There are other things.

"There are other things for us."
She said, staring down the barrel of a gun.
"There are other reasons we're standing here,
other songs that should be sung."
And the weapon's fired,
The clock's expired
And I find myself break a run,
Toward yesterday's
And far-aways
I'd never thought would come.

Until at moment's last, the summer smiles
In the soft ray of light from a moon
And I can't keep up the motion of
Breath having died too soon.
We struggle with our paces
And defend worried faces,
Praying all will soften to a swoon
When the owls cry
And ends are nigh
And never crests from gloom.

Don't pity him,
Don't pity me,
Don't tell me how to stand.
Or how the world is empty when
You're absent someone's hand.
Don't say I'm clear to disappear
And pray things plot my course
The way my mind has drafted it,
When I was yet in sorts.

carefree summer

"I don't believe in signs, Erica."

I faltered mid sentence and glanced at her briefly before turning back to the road. "You don't believe in signs?" I had to assure I'd heard her right.

"No. You're always talking about things like they're signs and I don't believe in signs."

Perhaps it's my innate skills of word working that has me constantly searching for deeper meaning in the text of life. Perhaps, in the way more analytical folks see patterns and numbers in the day to day things, writers and dreamers search for the metaphor within. That's what separates the disciplines; empirical vs spiritual. The deduction of how things work rather than why things work and what it all means. It's the artist in me. It's the religionist in me. It's what keeps me optimistic--my constant search for a clue of destiny, fate, the best to come.

There are moments in my life where I've felt what I believe to be pure peace, true joy, perfection even. But these moments are just that, moments, so the teaser of possibilities fades away, appearing only so I'll recognize it when I do finally stumble upon it. They'd come when I would read. I got into "chapter books" and novels in elementary because they made me feel something; dropped me in this world I didn't know about, took me places, had me experience things I never did. I would feel free, liberated, carefree, alive. It happens when I listen to Jason Mraz after any amount of time without hearing his angelic tones. It happens when I take the stage under another person's name. But it never stays. The book ends and it's over, the song ends and I'm empty, the show's done and the character evaporates into the vapor cloud that possessed me. I've wanted to capture it for years. I started writing a book in ninth grade that was/is titled in all my saved documents of it "carefree summer," because I wanted to write a book that embodied that feeling, that breezy life they always had in books (breezy naturally meaning feel-good, not simple and without adversity). I wanted to harness that peace, that joy, and maybe give myself the ability to keep it otherwise.

I've been muddled the past couple weeks. The semester is progressing, I'm growing more established in the new routines of my job at a credit union, the elementary school musical I'm directing is coming to the apex, and I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

I want to teach theatre. I won't find a job in that. I won't get paid for it. And should I be lucky enough to score a spot in the field, it's not a job I leave at work. Theatre doesn't stop, especially when you're the one running it all. I don't want to teach English. I'd be good at it. I can see that, but I've never wanted to, that's never been my desire. I want to write. I want to change my double major to creative writing and learn the things I really want to know to accomplish that part of my dreams. I won't find a job in that. If I happen to write something worth publishing, it's not going to rake in billions of dollars unless it somehow becomes the next teen fandom. I want to go on a mission, but I don't want to quit this job and lose that money and drop my schooling and....

Everything's just felt so wrong. Like the credit union was a mistake. Like taking generals this semester to get my associates done was the wrong course. Like I should have stayed home today.

But not this week. I can't pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but I'm going to guess it started Monday. I drove out to Ogden, and now that I do that regularly I've grown tired of the one CD I've been listening to for a couple weeks, when it usually takes a month or so before over-kill settles in. I popped in a recording of a Pickleville Playhouse melodrama and listened to the music and selected scenes of dialogue from the show, my insides burning with this excitement and happiness.

And it hasn't stopped all week. I'm addicted to it, to this feeling of feeling good. I can't get enough of this carefree summer, and other than the minor set back when an elementary school student left me a rather insulting note, this feeling hasn't gone away. I've gone from school to work to Friendsday to rehearsal to a live theatre production to lounging in my friends' apartment/duplex, and it hasn't gone away. I've been swarmed in this carefree summer all week, and I don't know what I did to get it, but it suddenly occurred to me I'm living that life I've been craving from the beginning. I'm at that point of peace and joy.

