Found Space

Daytime Drama

2006-12-28T22:01:00.000-06:00

Nothing went right today. Not even this post, that I don't feel like finishing, suddenly.

Why do I even try?

Don't worry, I'm not actually as angsty as that sounded. It's just that, after I had already had it up to here with life, the bottom burst out of the trash bag on my way out the door.

I'm sure I don't have to explain the subsequent wave of darkness that came over me.

Who is this girl?

2006-12-26T22:36:00.000-06:00

Oh yeah, she used to write that one blog. Didn't she die or something?

No, for real, when I tried to get on to post this entry, for about 30 seconds I couldn't even remember the name of my blog. And that's just sad. But, hey, you all know me. Who's surprised?

And let's be honest. We're never going to get through what happened in London, or what happened on summer tour. It's the day after Christmas, for crying out loud. And I refuse to feel guilty. What I do with my life is, let's face it, just not that terribly interesting. I'll write whatever I feel like, and not worry about updating my loyal readerbase (seriously guys, I think you're taking optimism just a little past its reasonable limits) about my goings-on. Not that there are, you know, goings on. It was just an expression.

Wanna read a poem I wrote? I just dug it out of my purse when I was cleaning it out looking for my debit card this afternoon (I found the card, btw). It was inspired by a chance remark made by Andy when we were in Georgia about growing up in the south.

Way back when wafts through me
Like the scent of dogwood trees in blossom
Hanging on the breeze to settle gently
In my nose
It clings to me like the smell of barbecued ribs
Smoky and overpowering
It follows me like my mother's perfume
Lingering in a room long after she's left

Way back when tastes like sweet tea
Slipping down my thoat like children's cough syrup
Thick with sugar and southern hospitality
It sticks in my teeth like the pulp of a peach
And coats my tongue
With the buttery sweetness of a pecan pie

It is moistened in clear streams
(where frogs jump)
Baked in the hot Georgia sun
Set in the cool shade of Magnolia trees
It softens me like a boiled peanut
Left soaking in a pot
Way back when flows over me like sweat on a summer day
(it's not the heat, it's the humidity)

It is the rust red of Georgia red clay
(the color of all my socks)
And shaped like the dusty paths
That drew me into the woods
(beyond myself)
It is green
Creeping over me like long strands of kudzoo
Reshaping me with unrelenting longevity
It is fuschia
Lining my roads with unexpected vividness
Like the flowering trees that border Highway 75

Way back when breaks through the noise of after
With the songs of before
Patsy Cline and Reba McIntyre
And the drone of insects on a still night
The belch a bullfrog
And the bleat of a fawn--discovered
Only if I walk softly
(and alone)

The Smoky Mountains stoop down
And flatten themselves into an
Endless
Expanse
Of cornfields
But I remember how they looked
Through twelve-year-old eyes
And I can still see them
(touch them taste them)
And Georgia is still there
Where I still smell her hear her
(know her)

Yeah, can somebody end this for me? I suck at ending things. My endings are somehow even more sentimental than my beginnings.

That's poetic.

We Are In London!

2006-09-18T21:59:00.000-05:00

5/19/06
Worcester

Today we visited the Worcester Cathedral. I'd never seen one before and it was pretty amazing. I walked in and thought to myself, "Khazad-dûm!" There were stone pillars that looked straight out of Moria. And of course, lots of stained glass--one with a pink giraffe in it. There was also this long hall, with dark wood pews on either side, and it reminded me of the hall in Charn, in The Magician's Nephew, you know--with all the kings and queens? Thre was even a table at the end, where the hammer and bell would have been. And there was a tall cabinet-looking thing, and I asked Sarah Dee "What's in there?" and she said, "Narnia."

Gosh, it's a good thing I'm a complete geek, or I wouldn't be able to describe anything.

Peculiar thing about the weather in England: it only rains for about 10 minutes at a time. Then it's sunny for about 5 minutes, overlapping the rain by about 1 minute. Then it's windy and gray and overcast for 30 minutes, and then the cycle starts all over again.

Weird place.

5/21/06
Worcester

Nothing can describe what it was like to be in Stratford-upon-Avon and seeing a production of Romeo and Juliet by the Royal Shakespeare Company, so I won't even try. Yesterday was my favorite day of the whole trip (and remains so even now). I wish I lived there.

Today Marion and Denis took Heidi and I to a real, inhabited castle nearby. Pretty much amazing.

A word about British newspapers: Breasts. Almost every page features breasts! IN THE NEWSPAPERS!! Today there was an article about a woman who had some genuine disease called something like "Constant Arousal Syndrome" and she has like 250 orgasms in a day, according to the headline. Mixed in among articles on football and some violence...in the newspaper, not tabloids. I can only imagine what their tabloids cover. Actually, I hope I never imagine them.

These are the haikus that Aubrey Weger wrote on this subject:

Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.
Turn the page tentatively...
Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs.

British newspapers
Are much more interesting
Than American.

Thanks, Aubrey!

Oh yeah, and Denis and Marion's favorite kind of music is country. :)

5/22/06
Worcester, Downtown, The Library
9:45 AM

"FamiliarStrange"

The sky is dark
Heavy with the prophesied birth
The sounds of her labor familiar
Strange, because I am strange
Unfamiliar with the old red brick
And the bluegreenred doors (but no purple)
That hide people
With strange accents
And lace curtains
The patterns of traffic are strange
Seeming to point everywhere
And Peugeots and Citroëns go in all directions at once
Confusing my muddled notions of Order
And Predictability
But the faces are familiar
Strange, on the wrong side of the car
Because I am strange
Timorously skipping across slippery white lines
Jumping the last few feet, to stand
Grinning, on the oppposite curb
Safe
Another game won
The sky heaves her last
Drops of ancient water collect in my eyelashes
Darken my hair
Splash my cheeks
(Carefully painted just two short hours before--
An effort to like myself)
The cold pinprick is shocking
The age old joker
Recycled
Made from the same water that flows from my garden hose
Drawn from the rivers of my childhood
Siphoned from the ocean I saw from 35,000 feet
It's presence familiar
Strange, because I am strange
Frizzy-haired and resigned to this inevitability
Not bothering with my purple umbrella
Accustomed now to soggy forays
Down unfamiliar gray streets
That feel old
Full of stories
Stories I've never known, because I've never heard
But stories I would recognize in an instant
Because they are their stories
Our stories
My Stories
And I am strange--familiar
Because they are familiar

There and Back Again

2006-09-18T21:18:00.000-05:00

Yeah, so I disappeared off the face of the earth for about four months or so. Sorry about that. Anyway, so much has happened since then, and half of it belongs here. So here's what we're going to do: the next few posts will detail my trip to London (mostly taken verbatim from my London journal!), and then I'll talk about summer tour for a while, then maybe RUSH, and then we should be about up to date. So, yeah. London. Here we go.

There And Back Again

a British Tale

by Lindsay Westerkamp

or...

