My Dream Role

I've never gotten to know a character as well as I did Mrs. Lottie Child in Gershwin's Crazy For You. I think that's why it hurt so much knowing I'd never return to her lines, I'd never return to her costumes, I'd never return to her voice and mannerisms. She was the first character I truly got to know, and the first (I believe) I 100 percent acted in place of.

I've always developed a character, but I've always thought about what would get a laugh, what would make the most sense. I never once thought "What would _____ do?" I never made my character a person. I only ever made a voice, made a laugh, and made a means by which they delivered their lines and stood while onstage.

Erin was showing me the various walks of all of her characters from the Bountiful High stage, and I remember thinking "Lottie doesn't have a walk."

Or so I thought. I believe because I put so much effort into finding Lottie, her walk just came about, and I shocked myself many a time as I walked backstage alone in one of her costumes, walking the walk I was sure I hadn't developed.

But it was her. It was Lottie.

I have a very fond place in my heart for her, though she, to some degree, is the villain of the show. She is definitely one character I have loved the most. And I believe all my thanks should go to Jerome Rockwood and his book.

Rockwood taught me what I already knew, but he put it in words that changed the message. He taught me to justify my actions, to have a purpose on stage. He taught me that you couldn't get on stage a "play an emotion", you had to have some inner reason for that emotion. In real life you don't just become angry. There is a reason, if you look deep enough, for your anger. You need that on stage.

He taught me not the play the cliches. He taught me to find original material, not to mimic what I'd seen done a thousand times.

And if I stole the show being Lottie, as people have told me I have stolen the show in the past, I stole it this time with sincere originality. I stole it with a firmly developed character, not my ability to think how certain things would work with the crowd.

Opening night was a thrill when I dug myself so deep into Lottie's character that when I tried to remember my first line prior to going onstage (a simple "Yes, Bobby?") I couldn't for the life of me remember any of my lines. But I knew myself well enough to know that they'd come, and it was interesting to realize I'd forgotten them because Lottie wouldn't have planned a whole conversation in her head. It would have just come out, perhaps more bluntly than required.

Several shows later I came onstage with too much Erica. And Lottie did something Erica thought was funny. And Erica laughed. On stage. I hated myself for it, but that just drove the spike deeper for me to have a fabulous closing night.

I'm not going to say closing night was the single greatest performance I ever gave, no. That title belongs to opening night, a performance I wholeheartedly agree would not have been even an ounce as good if it twere not for the interceding of a certain Higher Power. And I believe He did it then so I could see, for the first time, how to properly play Lottie, because in every rehearsal prior I had had her general mass, but I had to skeleton to contain it.

So I would like to bid goodbye to Lottie. I would like to say farewell to the part that gave me all I need to act on stage. I would like to deeply thank the heartless woman who brought my talent meaning, and I'd like to thank my God for giving me the chance.

Lou Lou Letdown

I started this week at the top of the endless staircase in Super Mario 64. I tripped, I rolled, I bashed my head against the wall a few times, and I landed, spread-eagle, in a pool of blood and bitter tears. Who would have thought a week with only three school days could hurt my heart and tear ducts so much?

Forgive me if I'm not too eloquent, I just don't have the energy this evening.

It started Wednesday in AP Lit. We were getting back our timed writings from the time before, and yours truly--having received a 6 on the past two--was rather looking forward to this new score for the fridge. And, reminiscent perhaps of the monologue from A Chorus Line I used to audition for Musical two years ago, they gave me a 3.

I blinked back childish tears and wished in vain for Mrs. Drake to stop hissing her T's about the essay. I wanted to wad it up and leave the room. I couldn't stand something I'm so good at, something I'm so proud of, ending so wretchedly.

By the end of that day I was in Musical, a wondrous place of happy forgetfulness that normally makes me wish my life was on stage and only onstage, because life their is so much more fulfilling to me. But I stood on stage for my longest scene of the three I'm in, and my character wouldn't come. I couldn't even locate her voice enough to fake it. I felt myself shut down and began rambling off my lines so I stop embarrassing myself, get off stage, and rub myself raw in search of my hiding character. I exited not even delivering my final line, ready to go pout in the back of the room, when Angela beckoned me over.

"You need to make that bigger. Even that last line. Make it big. There are no small parts."

And it slipped through me like poison. I felt the sludge of my worthlessness; that I'd preformed so shoddily was one thing, but that Angela had to confront me about it, telling me to fix it, perhaps even entertaining the fancy that this was how I intended to play that part, was death to my heart in and of itself.

