Memory, all alone in the moonlight....

Don't you love it when your sleep schedule gets really and thoroughly screwed up?

Yeah, me too. It's always a good time.

Lately I've been shotgunning books like there's no tomorrow (I've read three to completion in the last twenty-four hours), and I'm not exactly sure why. It's true that I'm not in a show right now (even though I thought I was-- long story), but I haven't read this much volume wise since probably high school. I blame the excellent documentary I watched a few weeks ago about our memories. It was narrated by John Cleese, which is a good thing. Wait, no, strike that out. John Cleese narrated the other documentary that I watched, the one about the human face. That's an example of what I'm afraid of-- memory loss. This documentary said that memory loss begins as early as twenty-seven, and that's only six years away for me.

I can understand why our bodies decline, age, and generally start having problems. They are like vehicles which are to be worn out in living. But to think that my mind will also age and decay acutely terrifies me. I have always been a bookworm, a lover of trivia, someone who is generally excited by education and new ideas. To think that I may lose these traits and/or my grasp on reality.....I don't want to think about that.

I think that my recent craving to read everything I can get my hands on is me trying to deal with this. Maybe if I can just cram all these stories and knowledge into my head, I won't lose them. Finders, keepers, right? I logically know that this isn't true, but one must cope somehow. It's years and years from now that I'll actually have to worry about losing my memory, but my memories are what me, well, me. And books having always been a huge part of who I am.

So that's fun. Hopefully I get distracted by some other fear soon, one more immediate and easier to reassure myself about. Now where did I leave my purse.....?


Books I've read since the beginning of July:
-The Return of the King (JRR Tolkien)
-The Color Purple (Alice Walker)
-Murder on the Links (Agatha Christie)
-The Sundance Kid (Donna Ernst)
-The Whole Five Feet (Christopher Beha)
-John Brown's Spy (Steven Lubot)
-Never Have Your Dog Stuffed (Alan Alda)
-The Book of Happy Endings (Elise Valmorbida)
-Buyology (Martin Lindstrom)

Chance

Most days end about how you thought they would. A few small deviations, an encounter with a friend, an odd conversation, or an unexpected mood change are about all you can really expect to vary. But every now again come the days that are Different. Big changes are in the air, changes that you set in motion with tiny choices, and now you are about to be startled with what life has in store for you. Something happens that you had not even considered a possibility twenty-four hours ago. Call it luck or chance or tender mercies or the element of surprise, but it is nice to be reminded that I am subject to twists I haven't foreseen. Otherwise my life would become frightfully dull. Unanticipated events are simultaneously stressful and exciting. I had no idea I would be asked to join the Utah Repertory Theatre's cast of Carousel, but last night I was. We'll see where this road leads. I'm so glad I get to finish off this summer with a show. It's joltingly pleasant to be confronted with personal plot devices that are completely out of the blue. It's good to have plans, but thank goodness for that "roll of the dice" factor.

"There is one thing which gives radiance to everything. It is the idea of something around the corner." -G.K. Chesterton

A Few Good Books

Here is what I want to talk about today: Books. Books. Books.

Sometimes I forget just how much of a reader soul I have, but I am always reminded. Learning things, turning pages, caring about characters who seem so much more than fictional-- I can't live without it. And I get scared of getting swamped with school and homework again and not having much leisure time, because the last twenty-four hours have been ones of literary joy.

I shotgunned The ABC Mysteries by Agatha Christie yesterday afternoon. I had never read an Agatha Christie book before, a fact which will continue to be remedied now. AHHHHH. I can’t. It’s a variation of my weird reverse hipster complex that I haven't read her before-- even though I preach about the importance of everyone reading classics I’m still surprised when an author I haven’t personally read before turns out to be perfection. I require more Poirot in my life. He made a Sherlock Holmes reference, which made me laugh.

Then I went to the library and found some random books that caught my interest and checked out. Happened to look at one of the display tables as I headed out. I saw Okay For Now by Gary D. Schmidt and was overcome by happiness. Gary Schmidt is the most incredible YA writer I’ve ever read. I grabbed the book and turned around. Usually once I check out that’s it for the day, anything else that looks good gets stuck on my reading list. But for a Gary Schmidt book I would have walked back to the library to check it out. I read that in its entirety last night. INCREDIBLE. How does he even write like that? They're so serious, but so funny and painfully true at the same time. 