Remember that one time when we went to England?!

5/18/06
London
8:00ish AM

I didn't journal at all on the plane. I lost my pen in the first 30 minutes. Classic. Sometimes I took my journal out to look at it. I discovered a little pocket in the back, to keep mementos in. Handy. Sometimes plane rides make me feel sick. I watched parts of about six movies, though. Those thoughts were unrelated.

I am writing this from a British tour bus taking us to Worcester. Worcester, which is pronounced "Wooster." The British are weird. I still feel kind of sick. London feels like Omaha, only we're driving on the left side of the road, the cars are British sometimes, and the license plates look funny.

Matthew just slug-bugged me. In London.

Same day
Worcester/"Wooster"
1:00 PM

Heidi and I are staying with an older couple, Marion and Denis, who live in a small village near "Wooster." They've been housing students through this program for 17 years. They showed us an address book and a photo album full of names and faces from all over the world. They seem like delightful people.

We had tea, tomatoes, cucumbers, and ham&butter sandwiches for lunch.

The toilet flushes oddly. Not the civilised flow of water down the sides of the porcelain to refill the bowl, this English toilet gushes, a violent flood of water that quite startled me the first time I used it.

Same day
9:00 PM

We watched the "telly" this afternoon, and "The Price is Right" was on, with a flamboyant British host, and Pound signs instead of Dollar signs (₤ = Pound sign).

We had cottage pie and carrots and new potatoes for supper. Or was it tea? I'm not sure which was which. For dessert there was hot pudding poured over mincemeat pie. Cottage pie is mostly mushed-up meat combined with mushed-up onions, topped with mushed-up potatoes. No, really, it was actually quite good, and very filling.

After dinner we went for a drive around Malvern, a nearby town. It was wonderful. On both sides of the intimidatingly narrow road (made even tighter by a row of parked cars, reducing it to about a lane and a half) were ivy-covered brick houses straight out of the movies, big church-looking houses converted into flats, rhododendron bushes, and green, green trees. Everything is green here. It began to rain again, and a completely visible full arch of a British rainbow appeared. I've never seen one so bright. I've already used up almost an entire roll of film with pictures of the view from the ginormous Malvern hill--green fields, dotted with English sheep, wreathed in English mists, and framed by stone walls and an English rainbow.

I want to live here someday. Not forever, I don't think, but for a while, as a student, or an actor, with my own flat and a little car, far enough into the English countryside to see what I saw today, and close enough to London to work.

My mom would love it here.

Warning: Almost as Long as the Last One

2006-05-08T18:18:00.000-05:00

(To follow along in order: Preface, Part 1, Part 2. This is another long one, but we're almost at the end of the series! One more piece...)

“Of Course”

I was seven when my mom whispered excitedly to me that she had something to tell me. “I might be pregnant!” she said. Her eyes sparkled. I wasn’t to tell anyone yet, not until the doctor confirmed it. But I could read in her face that she herself was already sure.

With two brothers already, I had been praying for a sister for years. I wasn’t really surprised to hear that a baby was on the way. I had known she was coming. And this was going to be “her.” The one I had been waiting for. This baby was going to grow up into someone I would share clothes with, scream at occasionally, talk about boys with, and look out for at school. We would bond, in that special way that only sisters have. I was certain of it. After all, I had prayed.

I announced excitedly at school that my mom was going to have a baby, but everyone else’s moms had already had babies, and no one was really very impressed. Of course, they couldn’t begin to know how much this baby already meant to me, how momentous this occasion really was, so I didn’t think it was entirely fair to blame them for their lack of enthusiasm. How could they understand?

My brothers and I took “big sibling” classes at St. Luke’s hospital, learning what to expect with a new baby in the house. They gave us a little book, a baby book for siblings. It had pages to draw pictures of ourselves and our family, pages to draw pictures of the new baby when she came, and fill-in-the-blank stories to tell about how much she weighed, what she looked like, and what her birth was like. I couldn’t wait to fill it up. As each month passed, it seemed like the day would never arrive. My mom looked beautiful to me, in her home-made floral-print maternity dresses. I knew that the bigger she grew, the closer the day approached when I would see this little girl face to face.

An elderly woman from church told my parents she had a pretty good feeling about this child. “Lindsay is going to be so disappointed,” she said. “You’re in for another little boy,” she prophesied. My parents decided not to tell me.

My mom packed a suitcase. And we waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, the doctors decided to induce labor, so my parents scheduled a birthday for my new baby sister. They had already made arrangements with Pat, a friend of my mom’s, and my brothers and I packed our own overnight bags and headed over to her house to wait for the phone call from the hospital. We watched movies, and Pat let me stay up late, because she understood when I couldn’t sleep. In the morning, we made cookies, and Pat let us nibble on the cookie dough while we waited for them to come out of the oven.

Finally, the phone rang. Pat ran to answer it, and after a minute she handed it to me. My dad sounded tired, but very happy. “It’s a girl!” he announced. I jumped up and down and laughed gleefully. “Of course it is,” I thought. But I didn’t say it. “I’m going to come get you guys and you can come up here and visit your mom and your new baby sister, Rebekah Karen.” I went to wash my hands. I wanted to be ready.

When we got there, we had to wear little blue booties over our shoes, and a blue smock that tied in the back over our clothes. My mom looked more tired than I had ever seen her. They had had to take the baby by cesarean section, in the end. The petossin hadn’t quite cut it. But she was content, because snuggled in her arms was a little girl, with a perfectly beautiful button nose, tiny tiny fingers tucked in infant mittens, itty bitty toes hidden by fuzzy pink hospital booties, and silky wisps of light, coppery-brown hair. She was sleeping then, so I didn’t discover the exquisite beauty of her dark blue eyes until later.

My dad looked so happy. I can’t clearly remember a time before or since that I’ve seen him look like that, a mixture of joy, pride, and exhaustion. My mom let me hold the soft, pink bundle, and it seemed to me that she weighed practically nothing. Actually, I was later to understand that she had been a huge baby, weighing in at nearly ten pounds and measuring twenty-one inches. She looked so small in my eyes, though. I was afraid to hold on too tightly, in case she might break, and afraid to hold on too loosely, in case I might drop her. I handed her back to my dad after only a few minutes.

My brothers, aged two and four at the time, were as fascinated by her as I was. But they weren’t quite sure they understood this undersized person. They crowded in to look at her and touch her, but didn’t want to hold her. They bounced around on the hospital bed until Dad decided we all needed to go home and let Mom and the baby rest.

