“i don’t think it’s necessarily noble or better to write in order to give characters life…. they are fictional characters and don’t “need” to exist. (but then, i don’t see anything selfless in having children either. life is not always such a wonderful thing.)”

Let’s get this out of the way: writing in itself is not a noble act. It can be if it is an act of preservation and what it seeks to preserve is worth keeping, but in general writing is not particularly noble.

Also, I am not noble. I am a writer mostly of compulsion. Which is why I disagree with the assertion that characters do not need to live. Characters long to live, I can feel it. They sit there in anticipation, hoping to be chosen, developing, growing, until they get to a point where if they stay a moment longer they will start trying to find their own way out (For that is what happens when a character stays inside too long).

Going along with the idea that giving life to characters is like giving life to children, writers exist in a constant state of pregnancy with their characters. It isn’t like choosing whether or not to have children, it is like choosing whether or not to birth them. If the character isn’t given life, it remains inside, it is still alive, just… wasted in the limbo of full-term for all times.

Life may not always be wonderful, but it is always worth it. No one can predict what hardships or wonders life will hold (it will always hold both good and bad) but it is always a gift. Always. Even to the fictional characters life is precious and the world of words often times holds far more pain than comfort.

If we stop believing that life is worth living, we give up everything. What is the point of anything if life is not precious? But if we value life, how can everything not also be worth cherishing?

And if “real” people can value life, why can’t “fictional” people value it as well and need it?

Finances? Figured out until December, although I still need another job that will pay at least $300 a month so I stop going backwards…

Apartment? Well, hopefully this happens. Looks like I’ll be approved but waiting for actual confirmation…

School? Starts soon. One class is set up and ready to go, I just need to get books at some point. The other class I still need to register for and write a paper for… yikes!

Job? Still negotiating scheduling/hours at the copy center. Will be tutoring English/Lit to home-school students in Rochester one day a week (more if I get lots of students). Still need another job but I don’t know what to do about that since I’m out of time… maybe I will just let myself go backwards until I find a job that could replace the copy center job when I graduate?

Ren Fest? one of the least of my worries, despite really courageous efforts on the part of the fest management to screw us over and the fact that Laurel and Chris are now ready to eat each other alive again…

Packing? Hahahaha! the stuff from Minneapolis is still packed, my sewing stuff is organized but not packed. my room is a shit-storm of childhood memories and boxes of half-organized roomstuff.

Costuming? Got a new order for a belly-dance costume for Crysta and a mini one for Dreya, as well as a tunic for Taevyn. Haven’t started on that yet…

Theatre Company? Sent out an email to several artists that I know who have their own theatre companies asking if I could interview them. Still need to write up the interview questions. Once the interviews are conducted I will need to solidify a name and statement of purpose. That is the next step.

The Virgin and The Whore? Wrote a bit of the first scene and am waiting to hear back from Beth about her first scene. Probably will trash my entire first scene though. Something isn’t quite right about it. *eye roll*. Found out that the Fringe apps go out in November, though, so not as soon as I thought. Good, gives us a little time then.

Heart? Still beating. Pounding in love but it is easier when I avoid him, so I do. Went to church today and was renewed with the idea that selfless love is what I should be aiming for. Not trying to “get over him” or to forget him or rid myself of love for him, but to transform that love into something beneficial and beautiful. Something that will give joy and make me a better person, closer to the ultimate source of Love, and that will never hurt him. Also, friends help so much!!!

Soul? Graciously stepping out of the spotlight as I deal with my heart. Quietly dancing in the inner chambers and smiling at my heart sometimes. Ran outside among the clouds and fields for a while on the ride home and sang lovely hymns at church tonight. At peace.

Head? The reason I’m writing this. Going crazy and longing for a plan, or for the planning process to get her through it.

Hands? The same. I don’t understand and I can’t find any info online, so I may just end up going to the doctor after all.

Now, if only I could find the one who makes the music to which my heart dances…”

Oh how I laugh at myself for my stupidity.

Friends, never wish for anything, for it only leads to pain. Never pray but that God’s will comes to pass, for anything else will ruin you if you happen to receive it.

Without

Going into a loved one’s space and knowing they are not there- that barely anything remains there of them- is one of the most terrifying feelings in the world.