Now I've started The Story of Charlotte's Web, which is about E.B. White. After that a biography of Judy Garland is on the nightstand as well as another Agatha Christie mystery.

Reading is life.

Thoughts on Surgery

My littlest brother, Joshua, was born with a condition called tricuspid atresia. More information on that can be found at this link: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0002100/. He has already had two surgeries, one at nine days, the second at six months. On July 31 he will go in for what should be the last. It's called the Fontan Procedure.

It's been three years since I last felt this kind of desperate, emotional stress. I always knew that he would need another surgery, but I had forgotten the fear that comes with it. It is constantly at the back of my mind, whispering of the fragility of life.

He is so small. He is so innocent. He is so full of joy and everything that is good. He loves parrots and trucks and Buzz Lightyear. Why him?

Logically I know there is nothing I can do, but my heart weeps to aid him. I want to lie down on the operating table and let them cut open my chest. Leave his alone. Let me feel the pain, let him be healed.

He is not afraid. He doesn't understand what is risked, what is out of necessity coming. I do, and I am. I am too afraid to pace, too frightened to cry. Every prayer I offer is pleading and urgent and focused. "Bless Joshua. Bless Joshua. Lord, bless Joshua." Over and over.

The doctors stand ready to do battle with my brother's heart, wielding their tools like swords against the grasping fingers of Death. I want a way to offer myself, to turn to that cold, black figure and tell him, "I willingly go with you. He is not yours. He will stay and laugh and grow. Take me."

If I die, let me die. Let him live. Bring him home. Bring him home. Bring him home.

We have another month yet. And I have faith in both the skill of the surgeons and the wisdom of my Father and His plan. But it is hard, and I am afraid.

On False Hopes

The scene: Outside my seminary class, junior year of high school

"Eric told me to tell you he's thinking of asking you to the prom."
This was surprising. I didn't expect anyone to invite me and here was Drew telling me that my crush had me on his list. I skipped down the hall on my way to class that day.
Eric didn't ask me to prom. In fact, he didn't even talk to me at the dance.

The scene: The rec room in my dorm, my freshman year of college
"What about Allison?" I asked Freddy. "I was sure you liked her." He sat on the couch next to me, arm around my shoulder.
"I can tell when things are going better with somebody else," he said, giving my hand a squeeze. I was completely surprised by his reciprocation, and it was glorious.
The next day he told me we were "too different." Two weeks later he was dating Allison.

The scene: My house, my birthday
"Steve said he's definitely driving down for cake tonight!" my roommate gushed. She had set us up a few months earlier and knew this news would excite me.
He didn't drive down for cake that night. It's such a small thing, but it mattered to me.

------------------------
"How do you ignore all the witches? All the curses? All the wolves, all the lies, the false hopes, the goodbyes, the reverses? All the wondering what even worse is still in store?"
"No More"-- Into the Woods

I'd much rather be completely ignored or treated with nothing more than friendly civility than get my hopes up that someone is thinking of me and then realize that I was being foolish. I've fallen for a lot of guys over the years, and I'm pretty skilled at recognizing when somebody isn't interested. But when all he throws me is a tangled knot of mixed signals I start punching pillows and going on long walks trying to figure things out.

There's this boy. (Isn't there always?) The difference is that this one has continued to pay attention to me when he doesn't have to. And he makes my heart do this weird fluttery dance and I have to pace around in circles for a few minutes to calm down. He hasn't asked for my number. He hasn't asked me out. I don't know if he ever will. But he fills me up with hope that maybe, just maybe, it's my turn. But if it's not going to be me, if it's going to be Virginia or Leah or whoever, then I wish he'd just skip straight to that step.

My emotions run wild and to extreme ends of the spectrum, and I wish they'd not invest themselves without my permission. My dating resume doesn't need another experience of falling for somebody that only ever had me in the friendzone. Caring is the first step towards crying, and heaven knows my pillowcases have had enough mascara stains.