Rebekah moved into the tiny nursery just off of the master bedroom the next day. I was so happy. Our family seemed complete. But my mom was worried. Beginning in the hospital, Rebekah would have frightening episodes that we eventually called “choking spells” that would periodically cause her to choke and gasp for air for no apparent reason. “Something’s wrong,” my parents told the doctors. But the doctors never saw her do it, so they told my parents not to pay much attention—that she’d grow out of it. We watched as her small body stiffened, her eyes focused on some point far away, and her arms trembled. “That’s looks like a seizure,” my mom said. “Something’s wrong.” No doctor ever saw it, so no doctor would believe it. But worst of all, as the months went by, Rebekah began to look skinny. My mom went anxiously to the doctors again. “She’s not gaining weight like my other children did,” she tried to tell them. They told her all children developed differently. “I’m telling you, she’s thin,” she insisted. “Something’s wrong.” They told her not to worry.

When choking spells began to turn her face blue, my parents gave up on local doctors and took Rebekah to the research hospital at the University of Iowa in Iowa City, an hour and a half away. The boys and I stayed with Robin, another friend from church. We played all day with her children, and hardly noticed how late my parents were. My dad called and Robin said things like, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got everything under control. Stay as long as you need to. Roger and I will be praying,” and didn’t give me the phone. I helped her make home-made noodles for a spaghetti supper. We made garlic bread and green beans and carrots too, and spent the meal laughing and telling knock-knock jokes to each other.

My dad showed up at the door at about ten-thirty that night. We had expected him around four. He looked worn out and defeated. Mom and Rebekah had had to stay in the hospital overnight. He told me that at first, the doctors didn’t know what to tell us, but as soon as one had left the room, Rebekah had started choking. They called him back in immediately, and when the spell was over, he said, “This child is not leaving the hospital tonight. Something is very, very wrong.” My mom told me what a relief it had been to have someone finally agree with her. But they were scared.

Doctors ran a battery of tests. Dad went back to the hospital, and we stayed overnight at Robin’s house that weekend. Finally, he and my mom brought Rebekah home with a diagnosis: a form of leukodystrophy, a progressive disease that attacks the white matter in the brain. They explained why she wasn’t gaining weight: the part of her brain that controlled swallowing was damaged, so she was barely getting anything down. My mom was devastated by the idea that her baby had been starving to death. They inserted a feeding tube down Rebekah’s nose and into her stomach, and my mom bought a breast pump. But after months of low consumption, she was only producing a half an ounce of milk a day. Our baby had been living on half an ounce of breast milk. Mom was beside herself. We researched the best kinds of replacement formulas.

Leukodystrophy is a terrifying disease. It comes in many varieties, but the type that Rebekah was diagnosed with gradually breaks down the white matter in the brain until the body can no longer support itself. It ends in death. And it worked quickly; doctors told us she would die within the year.

I couldn’t even process this news. It wasn’t possible. I had prayed for this baby. I had waited for her. She had come. She was perfect. She couldn’t possibly be dying. Not my sister. Please, God, not this baby.

Doctors told my parents not to hold her too much, not to get attached. “Prepare yourselves,” they advised. “Distance yourselves from her now, and her death will be less painful.” My mom thought that was stupid. She had the child now, she was not going to pretend she didn’t love her, she couldn’t pretend she was dead already. She told me later that my dad had tried. He tried so hard not to get too involved, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d spend hours holding her. One of my favorite family snapshots shows my dad asleep in a La-Z-Boy recliner with a sleeping Rebekah in his arms.

My four-year-old brother was terrified of killing Rebekah. My mom would watch from the stairway as he’d approach Rebekah’s stroller when he thought no one was looking. He’d creep toward her, put out a hand, and touch her with one finger. Then, like a frightened animal, he’d jump back and run away. The sight broke her heart.

At six months, we had a birthday party for Rebekah, because we weren’t sure she’d reach her first birthday. We had cake and ice cream, wore party hats, sang the happy birthday song; it was a regular party. I don’t know how my parents did it. They looked happy. They looked like they were having a good time. They smiled, they laughed. I had no idea how much they were hurting then, but I can only imagine now how heart-wrenching that celebration must have been, how hard they were working to keep things normal for the boys and me.

Rebekah’s first birthday came and went. Then her second. Then her third. One day my parents came home from Iowa City elated. The doctors had decided she had lived too long—it couldn’t possibly be leukodystrophy; they didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t leukodystrophy. They were overjoyed, but I remember being fairly indifferent to the news. After all, I had decided long before now that she wasn’t dying. I had prayed. She had come. And she was going to stay, I was already sure of it. Of course she was.

My parents didn’t tell me at the time, but the doctors were actually sure of nothing. Without a diagnosis, they had no idea what her future held. “Be financially prepared for her to live to be eighty, and emotionally prepared for her to die at any time,” they had warned. Impossible of course, but none of us worried about that anymore. The death sentence had been lifted. God had come through for us.

Of course He had.

Continuation on a Theme

2006-05-07T14:25:00.000-05:00

(Super long. No really, I mean it. You don't have to read it. It just belongs here with the other pieces. Speaking of "other pieces," if you want to read what I've got so far in order, follow these, you glutton for punishment you: Preface, Part 1)

“Special Needs”

My favorite toys growing up were always stuffed animals of some kind. I had about twenty at one time, and each had its own individual name, personality, and place on the bed. (My favorite was a stuffed dog called Timmy. I actually still have him, and he still shares my pillow.) I used to create elaborate adventures with them, in which I was usually a princess, set upon by an evil step-father who hated animals, forced to dress as a peasant and flee my kingdom. I would dress up in a slip (because I thought my slips looked like princess dresses) and hide from imaginary soldiers behind chairs and bookshelves before leaping across my bedroom to my bed, which I was pretending was actually a boat. I'd make sure I had all my little woodland friends safely on the boat with me, and, lying low to avoid being seen by snipers, we'd float off toward unfamiliar shores. Sometimes we would meet enemy ships passing in the night, and I would have to hide the animals under the covers to keep them safe. Once, I took a bullet for a big brown bear named Thomas.

My brothers were crazy about Lego’s. They'd spend hours either poring over patterns that came with various kits, or building huge towers or pirate ships from scratch. For about four years of our childhood, our basement carpet was a veritable minefield, littered with loose Lego’s that made walking in the dark hazardous. Sometimes the three of us would play together, trying to match pictures we saw in magazines or on the cover of the huge Lego bin. Playing Lego’s was just about the only activity that we did do together, the two boys and I. I mean of course we played tag and hide-and-seek, school, movie theater, and other childhood games, but as far as toys went, Lego’s was the only thing we could all play with together without arguing, creating skyscrapers, castles, steamers, trains--anything we could think of.

I sometimes wonder what Rebekah would have created if she had been able. Would she have joined my imaginary adventures, perhaps helping to form new storylines? Would she have helped us build the biggest, most colorful Lego cruise ship ever? Would she have been a painter? Or a dancer? I think she would have been a musician. She loved music. All of her preferred toys were ones that made noise. Her all-time favorite was one that jingled a little tune when she spun a roller on the top. It was perfect, because it didn’t require the kind of fine-motor skills to make it work that other toys did, so she could handle it with her clumsy but beautiful (my mom always called them graceful-looking), tapered fingers. She played with it constantly, and that same four bar phrase was heard in our house almost non-stop. It would run out of batteries periodically, and as they faded it would begin to sound like the far away strains of a carousel languishing in Hell.