I broke down on the steps. I don’t want life to move on…

I can’t believe I miss you so much already.

The gift of cruelty and love

Cruel is a good word for it.

It is cruel to treat me like I’m special when I am not.

It is cruel to say hello when you know they will respond with goodbye.

It is cruel to tell me you are interested in me and then disappearing from the face of the earth only to pop up again at the most inconvenient time possible.

It is cruel to be so beautiful and so distant from me when you are right beside me.

It is cruel to lock up my heart and guard her well, but not do anything to stop her from beating only for you.

I’m living in a state of perpetual cruelty and I can’t stop it without giving up the one thing I treasure most of all right now.

Prayer

God, do you see that? Please, show me what to do. Do I give up love for comfort or do I continue on? My soul says continue on, for love is always worth any pain, but what if there is no hope? Faith, Hope, and Love, and the greatest of these is Love.

If I give up love now, who will I become? A shadow of a woman’s heart left barely alive under the weight of past experiences? Or will I discover a new kind of love?

If I trudge on, who will I become? A forgotten piece of humanity tossed in the corner like an old plaything? Or will I become radiant in selfless love that inspires and delights?

God, show me what you want me to do and become. Help me, hit me over the head with the answer because you know I’m not very wise or good at picking up your hints.

Put them in one of my boxes

This house is *way* too empty and filled with boxes for me to be comfortable in it right now.

I miss so many people right now. Crazy upsetting.

And I do this thing where when I’m upset I start planning for the future and trying to figure shit out. So now I’m thinking about theatre and festivals and how frightened I am that I may have to do this alone etc etc. this is going to be a rough day.

On this day she hugs her knees up to her chin and weeps. Not the beautiful kind of weeping that is so often portrayed in the media, but the desperate sobbing kind that rattles my chest with her horrific pounding. The kind that turns into hysterical laughter for a few moments and soaks my hair to my cheeks and neck and burns both throat and lungs.

And as she weeps, she whispers, laughs, screams out: “You are leaving me. Why are you leaving me? Do not leave me! Please, do not leave me…”

My mind, who towers over her, suited in white, armed with a clipboard and ball-point pen, rolls her eyes. They had been making so much progress, now it was all lost.

“You cannot be left” my mind explains patiently to the huddled ball of tears, “without first being with.”

It made perfect sense. He had never been with me, he was not mine to claim, so why was my heart freaking out that he no longer wanted to be around me? It was not a rational break down and, therefore, unnecessary.

My heart stopped weeping for a moment and looked out with blurred vision and sniffling breath. It was this look that you must have caught in my eyes the night of the harvest moon, when the storm rolled in with fierce wind and emotion. I know you saw my panic, and I wanted to talk to you about it, I would have given anything to let you help me through it, but I did not know how.

So I ran out into the rain.

Can you keep a secret?

I love you.

Coolness against heavy eyelids

There they are. I knew those tears were straining to break free. All they needed was your voice, saying exactly what my heart wants to hear and exactly the words you will never mean for me.

God, you are so beautiful. You utterly destroy me in such a wonderful and terrifying way.

I really just want to turn to you and say what is in my heart

Find me in the future…

… when maybe you could love me.

You’ve got enough notches on your bedpost that it’s likely to crumble and fall

and the love letters written to you haven’t faded at all.

Bind them in a book and read aloud to me as we lay on the floor

read it to the end.

And I don’t want to be with you despite the longing in my heart

this elaborate mask I’m wearing grows weary of this part

I’m your friend

just a friend.

The wheels on your truck roll away, skidding and sliding on the sand

God only knows what will happen when you find yourself in a foreign land

You say you are a reader well are there stars in my eyes

or have they followed you to the end?

And I just want to be with you despite the warnings of my heart

this elaborate mask I’m wearing grows weary of my part

as your friend

just a friend.

Now I know there is no way to catch your hand as you leave

I’m a thief and my hands are bound behind me.

So I’ll watch from my knees

as you step away from me

and I’ll whisper a silent “please”

There is one star left inside singing hopes and wishes to my heart

And I don’t want to be with you despite the longing in my heart

this elaborate mask I’m wearing grows weary of this part

And I don’t want to be with you

I’d give everything to be with you

I don’t want to be with you, my heart

is weary of this part.