So I'm living in it. I'm taking it as a sign that things are right, here. That I'm where I'm meant to be standing regardless of what I thought now would look like. I'm taking this moment for all it is. And next semester can come when it comes. My next show will come when it's time. A mission will come when it's right. I don't need to plan ahead or worry about tomorrow. I need to lift where I stand in today and keep this carefree summer before it goes away.

God Is Not Dead, Nor Doth He Sleep

I'm teaching Gospel Doctrine, and my lesson Sunday is on the Creation. Earlier this week I actually reviewed the lesson manual, which is different for me as I often hold off until the Friday-Saturday before I teach. I remembered something my dad had read to me in a book a few years back about some man's near death experience in which he was able to hear the energies of the plants and animals, and even things we'd classify as no longer living, such as a wooden desk, but he "walked" among them and could hear how grateful they were to be of use to man, how happy it made them to be part of this Plan.

It's stuck with me, in the back of my mind, and it struck me that I should share that with the class, that though the man's account isn't necessarily "doctrine," it would be worthwhile to share for the sheer sake of perspective. So I made a note to ask my dad about the book.

My dad is your stereotypical father in the sense that he sits in his Lazy-Boy and does everything from read to watch TV to sleep. His chair's in the corner of our living room, right next to our wood-burning stove. Over the years he's adopted that area as a second office, and often has a hoard of books and magazines stacked on the hearth like a library overflow. My mother, being the stereotypical mother in terms of cleanliness, doesn't like the mess, especially when company comes over, because to Mom even if someone is quickly dropping by to hand off a birthday card, this place better shine like the top of the Chrysler building.

One evening I had a moment, and he didn't look too busy, reclined in his chair, so I asked him about the book.

"I threw it out." He said matter-of-fact.

"Why?" I asked, taken aback.

"I was cleaning up for the last party. I just threw it all out."

My dad's always been a little on edge my whole life. There was a time when we were kids that he was depressed, and he wasn't necessarily a sulky kind of depressed. He pulled out of that eventually, but it seems to have never been an easy road for him. He's struggled with headaches most of his life, and within the past few years they've increased in length and pain, to the point that he now as a constant debilitating headache, the kind of headache that I can only cope with by lying down and napping it away. But you can't nap away your life.

I don't want you to have the wrong idea of my dad. He's a wonderful man, and from the time I was a preteen to present he's been my best friend. He's my Number 1 fan in theatre and writing, my greatest confidant and my idol. I've always had this overbearing love for my father, regardless how difficult and strained this have been in the course of my life. I am always proud of him. I always cherish his opinion. And when I find someone I love as much as him, I know I'll have it made.

But like in the Book of Mormon where the Nephites spin in the endless loop of the pride cycle, going from prospering to thoughts and actions of pride to sinning to repenting and prospering and on, my dad's life is coming full circle. He's starting to be the way he was when I was young. He's withdrawn, he's angry more readily, he's less patient with me and interested in my stories. I've had to go back to gauging his mood before I approach him with more than a sentence or two. I've had to go back to toeing the line in order to avoid pushing him over the edge.

And I'm out of practice. I've been stung a few times already.

But the book kept bothering me. Mind you, I don't think about my lesson as much during the week as I should. I get caught up in my school work and social life and thoughts of making my lesson worthwhile don't creep into my mind. But this book, this account of that man's near death experience, wouldn't leave me alone. And I hated the idea that I'd been prompted to find it only to not be able to act on the prompting and use it. It didn't seem fair that this brilliant idea would be swung in front of my eyes only to be forever behind bullet proof glass, out of reach. Something I'd continue to see but never be able to get at.

On Thursday I decided I wasn't going to take his word for it. We have a large cabinet in the living room across from his chair that we use as a bookshelf. It has a lot of different church books, but we often don't go inside it. I concluded the reason the book kept bugging me was that it must be in that cabinet, and he doesn't remember because he's too much in pain to think back that far to when he moved it from the hearth to the bookcase.

When I returned home from campus sometime after ten that night, I spoke with him briefly and then started going through the cabinet.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"I don't believe that you threw that book away. So I'm going to look for it in here."

He told me again that it was gone, but I kept scanning spines, having absolutely no idea what I was looking for. As this notion dawned on me he told me to go turn the main lights on. As I came back from the lightswitch he was slinking out of his chair and kneeling down before the lower portion of the bookcase. He started looking.