"That's starting to sound sick," we would say. Not that we, as a family of hardcore procrastinators, did anything about the draining batteries—at least not for another week or so. For days, the distorted chords would prompt another "That's really starting to sound sick" every few minutes, until someone (usually my dad, since the battery cover required a philips-head screwdriver to remove) finally got around to putting in fresh double A's.

After a while, the toy would simply wear out altogether, prompting a trip to Toys R Us to purchase a replacement. I don't know how many we went through. At least for or five, I imagine.

And so for years, that same four bar phrase echoed in all of our brains. I can still hear it now, as clearly as if it was still playing down the hall from my bedroom. I suppose any normal family, with any other child, would shortly have become annoyed by the same tune repeated ad nauseum, and would relish the toy's demise. But we weren't normal, and Rebekah wasn't like other children. Nothing was too much for us, if it meant that she was happy.

I think that's why I was kind of a hypochondriac growing up. I never really begrudged Rebekah the favor she got, but I think subconsciously I desperately wanted to be made a fuss over too. So at least once a week I'd complain to my teacher, "I don't feel good." A stomachache, sore throat, headache, nausea…Sometimes I even convinced myself that I really had it. The teacher would send me down to the air-conditioned nurse's office, where a nice lady with cool, soft hands would look at me sympathetically, take my temperature, and kindly say I didn't have a fever, but I could lay down for a few minutes if I wanted.

And then I would have a few minutes of being singled out, apart from my classmates who were stuck in their desks, forced to be content with box fans and Palmer penmanship exercises. I could read posters about the importance of washing your hands after coughing or sneezing, how milk would do my body good, and how to properly dispose of hazardous biological waste, while eavesdropping on the school secretary's phone conversations. Soon the nurse would write me a hall pass and send me back to the fat cat that sat on the mat, but for now, I was afforded a moment of quiet, of coddling, of undivided attention.

Unfortunately, my teacher, Ms. Rossow, was much more perceptive than my first-grade mind gave her credit for. One day not far into the first semester, as we lined up to return from gym class (or P.E. as she called it), I raised my hand and murmured those faithful four words: "I don't feel good." With a small sigh and a subtle rolling of her eyes, she said, "You always don't feel good."

Uh-oh.

I didn't say anything, and she shrugged, shook her head, and reluctantly said, "All right, go on down to the office," but I knew I had been found out. I knew that she and maybe even everyone else had caught on to my schemes. I was aware of the reputation that a liar got, because my best friend Jessica had once told me that you couldn’t believe anything Amanda S. said, and that’s why she wouldn’t play with her. I could tell I was in a pretty sticky situation. I realized that I might not even be able to get Ms. Rossow to agree to send me down to the nurse next time. I could never complain of bad health again.

Or at least not for a long while. I bided my time, waiting patiently for enough time to pass to allow Ms. Rossow to forget about all the times I had been faking, so she would be ready to take me seriously again. For months I kept my mouth shut, sitting in the uncomfortable wooden desk (the fourth graders got to use the new, cool looking desks, but we first graders were stuck with the old ones), repeating the vowels, coloring maps of the United States, learning addition, struggling with subtraction, and watching the calendar pages turn.

Finally, I decided it was time. “Ms. Rossow?” I said. “My throat hurts.” “Uh-oh,” she said, coming down the aisle toward me to feel my glands. “Let’s take you to the nurse’s office.”

Success!

I tried to look pitiful as we made our way down the hall, tried to hide the triumph I felt as we neared my old haunt. I silently greeted the faux leather vinyl cot, the hum of the air-conditioner, the ring of the secretary’s phone, the sympathetic face of the nurse and her cool hands as if we were old friends, reunited after a long separation. Ms. Rossow’s renewed faith in me inspired me to strive even for the ultimate goal of any grade-schooler: calling my mom to pick me up early. So when the nurse said I didn’t have a fever, I looked pathetically at Ms. Rossow, who succumbed to the appeal in my eyes and said, “Well, honey, let’s call your mom and see if she’ll come get you. It’s miserable to sit in class when you feel bad.”

Victory was mine! After a minor setback, I had overcome the enemy’s defenses and had, through patience and perseverance, emerged triumphant. I barely managed to keep the exultation from manifesting itself across my face, as I inwardly rejoiced in my own talents of persuasion and manipulation. My success was perfected in Ms. Rossow’s words to my mom when she arrived: “There’s something going around…” and I knew I had won her over completely.

The expression on my mom’s face told me she saw what I was doing, but also that she wasn’t going to say anything about it, either. That is, she didn’t really believe I had a sore throat. I felt fine and she knew it, but she understood that sometimes I needed to be fussed over, just a little. We never really talked about it, and she wouldn’t let me get away with it at home, but sometimes she would come get me at school, even if she was sure I wasn’t really sick. She’d make me some tea, let me read a little in my bed, and then she’d make me get up and do my homework. Sometimes she’d even take me back to school after an hour or so, which was a little humiliating.

Somehow, my mom seemed to instinctively get the fact that no matter how hard she and Dad tried to keep things equal between the four of us, there was just no way the boys and I could compete with the kind of care that Rebekah required, and that we couldn’t help but sense that. Maybe she and Dad were afraid that we would start to actively dislike Rebekah for it, if they didn’t fudge the rules a little bit for us here and there. Maybe we would have. I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem possible, somehow. I can’t imagine not getting home from school to cuddle with her on the floor and make her laugh; I can’t see a day where I would lose interest in that perfect button nose; I can’t picture a time when her happiness could ever lose its place my top priority. If you had met her, you would understand.

There was just something about her. Something divine. Her home-care nurses would comment on it all the time, how they couldn’t help getting attached to her, and how much of a blessing she was to them. They, too, would catch the fever, after working with her for a while. Rebekah’s happiness was paramount to everyone who knew her, and her tragedies were everyone’s tragedies. Once, an exercise in physical therapy proved too much for her brittle bones, causing a greenstick fracture in her femur, unbeknownst to anyone at the time. As the nurse drove her home in our van, Rebekah began crying, and by the time my mom came out of the house to help unload the wheelchair, tears were rolling down the cheeks of both nurse and client.

It was Rebekah, and not my parents, who finally cured me of my hypochondria, even as she was also the cause of it. As I grew older, I took my role as her big sister seriously, taking responsibility for keeping her safe and content. I prided myself on being able to make her laugh more quickly than anyone else, and I delighted in finding new ways to do it. My mom always said that Rebekah’s sun rose and set on me, and I was completely taken with her. We developed a connection I can’t explain, a connection based on love in the purest sense, untainted by petty disagreements, uncluttered by expectations of reciprocity, and uncontaminated by competition. We were closer than any other sisters I had ever seen. She always smiled biggest and laughed loudest when I was around. Never one content to sit still for long, she once fell asleep in my arms. I can still feel the touch of her face on mine, the way her slender fingers felt clasped in my hand, her silky brown curls tickling my ear. She was everything to me, and her love for me came to mean more than anything else.