Fuck. Everything was so pure and I could handle it before… Now, I don’t know what to do with myself.

Come at me, my dear, with a knife. Carve out my heart and do with it whatever you do with the hearts you collect. I can’t stand the heaviness of my heart anymore. Since she belongs to you, you take her. Care for her, tend her, or kill her, just don’t tell me what you do. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing matters anymore.

I have forgotten your gentleness and the sting of truth. The severity of your sweet voice. I had forgotten it all, the rabid butterflies of jealousy and discontent. Now they are returned and famished for everything pure and good that you have given me.

I don’t know if I have the strength to fight them this time… I have to stay away from you. I would only destroy you if I found you now. But I long to find your arms.

My head rests against your strong shoulder, your warmth radiates and covers me. You do not know how close I am to breaking. I would never weep while next to you. As I step away, my face turned from you, one rolling wave escapes my ocean eyes and descends over soft skin, gasping jaw, and slender neck still burning with the memory of your hand upon it.

I will always carry those moments in my recollection. Whenever I see you I will think of you next to me and of how powerless I was against the calling of you to my heart. I wonder if you remember that memory as vividly as I do. It was so long ago…

I would give up all my dreams to live in those moments of midnight and beyond. And I know if I ask God for it, he’d give it to me. Everything I’ve prayed for about him He’s granted, so I know He’d give it to me, but I know I don’t have the right to ask for it.

I will not influence the future of others for my own desires. I know that darkness exists in me and that I could have everything I desire, but I refuse it. I won’t be the dark queen who lives inside me.

We didn’t stay long. After saying hello to Tim Mooney and getting our tech taken care of, we realized we had two hours before the preview started, so we went out walking. (Little did we know that this would be our go-to for the rest of the night: walking the streets of Midtown and Uptown…)

We ate supper at a small Subway, which was much less than generous with their meatball sub (really, only four meatballs? really?). Then we walked up and down Lake St for a while, stopping in at a favorite store of mine that carries paper and novelty items. The walk back to the theatre was not exciting, but nice in its calm and steady footfalls, a rhythmic exercise in controlling the nerves.

When we got back, the theatre was dripping with anticipation and terror. All of the artists were backstage, chattering and laughing nervously with one another and warming up. It was like walking into a fog of nervous energy. There was no way to escape the adrenaline, like the whole room operated on one pounding heartbeat. Then we lined up and readied ourselves to step off of the black, wooden ramp, through both sets of curtains, and into the light.

The preview itself went well. We were number four in the first half, so we were lucky enough to be released quickly. The tech had problems playing our CD, so it skipped, but we carried on. It was a very, very short preview. Most of the acts took the whole 3 minutes, but ours did not, and the end of the preview wasn’t quite clear, but we had done it. We had performed for the first time in association with the MN Fringe.

Later I would get compliments on the preview, saying it went well and what a shame the music skipped, and how pretty my costume looked, and how I had wonderful poise onstage.

After our preview we were not allowed to see any other previews, although we were given the opportunity to stay and hand out postcards. So we did. I tried to wait in the Green Room for intermission. There were a couple of dancers, waiting and warming up for their preview. They had brightly colored, neon leggings on and black tank tops. Two of them were stretching together, taking turns leaning over and having their partner push on their backs to stretch the legs. It was quite a suggestive looking stretch. There was also, behind them, a man in white, martial arts attire, with blood splatters painted on his face. He happened to turn around just at the right angle for me to see his face as he did the most beautiful double-take I have ever seen.

After I sat in the Green Room a bit longer, watching the bright-pants dancers with raging jealousy and self-shame, I decided to go out to the lobby. Miles, Kirsten, and the guys from Super Spectacular were already chatting out there. I joined them. At intermission all of the artists lined up and shoved postcards at the patrons. It is hard to describe the desperation, the claustrophobia, the sweat that lined each artists brow as they tried to convince each passerby to come to their show within the time-span of a few steps.

Almost as quickly as it had begun, the rush ended and the previews continued. This time the actors took it outside. A few artists showed up only for the second half of the previews, so there was a bigger crowd of us. I met quite a few artists, talked with them, and then dragged Miles to a group of people from the robot Abe Lincoln show who were huddled together, singing, over a ukulele like steam-punk hobos over a musical trash bin.