I have something I commonly refer to as "The Guilt", which results from my do-gooder nature in wrong-doer circumstances. I tend to dwell on the instant that brought "The Guilt" and replay how it should have gone over and over again until the wound has heeled, I've forgiven myself, and "The Guilt" has subsided. The average case lasts about two months, depending on the severity of the mistake, and how often my daily life reminds me of it.

I explained to Angela that I intended to do the part big and bold, but I could not find my character in that instance. I stood and began walking away from her, promising fervently it would be better next time, tears biting my pathetic eyes.

And today. Today was fine. Today was, actually, stupendous, until I came home in an elated manner to happily hug my mother who wouldn't hug me back. She told me she was disappointed I had done what a cousin of mine usually is scoffed at for. Then they proceeded to tell me how much I really should have stayed at my aunts wedding. How much fun my cousins had dancing, and how much fun I would have had with them. How we never see Sydney and it would have been a good idea to stay, if not for my newly wedded aunt, but for my Floridian cousin. How no one left the reception until after ten thirty, and how when it comes to family, things like that should be considered over meager friends surprise parties.

I went through half a box of tissues, sitting there in a ball on the couch, already replaying over and over images contrived from my imagination of me and my dear cousins hopping about the dim lit ballroom. I saw the DJ in the corner, I saw my aunt in her wedding dress, but as I blew my nose and whipped my eyes "The Guilt" slowly subsided. I kept the biting pain in the back of my conscience, the knowledge that, though my subconscious attitude had been "I'll stay longer at the next one", there would be no "next one" no one that close to me would get married with those same guests their and have that same dance party.

But the wound was scabbing over and I gave my father a hug before turning into a tear-free bed.

"And I could have had a daddy-daughter dance with you." He said.

I am a wretched being! I am the worst scum to have ever cursed this planet. I... I cry for nothing because it is all my fault. I cry for nothing because it was my selfish, worldly decision to go. Did I have fun with my friends? Yes, I made memories I won't soon replace.

But did I miss a reason to smile at the yearly Christmas Eve gathering, the Easter shindig, my own future wedding?!

Yes. I'm afraid I terribly did.

And "The Guilt" has me believing no amount of somber repentance will meand the wholes in the hearts I've ripped. If only I'd consider the after affect to my actions before my actions!

The Audience We Captivate is Already Ours

Ugh. Senior projects.

As they'd say in the 80's- "gag me with a spoon."

But... label me crazy, I'm not annoyed by this ridiculous, school wide joke. Yes, at first I begrudgingly bemoaned with the rest of my classmates, probably solely because my classmates were groaning first. But as last year's seniors were putting on their projects it just came to me. I knew what I was going to do my report on. I knew who I'd interview, how I'd contact him. Heck, I even figured out how to do my service hours. So while my fellow graduating class is rolling their eyes and looking for spoons, I'm grinning and saying "Let's do this."

The moment I asked Eric if I could interview him, outside his local theatre OBT (Off Broadway Theatre), having just joined his improv group onstage for an audience participation game where he said in front of Bountifillians and Salt Lakians alike that we go way back, Eric asked me why.

I told him he was a director, and that's the career I'm going to research.

You want to know what he said? (Forgive me, those who will be reading my senior project paper, though I doubt you're following this lowly blog, I will most likely use this exact scenario in my project as well.)

"Well yeah. But not really. I do everything. Stage craft, tech, playwright, actor... You name it I do it."

I admit, at the time, I was mildly dumbfounded. He'd cut me off my course. He'd almost made it seem like what I was asking him was completely pointless.

Thankfully I persisted.

I've been spending every Tuesday afternoon for the past month or so now "helping" with the acting classes (taught by Eric) at Rodger's Memorial Theatre. The first two weeks I felt like a complete waste of space. For two hours a week I sat and pushed play on the CD player approximately two times per Tuesday. I also spotted lines for missing people.

But, never fear, Eric scourged up some things for me to do the next week. Boy did I feel productive writing down what songs were what track on the CD.

But the next week, it's safe to say, changed my life. Literally.

Eric left the room for a moment, and I snappishly made the rowdy kids get back to rehearsing, saying that "Just because Eric's out of the room doesn't mean rehearsals over." I'm sorry to say that I believe the minorly bratty tone I subconsciously used that day has affected the way those kids see me. So the twenty of twenty-five that don't know me from previous shows seem to think I'm some bipolar lose cannon. Sigh.

I expected to keep them on track for five to ten minutes, then Eric would stride into the room and say in his booming, actor's voice, to run that scene from the top.

Well, five minutes turned to ten, and ten to fifteen, and it dawned on me that I was the teacher. That I was the one holding the reigns of this rehearsal.

I moved my way to the front of the room, pillaged script in hand, and began conducting rehearsal with a knowing air--though I've never attempted to instruct someone how to act in my life. Not saying that the need hasn't been exceptionally over-powering in some instances, but all in all I've never let my acting experience escape my own head.