"I know which one you're talking about. It's about that kid who died."

"Do you know what it's called?" I asked.

"No." He partially snapped, moving books to see past them.

After a moment he gave up and stood, returning to his chair. "I'm pretty sure I threw it away. Actually I know I through it away. I purposefully threw that one away."

"Why?" I asked him, beginning to be irritated that he'd do that. Why would I think I wouldn't be interested in looking at that again? It had been a few years, and lesson aside, I never even got to read the book in the first place.

"I was cleaning up for the party." He said with a note of bitterness.

I continued to scan the spines of the books in the upper portion of the bookcase, looking now for anything that might have something to do with the Creation inside. I told him he should have run that by me first and he retorted back the simple, slightly biting phrase "Okay Karl," a reference to my pack-rat grandfather. His tone was different that time, and I knew I was too close to making him furious. I dropped it and kept looking for something I could use. I found a book by Bruce R. McConkie that was in essence an encyclopedia of Church doctrine, and figured that was good enough.

I told Dad, when he asked, what I'd found, expressing it was a shame I couldn't find the other book. How I hated that I'd been so strongly prompted to find it but then not be able to act on that prompting. To try to lighten the near accusatory tone I'd just displayed, I shrugged and said "Who knows. Maybe I was supposed to look for it so I'd find this one." I jerked the McConkie book to show what I meant.

"No," Dad said. "You were meant to look for it because it has my testimony in it." His eyes started to grow watery. "That's why I threw it away. I don't care anymore."


8 For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.
9 For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.

I don't know God's plan. I don't know God's thoughts. I don't know where I'm going or where He sees me. I don't know how He plans to help my father, how He worked things for my brother to bring him back to the fold and back to a more docile and loving persona. I don't know why I needed to find that book, why I needed to hound him about it. I don't know what this experience will do. But I am so beyond grateful that in whatever way I could, I did something. That's all I know. God asked something of me, something that evidently had more dire effects than I'd anticipated setting out, but that He was able to use me for what He needed of me. He was able to use me, I hope, to extend another nudge my father will come to terms with eventually, and stop pretending he's angry with God. Because I'd very much like to live with both my fathers when I pass back through the veil.

-Because there's no better title at this time.-

I never thought I'd be able to drive. I couldn't figure it out, and as the hours went on I became convinced I'd be that anomaly in a world of automobile drivers to be inept at functioning behind the wheel. I started looking at how life would be without the luxury of a car, or even the capacity to operate one. I knew there were millions who could do it, but I'd never be one of them. I couldn't do it. I couldn't see myself doing it.

I've felt the same way about a lot of things. Marriage, giving birth. I don't think it's a low self-esteem issue, something like believing I'm not good enough for it. That's not the case, and I think that's something people tend to misunderstand about me. I'm not self-conscious. I mean yes, I have my moments were a feel pudgy or not so glamorous, but everyone does; it's human nature. I'd be lying to say I'm 100% satisfied with myself 100% of the time, but those are just moments, not layers of chronic self-deprecation. I don't underestimate myself. I once had a guy tell me there was no way guys wouldn't be interested in me--like he was trying to boost my self worth so I'd leave that "relationship" with him and enter the world confident in my ability to attract men.

I've never doubted that. I've never felt I wasn't good enough for a guy, I've never felt no one would ever want me.

I've been worried I won't find the right one.

I can't see myself being married, even as marriage becomes less of a child's perspective of what her parents did and what all the old couples in the ward did and more of a thing my friends do and things my friends talk about with their boyfriends/girlfriends, I can't see it happening. *Again, I remind you, it's not that I don't think I'm good enough to get married, it's the idea that the opportunity will never fully come, the idea never realized.* Which is absurd coming from a 21 year old who's only been in one 'official' relationship and has only been seriously on the dating scene for just over a year. It's ridiculous.

But I was reminded of it as I checked my facebook just now and saw a Junior High friend's pictures of the child she birthed nearly six hours ago, and I was awoken to the fact that I can't see myself having kids. I can't see that ever happening.

It's more than that. I can't see myself as a good improviser, I can't see myself as a competent missionary, I can't see myself as a theatre teacher, I can't see myself as an accomplished author, I can't see myself as a functioning adult in society with a working knowledge of politics and taxes and current events.