I stopped pretending to be sick.

Tuesdays Are Hungry

2006-05-06T22:16:00.000-05:00

Going through my notes, studying for my math final next week, I came across yet another example of abused creativity. Yep, more haikus. Math class haikus, actually. To get the full flavor of the following selection, you must understand that Tracey's and my Tuesday schedule does not include a lunch break, and we have math from 1:45 to 3:00. So sometimes these things happen...

Tuesdays Are Hungry

Tuesdays are hungry
Classes eat up all my lunch
And digest my soul.

My soul is swimming
In the belly of math class
And it's gross in there.

My soul now smells like
Half-digested interest rates
Compounded monthly.

Sometimes my haikus
Don't make sense when I don't eat
Or sleep very much.

How about that, eh? The next one's a quickie, inspired by my lunch plans that would commence at exactly...

3:01

Subway will feel good
Good on my empty stomach
But better in it.

Gosh, if I take many more classes, I could publish a book!

Yeah, for people who don't speak English, maybe.

"Special"

2006-05-05T10:14:00.000-05:00

(part of a longer piece that I might finish someday)

“Your sister’s retarded?!” He hadn’t been listening, but that phrase had caught his attention. My first day at a new school, I had wanted to think of something about myself that was interesting, that people would remember, something that would make them want to ask me questions—want to be my friend. So I had told a few girls that my sister was retarded.

I had even used that word: Retarded. A word that is offensive to many, and serves as the punch line of everyone else’s jokes. That’s what she was, though, wasn’t it? Handicapped. Developmentally disabled. Special needs. Doesn’t really matter which label you put on it, they all mean the exact same thing. Her brain didn’t work right. At four, it functioned about as much as a six-month-old baby, and it didn’t ever really improve. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t stand or sit up by herself. The part of her brain that controlled the muscles in her throat was damaged, so she wasn’t even able to swallow without choking; she was fed through a tube that led directly to her stomach. She was completely helpless.

But she was interesting. In fact, she was downright spellbinding, if you go by the stares of other customers in the grocery store. And after years of my family patterning our lives around her and her needs I had learned that Rebekah was the only interesting thing about me. At least that’s what I came to believe, subconsciously. I never questioned my parents’ love for me, but I began to assume that, deep down, I wasn’t really very special after all. I mean, I was always very smart. I got good grades, scored highly on standardized tests, and everyone wanted to be my partner in math class. People were constantly telling me how smart I was. My parents were great encouragers, always supporting me, telling me when I was good at something. And I was good at a lot of things, without being conceited or smug. I knew I was special.

But somehow, it wasn’t as special as Rebekah’s kind of special. That’s even the word people would use when they didn’t want to use that “r word” which described what she really was; they’d simply call her “special.” She even looked special. You could tell right away, even if you didn’t know anything about her, that she was different. I didn’t have that. I was ordinary, and while I was never passed over, I knew that to get the kind of attention Rebekah got, you had to be some special kind of special. I suppose I must have thought that the next best thing to being that kind of special was being related to someone who was. I don’t know what else would have prompted me to share such sensitive information with these strangers whom I desperately wanted to know.
______________________________

And so, “You’re sister’s retarded?!” he spat out with a delighted sneer. The shark smelled blood.

“Yeah, so? She’s still a person,” I shot back, dignified and superior, waiting for him to be taken aback by my tone, waiting for him to buckle under my righteous indignation, concede the point, apologize, and beg my forgiveness.

“Nyanyanya, rererrer!” he replied, his pretty face made grotesque with mockery of my ferocity.

Dignity has no effect on sharks. Especially not in the fourth grade, and especially not on Brandon B., who was completely aware of his status as the best looking boy in our class. He followed playground protocol to the letter, preying on lesser fish to maintain his place at the top of the food chain. A new girl was definitely a lesser fish, and a new girl with a retarded sister was like the crippled fish trailing half a league behind the rest of the school: easy quarry.

At the time I didn’t understand it quite so clearly; I only burned in the flush of humiliation as everyone else at the lunch table laughed at his cleverness. I’ve never been good at snappy comebacks. If I had been, I could have redeemed myself in an instant, earning the respect of the shiver*, and protecting myself from further attack besides. Witty and blistering retorts can save your life in grade school, but I could never seem to think of them on the spot. If he had waited a few days, I could have devastated him with a biting rejoinder that would have made him wish he had never opened his mouth. But sharks don’t wait for anything, and I was left spluttering, red-faced and ashamed, frustrated that I had made myself a target.

I was soon abandoned for more entertaining fare and quickly forgotten. But I didn’t forget. And having lived most of my life through books and movies instead of actual real-life experiences, I believed that he would eventually be touched by my fury, be overcome with remorse, and repent. When lunch was over and we returned to our desks in the classroom, I glared at him from across the room for a full five minutes, with the romantic idea that he would sense my wrath and start squirming under the heavy hand of conviction. He never looked up, and I soon gave in to defeat.
______________________________

The desire to be special is soon replaced by the desire to blend in. It didn’t take long for me to try to hide Rebekah’s existence instead of displaying it. It didn’t take long for me to wish my parents wouldn’t bring her to school functions. It wasn’t long before I wished she wasn’t my sister. I hated the way people stared. I hated the way I had to pretend I didn’t notice if she made loud noises in the middle of a choir concert. I hated trying to be nonchalant while walking down the mall corridors alongside a bright turquoise wheelchair with a constantly humming little girl in it. Even when she was quiet, the wheelchair itself, along with the jerky, uncontrolled movements of her head and neck called attention to us, when all I wanted was to be invisible.

Rebekah became an embarrassment. And that made me feel like an awful person. I hated myself for it. So I never said a word about it, to anybody. I didn’t want anyone to know how selfish I was, how petty and mean, to not want to be seen with her in public. In retrospect, I know my parents would have understood, but at the time, I was sure they’d think I was a horrible older sister, and I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me.

Funny how we do that to ourselves. We long for nothing more than to be known and understood, but we are afraid of honesty. We hate ourselves for what we do and who we are, and we’re terrified that everyone else will too, when they find out the truth. So we pretend to be something else, and then scream in fits of pre-pubescent hormonal rage, “Nobody understands me!”

I wanted so badly to connect with people, and Rebekah was either a tool or an obstacle in this endeavor. It wasn’t until several years later that she became simply what she was: my sister.

*a shiver is a group of sharks, and the fact that i know that should tell you something about how popular i was--or wasn't--in fourth grade.

Quick, Lower Their Expectations!

2006-05-04T10:29:00.000-05:00

I really don't like my math class. It goes on, and on, and on, and the examples are endless and largely pointless, and the prof just keeps on talking. Sometimes, he likes us to talk about moral issues, like genetic testing, or the fact that retarded people are worth just as much as geniuses, or (my personal favorite) whether or not we should legalize homosexual marriage. I keep waiting for him to bring up abortion. I'm not really sure what these issues have to do with mathematics, but I'm sure there's a rationale somewhere. I'm sure he has a good reason for it.