By the time I'd settled into that strange position Eric strode through the room.

"Great going, guys!"

And he was gone.

Minutes later he'd pass by again.

"Thanks." He'd pat me on the knee as he briskly left the room.

And I truly don't know what it was. I really don't know why that day was so substantially different than every other day I'd "helped" there, or from any other acting class/rehearsal I've attended. But I left that place knowing that this is really what I want to do. It's always been a "Yeah. Uh huh. I'll get a teaching degree in theatre in college and see if I ever end up actually using it." "Yeah. Uh huh. Teaching theatre could be fun."

And today, just a few hours ago, I was sitting by myself in the dark, eye-straining tech booth running the sound and actually touching a sound board; writing notes on things the kids should fix or pay better attention to. I've been saying that, today, I was "Livin' the dream," doing what I've seen so many directors do for me, but finally being on the other side of it.

And while performing is phenomenal, there's something about being behind it that lifts me all the more. I know this is what I should be. I know this is what I should do.

How great it feels to know that yes, this will be my future. How great it is to dream of me and that future husband of mine setting up our own little theatre in some Podunk, artless town. How great it is to have a dream, an ambition. A goal. I never realized how terribly I was lacking one.

But I have it now. And it's all thanks to senior projects.

I Wish the Real World Would Just Stop Hassling Me

My dad's retired. He likes to sit in his lazy boy and watch discussions on politics because, frankly, he believes every day is taking us one step closer to the second coming.

They said something and my mom started freaking out.

"It's coming." Dad said. I regretted not listening. Those shows are on so often I tend to force them into background sound that rarely reaches me. At least when I'm preoccupied.

"What does that mean?" I asked, referring to the statement I'd missed.

"It means our standard of living is going to go down."

It's the age old cliche, "Life's not fair." I know I should understand this, having heard it on every sitcom I've ever viewed, but I can't help but be indignant. Soon I'll be a high school graduate. Soon I'll be off to college, off to the real world. I can see me entering a career, I can see me trying to start a family. I can see me trying to give my children all they deserve. I can see me trying to give me all I deserve. And it's not fair. Why I can't have the America I had when I was a kid, day-dreaming of growing up to become a veterinarian or a doctor? Why can't I have the America my parents had when they brought me into this world? Why can't I have the America they wrote of in the Constitution? Why has Karma picked my generation for its dumping ground?

A girl I work with once told me how her mom would always let them go visit relatives out of state when they were younger. She said it was because her mother wanted them to know what the real world was like. To quote her exactly, she said it was because "Utah is some protective bubble." She didn't want her children to grow up naive and in the dark.

Perhaps when Brigham Young said this was the place, he didn't mean it for the pioneers with their covered wagons. Perhaps he meant it for me, for you, for anyone who wants that America we grew up proud of. Perhaps this was the place to establish a protective bubble from the real world.

Because perhaps the real world would get rather terrible.

Perhaps the real world is rather terrible.

But what do I know? I'm a gullible resident of the bubble who doesn't even listen to transmissions from the real world.

Horses Bred With Star Laced Wings

I've had a lot of strange dreams lately. But the most common of all my dreams are the ones that show what you don't want to see. The ones that keep taking you by the hand and saying, "Dear. You still want this. Dear, you're not done yet."

Last night an old crush and I were talking. In my dream. And according to this dream the part of him being an "old" crush is utterly, wholeheartedly untrue. According to this dream, and my wiser subconscious, he's a current crush, a current love, dare I say. And we were talking.

And it felt so good, after chasing him down in my dreams for weeks, after seeing his image in my dreams for weeks, it felt so good to talk it away; to say my opinion, to hear him say his; to see through his eyes while he saw through mine. It felt so good to make it alright.

Perhaps this was spurred by the book I'm currently reading, Impossible (by Nancy Werlin), and the passage last night where Lucy had to confirm that Zach would stay her friend, that Zach would always be her friend.

Then I dreamed me and this crush were talking, like friends, and we even said that we both wanted to be friends, in spite of how I felt for him in the past (though, of course, my dream made me remember it's a current "feel" not a "felt", little does he know). And it just felt so good.

I love those kind of dreams, though I hate that they make me see the truth of who I am and what I'm dealing with. But I love the dreams that lock me so deeply in dreamland that I want to stay. I want to try to sleep till four in the afternoon with a full bladder because the dream is so...

Is so...

Is so much better.

I once heard someone say that they'd heard dreams were our reality, and, as Jason Mraz puts it, "this life is but a dream." (song: Live High). I told them jokingly back,

"I hope so, because the Dream Me has met Jason Mraz at least six times."

