes.

Sea Change.

Today, I climbed a mountain.

Up until now, there hasn’t been a single moment in my life that would suggest I’d ever write that, but there it is. I can now officially bow my head, smile knowingly, and cross the task off my list. Me, the coward, the girl who won’t go near fire, who spent hours trying to keep it together this past summer after being left alone in a powerless house during two back-to-back monstrous thunderstorms and a tornado warning. On most days, I can’t even watch horror movies, lights on or off, let alone get talked into doing something that might, in my mind, be dangerous or daring. Elements be damned, I would rather sit with a cup of tea and a good book in my hand! But there is something to be said about being in another country, on another continent, living what feels like an alternate existence. For the past three weeks (and it’s only been three weeks, bizarre in and of itself), I’ve constantly had to remind myself that this is happening, this is real, I am not about to wake up and say, “And you were there! And you! Oh, and you, too!” It’s difficult, though, when I’ve gone from eating pizza bagels to shepherd’s pie, when I’ve gone from friend-specific, iPod-influenced dance parties to kicking it in sweaty spaces with strangers and DJs playing alternative rock songs from my childhood, when I am suddenly going to the gym on a regular basis. I’ve even started reading for fun—something I’ve never been able to do (or pushed myself to do) at Sarah Lawrence—and am currently on a quest to consume as much Philip Roth as possible before returning to the States. I really do feel like I’m becoming a different person, and, what’s more, like I’m changing for the good. And I know, I know everyone says this, that it’s cliché and typical of anyone who spends time abroad, but if you suddenly climbed a mountain, wouldn’t you think the same thing?

Around noon today, I met two fellow playwriting students (and new friends), and we set off to catch a train to Bray, a seaside town just south of Dublin. Another playwright in the program had ventured there about a week-and-a-half ago, and while we didn’t hop any fences (like she did) and get chased by any cows (like she was), we did take her advice and decide to try our luck and hike to the summit of Bray Head, which makes up a fraction of the Wicklow Mountains. Instead of going into detail about the excursion and how it made me feel (amazing, accomplished, alive), here are some photos that sum up the journey:

Even if you've grown up next to a large body of water, seeing the ocean is still exciting.


My first glimpse of Bray.


The mountain in the distance.














We thought there'd be a storm, but it passed.






This inn reminded me a lot of The Overlook Hotel from The Shining. When we went inside to use the bathroom, no one was there. Everything was dark. And yet, it felt so...inhabited.








This photo doesn't do justice to how steep the path was.






























We reached the summit!






A view from the top of the world.








This tree kept threatening to fall. It creaked and everything.


We headed back down.




The ocean at sunset. Unfortunately, the sun set behind the mountain.

Our day concluded with a greasy dinner of fish ‘n’ chips and chance encounters with dogs that kept running out into the road (from his blasé attitude, I gathered their owner didn’t seem to care about this much). Before this, however, we passed many houses, one of which had a cat perched on a window. The feline stared at me for a long while, so I took a picture of it:



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While there were many great things that happened this past week, the greatest, by far (aside from climbing Bray Head, of course), was being tapped to work at the 2008 Jameson Dublin International Film Festival red carpet launch party. Aside from catering mozzarella tortellini kebabs and copious amounts of Jameson whiskey to the glitzy and glamorous members of Ireland’s film industry, I had the pleasure of sitting next to the actress who plays Johanna in Tim Burton’s polarizing Sweeney Todd (Jayne Wisener, for the curious) and watching her date act like a dick to her. I also got two free glasses of whiskey. I’m not one for the brown liquors, but man, they aren’t kidding when they tell you you’ve gotta try Irish whiskey. That stuff is delicious! But the biggest, best perk of all? I am going to be working the gala presentation screening of There Will Be Blood on February 16th…and Daniel Day-Lewis and Paul Thomas Anderson are scheduled to be there! After personally introducing myself to the volunteer coordinator, I asked him very nicely if he could use my volunteer services at the event, and he said yes! Given that the screening is now sold out, and that I will be getting in for free, and that I will be in the presence of two artists who have had an immense impact on my life, I reckon that night will probably be one of the best of my life.


Volunteers, or total film geeks? That is the question.

Life Begins At 3 AM.

Tonight, I went to a pub and danced to Radiohead in a room packed full of energetic, rowdy, and happy people.

Then, I went to another pub and danced on a floor covered in the shattered remnants of bottles and pints. The DJ played Paul Simon and everyone got excited. Maybe too excited.

I walked home through streets filled with people pissing. And people attempting to walk in straight lines. And people attempting to piss in straight lines.

It's a regular Saturday night. I can only begin to imagine what St. Patty's Day is like.

Dublin is fucking crazy. And I love it.

---

More on this (and other things) to come.

It's been a long week. Please forgive the lapse in writing.