Anyway, sometimes I don't go to math class. Sometimes it's because I'm in Fargo, at a theatre conference; sometimes it's because I'm in Michigan, on tour with the theatre troupe; sometimes it's because I didn't do the homework; sometimes it's because I'm angry with the world and I don't want to leave my room.

My roommate sits right next to me in math class. Sometimes she doesn't go either.

Last week, we got a math test back. Tracey and I both got A's. Prof. Westenberg began this long lecture about grades and attendance, and he put a little chart on the board, relating class days missed to the grade earned on the test. People who got A's had missed an average of two days, people who got B's had missed an average of 3 days, people who got C's missed an average of 3.4 days, people who got D's missed an average of 5 days, and people who got F's missed an average of 8 days. Then he preached about it for like ten minutes.

He said that actually, the A's really had missed almost no days; the average would have been less than one, except that two people had missed like 6 days, and they brought the average way down.

Tracey and I looked at each other, and tried really really hard not to laugh.

Bringing down the average, that's us.

I realized the other day that it must really piss him off that I get A's on the tests, because I don't do the homework either.

I never planned on becoming such a raging under-acheiver, but, as everyone comes to learn at some point in their lives, it's always much wiser to lower their expectations, and then at the last minute, punch them right in the face.

Perfect Moments

2006-05-03T14:52:00.000-05:00

...when I am very tired, and I can lay my head down on the desk, and not care, and I hear the professor's voice but I don't listen, and Amy Leigh strokes my back with hands that feel soft through my shirt, while all the noise and disorganization inside my head slows down until it is only quiet, and my muscles unclench and my eyes relax, and soon the only thing that matters is my breathing, and the quiet, reassuring pressure of Amy Leigh's hand...

...when my life is in unorganized piles all around me and responsibility glares so angrily that I can't look it in the face, and I make a hot cup of tea, wrap up in a fleece blanket--gray, the color of quiet--and read a book I've read at least eight times before and can almost read it in the dark, not needing to see the words to know what they say; a book about dragons, and princesses, and a magic sword, and nothing at all about term papers, or hospitals, or money, or deadlines, or childhood horrors--a book where the characters are witty and colorful and the adventures perilous, yet certain of success, a book that closes out the piles and the glares until, when it is finished, the piles are tired of leaning threateningly, and the glare has softened into a gentle, bleary-eyed reminder...

...when my mom holds my head in her lap and lets me cry, until all my tears leave me feeling hollow, and in their place comes an earned peace, and neither of us says anything, until we both laugh...

...when stress and fatigue leave me feeling poetic, and I look at everything through the haze of one who is not really part of the world...

Today I Walked With You

2006-04-09T14:14:00.000-05:00

Today I walked with you
All the way up the puddle jumper trail
And back again.

I noticed that the grass was green again
And I studied the still brown fields,
Hoping to see traces
Of tiny shoots, bright with that new green
That you love so much.

(I know you love it, because
When I look at it, my heart is filled
With ripples of your delight.)

The wind was so strong.
Sometimes it literally pushed me off balance
Or redirected my steps. I leaned into it
And felt like I was leaning into you.

As we walked, I told you
What I hated about myself.

You told me
What you loved about me.

I told you what I was
Afraid of.

You told me what you
Had done for me.

I told you what I couldn't fix.
You told me what you could.

The trail cut sharply
Into the side of a small hill, and
Just for a moment, I pretended
I was a hobbit

Hiding from a Ringwraith

On my way to Bree.

(Only a moment, and then
My voice echoed yours
In laughter at my ridiculousness.)

I looked around me,
At the beauty of the better-late-than-never Spring,
And I told you I wanted to make art,
Great art,
And I begged you to make me worthy
Of opportunities to do so.

You told me what I was asking.

I asked you to tell me
What you had planned for me
What you wanted me to do.

And you were silent.

And I thanked you that
There was a plan--
That I could be wrong but at least I would know
That there was a right way,
Somewhere.
And I wondered why that was comforting.

Today you walked with me
All the way up the puddle jumper trail
And back again.

The Dangers of Creative Energy, Misapplied

2006-04-04T16:55:00.000-05:00

It's amazing what can be accomplished in class if you don't actually listen to the lecture. Look, I wrote haikus!

April 3rd, 2006

Wide, blazing blue skies
Chill with the stubborn wind of
Lingering winter,

Yet still promising
The arrival of a Spring
New, fresh, reborn, free.

The chains on my mind
Begin to wilt, to release
And wave in the breeze.

Did you catch the revolting sentimentality? Yeah, me too. Here's the next one. I made sure to go heavy on the cliche on this one, too. You know, stick with a pattern.

Awaiting the Sensation of a Short, Sharp Shock

I sit in the dark
The walls of my prison smooth,
Impenetrable.

Self-erected, closed
Around me like the walls of
Jericho; thick, tall.

Felled, too, by a cry
A cry I can't remember
How to execute.

Executed long
Before, by that hangman's noose
Called necessity.

And what once saved me
Now oppresses me, grips me,
Keeps me behind bars

Alienating
Those who do not deserve it
And can't understand.

And there you have it, folks: morose, sentimental, and cliche. Just like me.

Smiling Completely

2006-03-22T13:54:00.000-06:00

Rebekah’s eyes closed when she smiled. Her whole being lifted in the purest expression of joy I’ve ever seen, until her eyes squinted into dark blue slits and disappeared.

There was never any pretence in Rebekah’s smiles. She didn’t smile just to make you happy, she didn’t smile out of nervousness or civility. Rebekah smiled completely.

So much of my free time was spent trying to get one of Rebekah’s smiles to brighten up my face. It was easy enough to coax one out of her. She would laugh hysterically if you rattled the pans in the cupboard, or if a particularly loud motorcycle roared by, or if you blew her a raspberry.

Rebekah didn’t giggle. If she laughed, she didn’t do it halfway. She’d practically convulse with delight, her spirit abandoned to the bliss of the moment. At parades, when the fire trucks would go by and blow their deafening horns, setting the small children squealing in their mother’s arms, and the babies crying in their strollers, Rebekah would be laughing, in her wheelchair.

I used to be embarrassed to go places with her. I was so acutely aware of the stares, the questions, or, worse, the un-asked questions and the conscious attempts at not staring. See, Rebekah was noticeable. She looked different. She sounded different. When she was bored, she’d make little noises to herself, or if she was excited, she’d shriek loudly, oblivious to my intense, pre-teen humiliation at choir and band concerts.

Oblivious, yes—of course she was oblivious. I wasn’t mad at her. I just wished she wouldn’t do it. I was always silently disappointed and…apprehensive…as we loaded her wheelchair into our van lift on the way to church or other such activities where quiet was expected and Rebekah was sure to make a spectacle of us. My brothers, I knew, felt the same way.