I can't see these things. I've set up this barrier that prohibits me from fully experiencing life. I've created a rule for myself to hold back and hesitate just a little, because you never know. I've let my existence be wrapped and warped in doubt.

And the only way I can think to get past it is to keep going. I've used it before, but I'll use it again. I couldn't see the Improvables letting me into the troupe after those auditions. So I didn't want to go. But I pushed through and went.

I need to stop thinking life is easy, or that I can make it easy by holding back. You'll never learn to drive the car if you don't sit and focus on what you're doing. You have to train yourself to understand. You have to train yourself to perform the task. It takes brainpower and concentration. It takes focus and effort. It takes the will to try, and actively doing it constantly. But one day you realize driving's not that hard, and you just needed to relax a little bit and give yourself time.

I can get married, I can have babies, I can become sufficient at improv, I can follow my dreams and accomplish them. To do so, I have to stop telling myself they need to be in the immediate foreseeable future, and I need to kick the nasty habit of waiting for "next time."

Farewell December

I'm trying something new this year.

I'm throwing things away.

I've always lived with clutter. I've always been a pack-rat, less affectionately termed a "horder." The trouble comes from the fact that I attach memories to physical objects, and it often feels like if I give the object up, I abandon the memory as well. This is why I like concert t-shirts, why I wanted a copy of John Knowles' A Separate Peace with the same cover as the copy I originally read, why I save souvenirs from every show I'm in; the list goes on. Sometimes even simply remembering who gave me the item, even if it's completely insignificant and possibly from the DI, I can't ditch it. It has too much recognition attached to it. The trouble is there's not space for an entire life of memories in this room of mine, and I can't keep saving everything riding on the belief I'll have space for it when I'm married and move out. Because life will happen in between then and now, and I'll gather more things inevitably.

So, starting today, I'm throwing things away.

I wasn't going to make this a cliche New Years Resolution post, but as I started typing I remembered something someone at church said about the way to make goals effective is to tell them to someone, to hold yourself accountable to more than just yourself.

So here are my resolutions. Here are my goals in all their personal glory.

-Do my school work so I pass my classes. Try.
-Give myself the missionary discussions. Study one every other week and plan my Sunday School lessons on the opposite weeks.
-If able with the (hopefully) new job, go to the temple every Wednesday and Friday morning.
-Save money. Budget forty dollars a month to funtivities and stick to it so you stop being poor.
-If able with the (hopefully) new job, go to the gym Monday/Wednesday/Friday, going after the temple on Wednesday and Friday.
-Go to bed between 11 and 12 and wake up at seven.
-Read John Donne


What I really wanted to do was a year in review. I really like these, and a simple post covering the year is a good way to tell the kids what their mum accomplished in 2013 so they don't have to sift through my two journals spanning the year to get the basic thread.

So here is my year in review:

January-February I was assistant stage manager for Will Rogers' Follies at Weber State, which was an excellent experience with fantastic cast and crew, and the show became one of my favorites ever. Will Roger's is an amazing man. Look into him if you don't know of him. He's one of those guys we need wandering around today, making a difference and stirring the pot.

At the same time I was directing my first musical at West Bountiful Elementary. And for the first time in my life I considered myself an artist. I've had these pictures in my head, these beautiful thematic pictures that I've never been able to sculpt or paint or sketch, and it wasn't until watching the musical come together that I realized I'd finally done it. I'd finally gotten a cookie cutter of what was in my head to exist in reality. And it looked just like I wanted it to. It was incredible to work with those 4th, 5th, and 6th graders, giving me the realization that it wouldn't be terrible to teach at a junior high. It gave me something to present at juries, something to further my ambition, practice for later in the year when I'd direct my college peers. It taught me responsibility. I didn't want to disappoint those kids. I didn't want to show up unprepared and let them down.

It was probably March when I auditioned for Pickleville Playhouse. They didn't take me, which is understandable because frankly I just don't have pipes. And because I, less than a week later, was officially made part of the Improvables.

On St. Patrick's Day I met Daphne Willis in Park City by fan-girling at her. Surprised and (hopefully) complimented, she hooked me and Emily up with a private mini concert because we'd driven out there to see her and she wasn't actually playing in the lounge that day. And even if she had been we wouldn't have been able to listen. Still 20 at this point and stuff.