But what I tell myself is,

"I hope so, because things are so much simpler, so much prettier there."

In dreams I can be myself, perhaps that's because I create the world I dream I'm in. I wish I could speak to my subconscious, she's much brighter than I'll ever be.

But it's nice to know she'll keep speaking to me. She'll keep sending me dreams.

Whether I like the message or not.

Whenever We Pretend It's Summer

Well folks, it's that time of year again: Summer. It didn't really hit me until today as I sat in Lizz's car and grumbled to myself about the patch of sun burning my right arm into oblivion. And as I drove home from school with my Daphne Willis CD at the questionable volume 12, I found I have hope for this summer. It's almost like the fact that I'm being "rushed" into this summer vacation, due to the fact of bizarre wintertime weather, will somehow allow me to channel the adrenaline that usually accompanies summer breaks into productive somethings. Usually I burn out said adrenaline by the last day of school, and the "dog days" of summer become nothing more than that.

But I have the motivation this year. I pretty much have to. I mean, after all, this is the last summer.

What shall I accomplish on this my final summer of careless freedom? So glad you inquired. Here is my list. My "Bucket List", if you will:

• wake up at no later than 9:00 am each day (so I actually have some "summer days" instead of just those "summer nights" (kudos if you caught the musical pun))
• establish a habit of practicing piano and voice lessons nearly everyday
• read all the books on my bookshelf that haven't been read (I'm thinking of starting with "A Summer to Die". I don't know why. It just somehow seems relevant.)
• finally write that soon-to-be best selling novel (Cris Wooding published his first book at age 19. I gotta beat him.)
• get a smokin' tan
• get a smokin' bod
• get a smokin' man (hey, that inadvertently rhymed)
• read the Book of Mormon (We started yesterday as a Young Womens. So far I'm behind.)
• finish all, if not most, of my Personal Progress (yes, I am indeed a procrastinator)
• fix that horrible dent en mi coche (translation: fix that horrible dent in my car)
• compose accompaniment for one of my songs (I secretly want to try Battle of the Bands next year. And when that doesn't work at least I'll have something for Choir Semester Projects.)
• hit the gym with Erin. Maybe Lexi too (this kinda goes hand in hand with "get a smokin' bod")
• watch a movie with Lexi every Tuesday night (so far on the list: Muppets in Space, Back to the Future, Oliver and Company...)
• beat Zombies Vs. Plants (must... hear... tricycle song... *twitch*)
• figure out who's on my top five Hottest Celebrities (so far on the list: Jason Mraz, the young Michael J. Fox, and that dude that plays Steve in All About Steve)
• create a computer virus

Okay, that last one's total BS, but I felt I had to end it nicely somehow. And to me, "nice" can only be achieved by a homemade gift. Such as a computer virus.

Well, that is all I have to say here. I wanted to leave you a video of the Daphne Willis hit that has, for the time being, become my Summer Anthem. But, alas, that's the trouble with fresh, unheard artists. Their youtube video base is severely lacking.

Sometimes I forget how lucky I am that there are pathetic fans who video my singer of choice.

Mraz stalkers, Unite!

Here, Have Some Stress

"Ow." I thought as I tripped over the sprinkler head that dark, Fourth of July evening, landing to my knees on the sidewalk.

"You alright?" Grandma asked as I stood and brushed myself off.

"Yeah." I said, running back into Aunt Janet's house. I'd needed the bathroom, not a face plant.

I was washing my hands when I looked down at my legs. Low and behold, there was a circle of raw skin, signifying the classic scraped knee. I was surprised to see it there; I felt totally fine, it didn't even hurt.

Immediately I was struck with intense pain.

Fast forward nine years.

"Hey girl," Ashley said, walking around my car after lunch. "What happened to your car?"

"What?" I asked, shocked, expecting some scratch mark from Hades.

I rounded my back bumper.

No worries, there's no scratch.



I couldn't believe myself. The only time I could figure this happening was the day before.

I'd been driving around for a day without noticing my baby was hurt.

I've always considered the MrazMobile as an extension of my arm. Its name suggests it's a boy, but I'm so in tune with it it just has to be a girl. I can't make up my mind, so I only ever call it by its name: MrazMobile.

I could not believe I hadn't seen, I hadn't felt that epic dent. I couldn't believe a part of me could be injured so terribly and not have demanded I know so. How could I have been so dumb? How could I not have walked around my car, at least once that day? Why didn't I move my car at lunch, or even after school?

I'm so protective of it, you think I would have at least scoped it out once I got outside. But I didn't. I left it in harms way and out of my mind until someone pointed it out.

And like the Fourth of July, somethings just don't hurt until we see them. And once they're noticed, they absolutely kill.