But none of us ever said anything. We all felt a little guilty, resenting—yes, resenting—a creature who was so innocently joyous, who smiled with her eyes closed.

Overdue

2006-02-17T12:17:00.000-06:00

Hey, good thing I work in the mailroom, or this post would never be happening. Thanks Ryan Kiel for getting everything done before I got here!

Anyway, so several several weeks ago, my mother and I were taking a trip to the mall. And when you live in Clarinda, going to the mall is a real trip, let me tell you. An hour and a half trip. Trippy trippety trip trip. If you are my roommate, you are giving me a weird look right now.

On this particular...excursion...we ended up behind a semi. Which is not unusual, of course, on the interstate. It was one of those shiny chrome tanker things, you know, the ones that have sinister advisory signs on the back, like "Warning: Ridiculously Flammable" or "Caution: Toxic Chemicals--If You Can't See My Mirrors, You Might Already Be A Mutant." This tanker sported a sign as well, and I'm assuming it's supposed to be a warning of some sort, though I'm rather at a loss to imagine what it's warning against. This guy was driving around with a whole shiny chrome semi tanker thing full of "Inedible Fat," according to the giant red letters blazoned on its backside. Inedible Fat. Seriously, that's what it said. Now let's just think about this for a second. What the crap is inedible fat in the first place? No, really. Where does it come from? And why on earth would anyone want a truckload of it?

And let's not forget the cautionary nature of the sign itself. What, are they afraid somebody is going to be suddenly overcome with an urge to climb up to the little porthole-looking thing on the top, wrench it open and start gorging themselves on handfuls of Crisco? That's just disgusting.

Lest you think that this is just an isolated incident, since that day I've seen two more Inedible Fat trucks. Who is collecting all of this lard? And why?

I believe there is only one explanation for this phenomenon, and that is: ALIEN INTERVENTION.

Come on, we're all thinking it, I'm just saying it.

Ugly Belly Button

2006-01-07T21:08:00.000-06:00

My break is almost over. I return to school the day after tomorrow, and I work for six hours tomorrow. Which doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but then I have to drive home the next day, and The Brothers will be at school then and The Parents both work early, so it will be kind of a lonely send-off, and I just want to spend as much time at home with my family as possible.

Yesterday, this didn't bother me. Yesterday I was okay with break being nearly over. Yesterday I was a little sad about it, and a little looking forward to it. Yesterday was a long time ago.

Today I'm a little freaky-outy about it. Freaky-outy sounds like an ugly belly button. I feel like I wasted all the time I had to spend with my family. I feel like Easter Break is a long time away from now. I feel like I'm a little frantic. I feel like a natural woman.

I like school. I like my roommate. I like my major. I will probably like my classes next semester. (Okay, the math class is a little iffy. So is the history class, actually.) I like Orange City. I like being around people. I even like the dorms. But telling myself these things doesn't really help much. Because deep down, I still really need my mommy.

Awkward is the word "award" with a k and an extra w

2006-01-06T11:09:00.000-06:00

I was at the grocery store the other night with my parents, and I saw Josh Nelson, my friend Cody's roommate, there. This is weird because Josh Nelson is not from my hometown. He was with this other guy, so he might have been visiting, but I didn't recognize the other guy.

Anyway, I pretty much hate situations like that. Because, you see, though I know Josh and he would probably recognize me, we're not actually friends, and how do you greet people like that? That kind of hello is always awkward and weird.

So, I decided to pretend not to see him. Which, as you can imagine, became increasingly difficult, especially when he and the other guy checked out at the same time that we did, and the only other checkout line open was the one next to ours. So I had to concentrate on looking at my cashier's face, and not behind her, where I might accidentally make eye contact with Josh. Which may or may not have been completely obvious.

Whew. Good thing I avoided awkwardness.

New

2006-01-02T17:00:00.000-06:00

I have never made a New Year's resolution.

I have several reasons for this. Firstly, and I think, mostly--I'm simply far too lazy to think hard enough to evaluate what I feel like I'm not doing right in my life. That takes a lot of honest, deep reflection. I am neither deep nor honest. Deciding that I want to change the failings I've discovered in myself requires humility, and I am not humble. Making a resolution implies action, activity; actively pursuing improvement. And, as I said before, I am simply far too lazy.

Secondly, I know that if I were to make a resolution, I may be enamored of it for the first few days--maybe even a week, although not likely--and then I'll give it up. I basically have pathetic powers of will. I'm not alone in this, I know; health and fitness centers always do the most business the first week or two of the year, and then it tapers off again. I'm pretty sure I'd fail at any goals I set for myself. I hate failing.

Thirdly, why is it only January 1st that change happens? I rebel against a system that encourages such limits on improvement. Or so I tell myself.

And lastly, sometimes I like to think I'm a cool non-conformist. Everyone else makes New Year's resolutions; I'll be different. Especially since I don't want to make one anyway. Then I can tell myself I'm bucking the system. That'll show The Man.

However, this year I'm going to try it. I've been thinking for several weeks that there are things lacking in myself, and I've decided to change that. Specifically, there are things that I am passionate about that I am not committed to cultivating in myself, and I am frustrated with my stasis. I seek growth. I have always sought growth, but have never been dedicated enough to do a whole lot to get it. That changes. Now. I promise.

To The Man: Actually, I made this resolution a week and a half ago. So there.

Home for Christmas

2005-12-28T14:06:00.000-06:00

(When I typed that title, I accidentally typo-ed "Hoe for Christmas." I thought about leaving it, but decided someday, somewhere, someone wouldn't understand. At all.)

Yep, I actually have time on my hands. Not a lot, mind you. I have a pretty tight schedule, fitting in all the goofing off I've been meaning to do. I had a lovely Christmas. It was weird, though. It's always been a tradition in my family (like most families, I imagine) to spend an afternoon picking out a tree and take an evening decorating it and the rest of the house together. But my brothers are hardly ever home, and it just never got done. So finally, two days before Christmas, my mom said to me while we were out shopping for stocking stuffers, "You know, we're just going to have to take it down in a week or so anyway. It seems like an awful lot of work to put it up only to have to put it away so soon. I'd just as soon get a poinsettia or something and just put the presents around that." I actually agreed. Which is weird, because I've always been the one who's really big on traditions and raises a stink when somebody wants to change something. It just seemed like what she was saying made sense, and plus, when were we ever going to be all together to get a tree put together anyway?

So that's what we did. And it looked really nice. And the Brothers were actually home all day on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. And we played Nerts and Skip-Bo and Egyptian Rat Screw and we watched a bunch of movies...and it was really fun. It was nice to have them home. I'd lately started to feel hurt that they never wanted to hang out with me. We used to play together all the time--making up games, and playing board games, and building things with Legos. And then we all grew up, and forgot how to use our imaginations, and learned to use the computer instead of talking to eachother. It's harder now, too, because since we moved here after I graduated, I don't know anyone (except Carleen, which is weird, because I didn't meet her until I went to college), and so if I'm going to hang out with anyone, it's going to be my family. And they are 16 and 18 years old, so the last thing they want to do is be with their family. And when they're not out with their friends, they're talking to them online, shutting the rest of us out. That hurts.

