First Stab at Memoir

I have to write what is generously called a "memoir" for my ILS class, about my childhood in the world of theater. This is the first bit I wrote consciously for it. Note: I exaggerate, but not about my memories.

There’s a musical going on at St. Paul’s right now. It’s called The Garden, written by two of our staff members (sort of). I think it’s overly similar to Stephen Schwartz’ Children of Eden, but they didn’t really ask me in the creative process. I’m not in the show, mainly because I couldn’t commit to rehearsals. But I was enlisted to do the technical things no one else had time to do. I painted the glass doors of the building as a temporary billboard advertisement. And I made curtains to fill the entrances into the chapel.

As I handled the ten and a half yards of grey, velvet upholstery fabric, folding and flipping it smooth, I saw myself when I was 10 years old. In the basement of the State Theater, for a time, there were large, large bins (at least 10’x 4’x 4’) filled with old curtains. Lovely, heavy, curtains. I had a playmate in those days, I think her name was Abi, and we crawled all over those curtains. We took naps in them, tried to hide beneath them, went between the bins like they were border lines for countries. The tough part was getting into the bins. Absolutely worth the effort. The building managers moved them every once in a while, and then the game became new again.

My 20-year-old self held the finished curtains tight to my chest and rubbed my check against the velvet. That’s comfort. In all my years at the State, one of my favorite things to do was wrap myself in the curtains that were hanging in the theater space. I liked having that kind of weight and substance around me. It made me feel safe.

It makes me feel safe.

I'm Still Here

Hey all,

Well, March just up and passed me by. The further I've gotten into the semester, the more I've realized how bloody difficult it is. I don't really enjoy my classes, save my ILS class. Classwork has been difficult, for no specific reason. It's just been hard.

Also, I must admit, all my best blogging ideas get snatched up by my response papers for ILS 275. Sorry 'bout that. I know I'll be back in full force at the end of the academic year.

I'm glad spring is making a comeback.

The Voices

I made an observation in class the other day: that I try to make irregular verbs out of regular verbs in my head. I was folding laundry last week, and when I thought the word "folded" I abruptly asked myself, "or is it FELD?" We don't say holded - we say HELD. This has been bothering me lately, but my professor was far more interested in the fact that I have an internal conversation in my head.

Excuse me? You DON'T?!

I thought everyone talked to themselves in their heads. Sure, I've long accepted that they all don't think in complete scentences like I do (true statement), but we have to use words and language to think through certain things. It can't just be images and abstract things flying through the brain. I think it's the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis in linguistics that says you can't even develop abstract ideas like, say, justice or education without language.

And Americans are constantly reading. Reading advertisements, reading novels, reading "In case of emergency, use stairs". And you're telling me that your brain doesn't just keep going with the silent reading, even when there aren't words in front of you?

Ok, fair enough. Maybe I am strange.