"Second best can be worse than not-in-the-running."
The View from Saturday (by E.L. Koningsburg)

**Names have been changed to my old code names. In fact, I'm sad I don't have a tragic story to tell about Bartholomew, just because Bartholomew is my favorite of all my past code names. Seriously-- Bartholomew! How great is that?**

Book Review: Pamela

Pamela is a deeply disturbing book, though you’d never think it to look at it. I picked it up without the faintest idea of what it was about, and found a tale of Stockholm Syndrome, sexual harassment, abuse both physical and emotional, and a horrifying ending that the narrator tries very hard to convince us is happy. This book singlehandedly justifies feminism.

Pamela is the title character-- a sixteen-year-old maid that spends every second striving to be pure, humble, and virtuous. This is not the horrible part. While Pamela doesn’t seem like a lot of fun, she is anxious to please and is agreeable enough. The woman she serves dies, and Pamela is now employed by the Manor’s son, known only as Master or Squire throughout the story. He sees how beautiful Pamela is and wants to have sex with her. He kisses her and fondles her chest, which she rejects in no uncertain terms. Pamela’s virtue is the only thing that she truly prizes, as she has a Puritan attitude towards all worldly possessions and anything that resembles pride or haughtiness.

After the Master is repulsed, Pamela tells the housekeeper, Mrs. Jervis, of his inappropriate advances. Mrs. Jervis agrees that this is wrong, at least, while the Master is not around. When he comes around to talk to Pamela again, I was shocked to recognize the arguments that he uses trying to justify his forcing sexual contact on a girl who doesn’t want it. They are alive and well today, though this book was published in 1740, almost three hundred years ago. “You were asking for it.” “It is my right to have you satisfy me.” “You aren’t going to do better.” At this point in the book he starts referring to her as a slut. Let me remind you: the reason he is angry with her is because she REFUSED to sleep with him. Somehow this makes her a slut. Logic! 

So Master (you have no idea how uncomfortable calling him that makes me) continues to assault her off and on, even though she always tells him no and usually cries or runs away. Then he tells her that she can go home. She is thrilled about this. But the carriage he puts her in actually takes her to his other estate, somewhere else in England. This is what we call being abducted. 

Once he has Pamela prisoner in this new manor, she is guarded constantly by a vicious old woman, kept behind bars, and beaten occasionally. She is required to let the Master read her private diary once he discovers that she keeps one. Oh, and the Master hides her in closet to watch her undress, then tries to rape her. What a classy guy. The only reason he doesn’t rape her is that she faints, and the maid intervenes.

Several escape plans are attempted, but all are foiled. Then, quite out of the blue, the Master gets angry at Pamela when she refuses to marry him (again), puts her in a carriage, and tells the driver to take her home. They go along, Pamela filled with mixed emotions. A rider catches up with them that night, telling them that he has a letter for Pamela. It is from the Master basically begging her to come back because of how much he loves her. 

He uses that word a lot. I don’t think it means what he thinks it means.

By this point in the story, the effects of Stockholm Syndrome are very evident. Pamela thanks the Master for every little thing-- for not beating her, for not raping her, for not doing things that HE SHOULD NOT EVER DO ANYWAY. When he almost drowns, she is concerned. She thinks he’s a great guy, he just can’t control himself sexually. It’s not his fault. He’s a man, and she’s denying him what she wants. She starts referring to herself as a slut and a hussy. And then she gets this letter from him and she goes back. She goes back! Up until this point I had really enjoyed the book. But as soon as Pamela WENT BACK to this predatory, abusive rapist and claimed that she loved him….each page became a struggle to complete.

The Master never asks forgiveness, or even apologizes, in case you were wondering. In fact, by the end of the book Pamela is thanking him for abducting her. And all his sexual advances are dismissed as “naughtiness.” I associate naughtiness with snitching an extra cookie. Pamela apparently considers her body and her rights as trifles, but this comes as no surprise, as she has the lowest self-esteem of any narrator I’ve ever read. She thinks it’s humility, but it isn’t. It’s destructive.