We jammed with them for a while, as dusk crept over the city. We sang of new worlds and the death of humans. Then one of the girls sang You and I, so Miles and I did our dance from Il Talento Di Amore. It’s funny how strong muscle memory can be sometimes…

After the sun set, the mosquitoes came out, so I was forced to flee to the shelter of the lobby, where I talked about publicity and clowning and how to get the most out of theatrical performances with some of the Robot Abe Lincoln cast. We waited until the end of the previews and, again, pushed postcards into every hand that could clasp them.

After the patrons had all left, we decided to hang out at Fringe Central for a bit. It was a nice little restaurant of three levels. However, I was exhausted by that point and the nerves had caught up with me, abandoning the thrilling high of adrenaline for a sinking feeling in my gut with which I am all too familiar. I knew what was coming, but managed to sit and talk with the other artists for a while before escaping to the rooftop. The view was beautiful. My heart and mind wandered to what it would be like to live in the building across the street, to sit and those huge, rounded windows and watch and write every night; how the marble would feel under my bare feet were I small enough to dance on it, or even how it would feel if I just stood on it without shrinking, if I were to stand at the edge and look down at the midnight street below.

Then my thoughts moved to a darker place. I thought of all the stupid things I had said that day and all of the wonderful things I had not said. And the crowds got seemingly thicker, and the music louder, and the energy around me turned hostile in its intensity. I knew I was also starting to turn on myself, so I stole away for a walk.

I didn’t know where to walk, however, my need to move conflicting with that little voice in my head saying I shouldn’t walk alone in Minneapolis at night. But I didn’t want to ask anyone to come with me, especially knowing my mood and how horrible of company I am.

As if on cue, Miles texted me and asked to come along on my walk, so we walked down streets we had already been down, and along new roads leading to statues and conversations of a new, human-sized Hobbiton and Choose Your Own Adventure books and human motivation and suchlike.

It was a pretty awful day for that kind of walk. I loved it, even though I’m sure I was horrid company. I wish I could go back and tell him that I’m really usually open about what I’m thinking/feeling/experiencing/what have you, but that some nights, especially nights during the Fringe, when my emotions peak higher and when I’m in large groups of people, I just can’t find the words to say. Writing, sure. I can always write and fill pages and pages with whatever. But actual spoken conversation eludes me sometimes.

Anyway, the night was pretty uneventful after that. We went home and watched a movie and I spent the night regretting being reserved and wanting to start up a new RPG and remembering when Vika and I used to walk all the time around Rochester. Walking with friends is a very good way to spend the day.

Opening night:

The crowd was small, but responsive. Four or five people littered the two hundred seats, a pathetic number for how hard we worked to get there. They stayed attentive, however, and I could hear them gasp at several points, and murmur affectionately at the resolution of the play.

Here’s hoping our next crowd will be bigger, but just as involved if not more so…

And, also, while what I do onstage for this production may not be good, it is true. And I would rather my actors say that what they did was true. If they could feel the truth of it all, really feel it, I couldn’t ask for anything more. There are days I cannot breathe because I am so caught up in the magic of what we are doing. I wonder if this is my own closeness to the script/story or if the others feel it… if the audience will feel it…

It’s the same feeling that comes after singing Hallelujah sometimes. That breathless, shivering sensation of having just wept long and hard and emerging again. Physically, it is very similar also to what I used to experience after talking to Elena for all those hours, but it is so drastically different emotionally. That was a horrible, caged, judged sensation. This is freeing and crippling at the same time.

I know now that every conversation I had was only trapping the Dancer more, even though I wanted so, so much to let her out. That was what I was searching for.

This may be as close as I ever come. Maybe the Jester really has left me. Finally. I can’t express how much joy is in that sentiment.

Now, if only I could find the one who makes the music to which my heart dances…

I might not say that the reason it makes me happy is because it reminds me of your arms around me…

No, no. Listen.

In this love there are no expectations, do you understand? You can never betray me and I can never disappoint you. We are both completely protected so long as I love you and do not ask for anything in return.