Luck.

For the past two days, it’s been in the mid-to-high fifties, and for the first time during winter since I can remember, the backs of my hands feel as smooth as my face, rather than cracked and dry and screaming for lotion. The sun has shown its pretty little head in Dublin, and since Irish air is clean air, soothing and moist, it feels good to breathe. The usual worry over nosebleeds is absent. My nasal passages are clear and thankful. Anyone with an hour or two to spare and any amount of common sense has spent their time outdoors, and I am no exception.

Yesterday, after meeting my playwriting professor for a late morning tea and a half-hour chat (similar to the Sarah Lawrence-friendly and -familiar conference, but every week), I grabbed a light lunch at Gruel, the soup and sandwich shop we met at, dropped my volunteer application off at Dublin International Film Festival headquarters, and headed to St. Stephen’s Green, the city’s scaled-down answer to Central Park. The early afternoon, it turned out, was a prime time for people-watching, eavesdropping, and doing all the writerly things I love to do, but have had to neglect due to other, more pressing academic commitments. A shame, really, because sometimes, such as on a day like yesterday, I’m reminded of why I love these little excursions into the public domain. Every city, it feels, has a rhythm to it. New York plays that game of hustle and flow, of stop and start, with speed and slow motion constantly tagging one another. Chicago is more at ease, aware of its breath, urban and raw but also consumed by that unmistakable Midwestern hospitality. It’s difficult to say what vibe Dublin gives off; I’ve been here for a little less than two weeks and have no desire to point fingers and ignorantly label. But what it felt like yesterday, at least, was calm. Happy. Resistant to the idea of taking anything for granted. Insert positive adjective or attribute here. The sun was out. Everyone seemed abuzz, with a smile on his or her face.

Everything felt just right, and I jotted down so many thoughts.

***

Some St. Stephen’s Green photography, as well as from Trinity College, where I ventured after the park:



























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the old library, home of the Book of Kells










statue of George Salmon, a mathematics professor and a chair in theology who, upon hearing that women were being considered for admittance into the college, said, "over my dead body"; on the day women were admitted, Salmon died of a heart attack




the arts center: kicking the ass of SLC's arts center tenfold

***

About halfway through playwriting class, Michael, my professor, decided we needed a change of scenery. We had just finished our discussion of two Stoppard one-acts, After Magritte and Dogg’s Hamlet, as well as acting exercises focusing on the economy of gesture and the idea of stage directions allowing, but also hindering, room for play. I cannot put into words how exciting it is to have a play, in essence, broken down into its barest parts, so that we might understand the how and why of what goes into the writing. It’s philosophical, really, forcing us also to think about things like inherence and representation. Last week, Michael used the example of the Eucharist to talk about the idea of theatre: transubstantiation is either believed on a literal level or on a metaphorical one, but no matter which, the belief leads to the same end of the road. Wanting us to discuss language acquisition, and language itself, and the proximity the playwright has to the control of language versus other elements of the play, but not wanting us to succumb to distraction, Michael led us back to Gruel, where he, once again, treated all six of us to tea, coffee, and, in the case of one of my classmates, hot chocolate.





Sitting in Gruel’s basement, a grotto of sorts, we riffed on just that, language, but also went back to the idea of stage directions, and what they, in the long run, mean. How do you use them to represent? How do you use them to tell the story? Are they guidelines for the people working on the play, or are they merely supplemental sentences to help the reader dissect the writing on a literary level? And then, the conversation shifted, and we began to talk about the danger of being the playwright, about when you lose control and how that affects you. These are all important things, and while I’m familiar with the concepts, I can’t say that up until this point, I’ve used my mind to delve into the meaning of everything. Because I haven’t. To claim so would be a lie. And this is why Michael is currently my new favorite person: he is challenging us to think. He is saying to us, Look, writing dialogue and coming up with plot and carrying that forward is all good and well, but this is a craft, so let’s allow our minds to soak up all the knowledge having to do with it. The craft as a thing to ponder—let’s pick at it until it bleeds.

Given that yesterday’s meeting revealed him as a person familiar with my background (his wife is from Evanston and he’s good friends with Jessica Thebus, thus he knows the ways and workings of the Piven Theatre Workshop, where I was trained and where I learned a good portion of what I now use today), I think Michael is going to be of the utmost help. I also cannot put into words how excited I am about starting something new, and coming home with a revised full-length play in my bag. It’s been a trying past few days (all my friends, most of whom are seniors, are back at school, and I’m not there to catch the last bouts of fun with them before they’re thrust out into the real world; this, I knew, would be hard), but I’m confident this will all have been worth it. The brief moments of melancholy are nothing compared to the prolonged periods of joy. And to even be able to say that is like falling into a fountain, swallowing its water, and inhaling all of the coins plucked from the pockets of the already-lucky.