Anyway, the Master and Pamela start making out a lot and then secretly get married. She spends every paragraph talking about how ecstatically happy she is and how grateful she is to God for letting her have this wonderful husband and she will never be worthy. Every page is full of that nonsense. And everyone around her is thrilled too. She gets to be rich! Huzzah! Many people were eager to make sure that she didn’t have premarital sex, but as long as she’s married, it doesn’t matter what kind of man her husband is. Her own father comes to thank the Master, and he’s been reading the whole story in the letters Pamela writes to him! (The whole novel is in letter form.) Let me repeat that: Pamela’s father THANKS the man who kidnapped and sexually assaulted his daughter. Apparently no one was worried about Pamela, they were just worried that she would lose her virginity. As long as there’s a ring on her finger than who the heck cares what he does behind closed doors.

 

Pamela (the book and the character) is OBSESSED with class, staying in place, never stepping out of a place, knowing who is above her and who is below her. It is unnerving to say the least that she is worried about marrying the Master not because he tried to rape her, but because he has a title and she doesn’t. She is grateful to him for stooping low enough to marry her. Grateful! She literally never stops thanking this arrogant scumbag, and thanking God for him. It’s about every other sentence, I’m not even exaggerating.

I cannot begin to tell you how repulsive the views Pamela writes are to me. She continues to call her husband “Master” after they get married, and is still basically his servant with better clothes. Oh, he calls her “dear heart” and “life of my life” and endearments like that all the time, but he orders her around and demands complete obedience and basically is a man of the 18^th century. Now that Pamela has given him what he wants (namely, her) he showers her with money and presents and paragraphs of sickening tripe that would be really romantic if it was coming from someone else under other circumstances. He’s just giving lip service to it. She adores him, and it’s easy to dote on someone that sees you seriously only a step below God.

To hear the sexist views of the time from someone living in them is very jarring. It’s revealed that the Master has an illegitimate child from six or seven years ago, and Pamela doesn’t even bat an eye. The girl that he slept with, of course, had to leave the country out of shame. I just can’t get over this, even though times haven’t changed that much. How is it that when TWO people have sex and create a child only ONE of them is guilty? One of them can forget it ever happened, the other gets branded with the scarlet letter. One of them is just acting on his instincts, the other clearly didn’t treasure her virginity enough, so she’ll probably burn in hell. 

This book was truly bizarre. I kept thinking, “This isn’t real. SOMEBODY has to say something like, ‘Pamela, you’re not really in love with this slimy excuse for a human being. You’re sixteen and you’ve never had any kind of social life, because you’ve been a servant. Now you’ve been locked up for five or six months and you have started to mistake lack of cruelty for kindness. Wake up!’” But they didn’t. Everyone was thrilled to pieces at the “happy” ending. I’m still trying to shake the feeling that anyone thinks or ever thought this was okay.

On Endings

If you've asked about my dating life, you've likely heard, "Theatre is my boyfriend." Theatre takes up most of my free time, energy, and love. Each show feels like a relationship. Most of the time this is great. I get to be committed and happy and involved without actually dating anyone, and sometimes it makes it easier to forget that I am very, very single. But every show closes. Every cast dissolves. And each closing night inevitably feels like a breakup. It's not fun.

The cast of Pirates of Penzance have become some of my best friends. The Valley Center Playhouse has become like a second home to me, as the theatres always do. I don't want it to end. I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want these "breakup" feelings.

I'm a passionate person and know emotional extremes. When I'm pleased, I'm thrilled. When I love, I adore. And when I miss something, I miss it utterly and intensely. I get so attached to people-- more than normal, I think. Others may say, "I miss you" after a separation, but it's more than that. I think about people all the time that have affected my life and probably not even known it. I miss people that I don't even have a right to miss. Imagine what this means when I'm involved with a tight-knit cast like Pirates. I am going to cry at night because of these people, and that's not an exaggeration.

Caring hurts. It's easy to be happy when I'm around them, but I don't live in Provo or Orem (although I am practically in the same neighborhood as one cast member), and the odds that I will see many of these wonderful people again after our cast party aren't really that great. It breaks my heart.

I'm always glad for the memories that come with a show-- the joy, the feeling of belonging, the way I have something to do with my spare time. The end isn't bittersweet, it's difficult and sad and DO NOT WANT. During the rehearsal process it feels like performances will never come. Then during the ecstasy of performing I pretend that it will never end. If only that were the case.