Somewhere in April/Mayish I auditioned for a play at the community theatre, and went to my first callbacks since high school two years before. They had me and three other women --and I say women meaning I was the youngest-- stay later to read a different set of sides than she (the director) had us reading as a group of twelve. I'd gone into the first audition with two small monologues prepared. She wanted to see us perform monologues she'd selected from the script, and being a 20 year old girl, I didn't think they'd give me much of a part, so I prepared a more sheepish monologue. But there was another that was so biting I just had to do it. I decided if she gave me time for both I'd do the biting one last.

So I had.

And she had me stay later at call backs to read for that part.

And then I got it.

I was cast in my first show since high school, and in my first community theatre show ever. In June and July I performed as Juror 4 in 12 Angry Jurors, which has become one of my favorite shows to ever work on because there was so much power in that cast, in being cooped up in the "jury room," stuck on stage for an hour and some odd minutes, fermenting in our characters and in our discussions. I was finally able to put two years of college theatre training to use (which, side note, is another reason I want to teach, because tell me how it's fair to learn thousands of incredible things and never be given the opportunity to try them out in something more than a monologue or five minute scene). It restored faith in myself as a performer. That I can do this. I'm good enough for theatre.

Spanning January to April I was trudging my way out of being severely interested in a certain gent who didn't care for me in the slightest, and accepted a date with another I'd met my first year of college.

In June he became my first boyfriend.

In July he became my first ex.
\
 I learned patience, that I don't need to rush, and that I don't need to end up with everyone I go on a date with, and that it's okay if I like other guys more than some: that's the point. And it's okay if they seem to like me and several weeks later change their minds. It hurts, it sucks, and it leaves you alone, but it's okay.

I arranged to carpool with my dear new best friend Rachel (new meaning new to me not replacing the old) to school pretty much every day. I got an institute parking pass for Tues/Thurs, the days we really needed it. I became closer with her and her (ex) boyfriend, as well as made friends in my English and Chemistry class, and tried to maintain confident Erica in my theatre classes, because for some reason confident Erica didn't seamlessly roll over into that world.

I went on a blind date, I cast three fantastic actors in my scene from "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead," I auditioned for another community theatre show and was cast as understudy for two roles as well as backstage tech for the nights I wasn't performing. I balanced school, work, rehearsal for three months.

I was mic tech for an original musical on campus and watched the show backstage every night, having delightful and deep conversations with one of the grips, and becoming better friends with him as well. I started hanging out with the cool kids weekly, when I could, and got to be a more integral part of the group. Sometimes I stupidly am still surprised people like them can like me.

Shortly around this time I was called as a Sunday School teacher in my single's ward. Gospel Doctrine. I was panicked and worried about time and my horrible way of managing it, but I said yes because Jesus wanted me to. And I've loved every minute of it and can already feel myself developing into a better teacher.

In October I made my own Halloween costume, the little girl zombie from The Walking Dead, dirtying my bath robe with watered down acrylic paint. People thought it was rad. I couldn't believe I'd never made a costume before. It was more fun than anything ever.

In November nothing exceptionally notable happened...just continued on with school, the cool kids, rehearsals for my directing scene and Farndale Avenue's Housing Estate's Townswoman's Guild's Dramatic Society's Production of A Christmas Carol. (I never really memorized were the possessive apostrophes go...)

December I performed in Farndale Avenue, survived finals week, had my Rosencrantz and Guildenstern scene go off without a hitch, earning me an A and several compliments from the teacher on the dynamic of the cast. I wasn't scheduled at the bakery for three weeks straight, but (Christmas miracle/tender mercy) was working as a tech for Farndale on the nights I didn't perform so I earned a bit of money during that time anyway.) Had my 21st birthday, spent with the cool kids. Started interviewing for jobs as a teller, had my Floridian cousin come home and here we are.

Back at the beginning. More happened this year, a lot of little things, but I wrote all the big things that came to mind right off the bat. The rest meant something, but not enough of a something to have a shout-out I suppose. I'm looking ahead now, to a year of directing another musical, (hopefully) meeting/hugging Norman Reedus, maybe finding a gent to hold my hand for a while, (hopefully) getting a new job, and possibly going on a mission. We'll see. There are things I control and things I don't. And a lot of things that can be handled if I simply get out there, smile, and try.

The Back-Handed Compliment

I thought when he said we could talk about it at the show that night it would be to ease my pain with a friendly hand on the shoulder and a few soft pats laced with the undertone that I was never really ever considered for the part, so it shouldn't be a surprise he had to email me with negative results.

And not negative in medical terms, meaning the disease isn't present. Not negative that way. Not really.

You can understand my surprise when the producer of the black box at the local community theatre approached me with a hesitantly sorrowful face that night and mouthed "Did you get your email?" before sweeping me into a gentle hug upon my Yes.

He started talking. Said after Saturday she was in first and I was in second, I listened, my mind remembering the four other girls up for the part at callbacks, but he was only talking about me and one other. Just two of five. "After Tuesday it all swapped. Your readings were so solid." My brain started to make sense of his monologue.

It was between me and one other. Just two.

"I was pushing for you but [the director] was pushing for her. And you were so close in everything that we had to go with looks. And I hate that because I've lost parts that way."

But she looked more like Thomas More's daughter than I did.

I don't have enough English blood for English looks.

I was chipper, I was flattered, I was understanding. It was enough to know I'd been considered. Especially so closely. I felt good about my callbacks, but I had no idea I was near the head of the group after that terrible first audition. But he looked at me and told me several times that I'd been good. I'd been really good. And so had she. So they had to go with who looked more familial.

And it was her.

But you can see how, letting it sink in further, I realized how disgruntling a situation this was. I'd been so close. I was so close. And I lost it for looks. I lost it for being blonde and blue eyed. I lost it for being round faced, not narrow faced. I'd lost it for factors beyond my control.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not angry and making voodoo dolls of the other girl. Nor am I curled up with the pint of ice cream my mom bought me for my birthday. I'm taking it with a grain of salt: a back-handed compliment of sorts. Knowing that I did my best, and that my best is better than I give myself credit for. I just wasn't meant for the role. Not this time.

There's a line in Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead that keeps coming to mind: "Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit being an entrance somewhere else."

I'm not meant to enter the role of Margaret More. I'm exiting from the stage for a while, metaphorically and literally, the enter into something else. Something that's more suited for me at this point of my life. It would have been amazing to do a beautiful drama like A Man for All Seasons. It would have been delightful to work with a different director and several new-found, good theatre friends. It would have been fun to wear those heavy, authentic 1600's costumes. It would have been, it would have been, it would have been.

But it won't be. Not for me. I don't need to be Meg. I don't need to enter here. I'm needed somewhere else.

I'm just waiting for the cue.

I don't know what to write today. 

It seems I've cycled back through to a realm in which I've lost the words. A realm that isn't pleasant to dwell in, mind you, and one I don't make a practice of visiting much. 

I started watching Lord of the Rings. 

It was last week, and I scrambled to finish an essay I should have written a good four weeks beforehand, knowing my friends were gathered at a house several blocks away watching hobbits and dwarves sing and adventure. Thankfully they'd started the movie late, so I made it in time to leave the Shire.

But I've never been much of a fan. I've never seen Lord of the Rings, other than several parts multiple times (how I manage to walk into the room or change the channel during the same battle sequence as often as six times is beyond me). I went because 1) it was the cool kids. The cool kids were watching the movie, and I'm sorry, but I'm part of the cool kids for once so I make an effort to participate in their outings. 

Or innings, rather.

2) We, the cool kids, were going to the midnight premier the following night of the Hobbit. For contingency's sake we'd scheduled it like this. So I went. So I wouldn't be lost.

And both that night and the following night in the theater behind two friends in hobbit garb, I was a goner. That rascal Peter Jackson, that sly dog Tolkien sucked me in. 

I miss imagination. I miss reading epics, I miss the formulation of something other than contemporary life swirling through my mind. I miss difference. I miss clarity and uniqueness and beauty. 

I want it. I want to write, I want to read, I want to watch and feel something. I want something, my heart constricting with the idea that I have nothing--which is false in every sense of the phrase, but as is said in the play Seminar, paraphrased because I can't manage to find my copy of the script, "Writer's need to feel something to write."

I haven't been feeling much lately. And now all I feel is that ache to feel, that need to feel. It's not really much, but I suppose it's enough.