I understand, I really do understand wanting to be out with friends, but sometimes it's just like, "Hey, I'm home from college. Remember how we don't get to see eachother very often? Remember how we actually do love eachother? Remember how I'm pathetic and lonely and I don't have any friends?" Not that it's their job to be my friends or keep me happy, but you know. I miss them.

But it really was a great Christmas. I wish we could do it again tomorrow.

I'm basically only writing this to put 'November' on my list of Blog months

2005-11-13T18:53:00.000-06:00

Yeah, so you know how a long time ago I wrote a blog about trying to write a ten-minute play for my Playwriting class? You know how it was going to be a children's play? Well, this is what actually happened. It's based on some teachings of the mainstream Christian church. And it's definitely not a children's play. Just in case you get to the end and are a little confused.

P.S. The beginning needs a little work. It's a little abrupt. I'd welcome any suggestions you have about how to fix that.

BECOMING

NOTE: EVERY TIME THE BELL RINGS, THERE SHOULD BE A NOTICEABLE CHANGE IN MARK’S POSTURE, ATTITUDE, VOICE, AND BEHAVIOR INTO SOMETHING VAGUELY ROBOTIC. THIS ROBOTIC ATTITUDE FADES AS HE TALKS TO FIONA.

(a bell tolls. Lights up.)

FIONA
Mark, please, listen to what I’m saying.

MARK
How can I, Fiona, when what you’re suggesting is blasphemy?

FIONA
Maybe it isn’t. Maybe you’re wrong.

MARK
Wrong about what? If we’re wrong, then the entire Becomers family is wrong. The—the Eternal Father is wro—no, how could you even think that?

FIONA
Would you just hear me out?

MARK
I’ve been searching for this my whole life, Fiona. I just didn’t know it. The Eternal Father—

FIONA
(sincerely, without bitterness or sarcasm) I know. I know. He opened your eyes to how shallow this world really was, introduced you to the idea of a world uninhibited by physical failings and cravings of the flesh. He taught us how to be in true communion with each other, how to achieve true equality of status.

MARK
I owe him everything, Fiona. And so do you.

FIONA
We gave him everything, Mark. Everything we had.

MARK
We wanted to, remember?

` FIONA
We had to. (sigh) I know, we both wanted what he had to teach us. I know, we both thought he was the answer to all of our questions about God, about the Church, about life. But now…

MARK
I understand that you’re scared, Fiona. But God has ordained this. Just think what awaits you on the other side. You’ll finally truly be able to join me in the higher plane.

FIONA
What did you do to achieve this “higher plane” status anyway? Why is it public when the women have their ascension ceremony, but the men’s is secret?

MARK
Why do you ask me questions you know I’m not allowed to answer? The Eternal Father will hear!

FIONA
Calm down. Try to think clearly.

MARK
You’re the one not thinking clearly. Stop questioning. Remember what you’ve been working for. You’ll finally be clean, Fiona. Just concentrate on that.

FIONA
Do you really believe this is the only answer? Are you so sure my body is unclean?

MARK
(gently) Eve was the first to eat the apple, remember? And the Son of God, the Christ, was male. The only man who never lusted after the forbidden flesh.

FIONA
Forbidden flesh. Woman.

MARK
You already know the teachings, Fiona. Don’t turn your back on the Way. Don’t stop Becoming.

FIONA
(bitterly) Yes. Oh, yes, I know. It’s women’s bodies that cause men to fall into sin. Women’s bodies that tempt men and make them forget their responsibilities to their spirits. Tell me, how did we come by such power?

MARK
This is the evil one speaking through you, Fiona. Don’t abandon the Becomers’ faith now. Don’t turn your back on the Eternal Father. Not now that you’re about to be completed.

(a bell tolls)

FIONA
Please, Mark, I need to you to hear me right now.

MARK
That’s the second bell, Fiona, you don’t have much time. You still need to do your ritual bathing before the ceremony.

FIONA
(finally, in frustration) You really want me to go into that barn with all the other wives and slit my throat?
MARK
The Eternal Father—

FIONA
Is that what you really want?

MARK
I—it’s not about what I want.

FIONA
What is it about?

MARK
It’s about—it’s about us being together.

FIONA
We are together, Mark.

(long pause as MARK looks uncertain but doesn’t answer. FIONA grabs his hand. This is the first physical contact of any kind that they’ve had for months.)

FIONA (cont)
Look at me, Mark. Please, just look at me.

MARK
(he stares at their hands, then at her face) What are you doing?

FIONA
When we lost the baby, no one hated my body more than I did. Remember? I thought something evil inside of me had killed him. I thought it was my fault. Do you remember what you told me?

MARK
I told you…(he looks at their hands again)

FIONA
You remember.

MARK
I told you…that your body was too perfect to have killed any baby of ours. I…told you that…God created something so beautiful inside of you that He…was afraid to give it to a world that wouldn’t respect it.

FIONA
I believed you. (beat) Did you believe it, Mark?

MARK
I…yes. Yes, I did believe it.

FIONA
When did you stop believing it?

MARK
(looks at her face; after a pause) I can’t remember.

FIONA
Mark, it doesn’t have to be this way. We can still be together. Remember how much we wanted to try again?

(a bell tolls)

MARK
(looking at their hands and then quickly dropping FIONA’s hand in shock and fear) What are we doing? What have we been saying? I can’t believe I let you do this to me.

FIONA
(over her hurt) Stay with me, Mark. Come on, look at me. Stay with me.

MARK
(he looks at her face for a beat) We have to get you ready.

FIONA
Remember, Mark. Remember us. Remember how much we wanted a child? And all our plans for growing old together?

MARK
Don’t lose your nerve, Fiona. I know it’s horrible, but it’s the only way. Soon we’ll be truly together. Just think of that.

FIONA
(angry in her fear) Are you even listening to yourself? Do you even remember who you are anymore? Who I am?

MARK
We are Becomers.

FIONA
We’re also lovers. I’m your wife, Mark. Please look at me.

MARK
I can’t. I know you can’t help it, but when I look at you, I lose my conviction. It’s not your fault, Fiona. It’s just your body. That’s why we have to free you, so that we can be with each other and not offend the spirits.

FIONA
How does looking at my face offend the spirits?

MARK
Stop trying to confuse me! This is just as hard for me as it is for you. You have no idea what I’ve gone through to get this far.

FIONA
No, you have no idea, Mark.

MARK
Stop twisting everything I say!

FIONA
(abruptly) Yesterday, Denise was really close to beginning. The Father’s had me calling everyday for about a week now, and I had high hopes for her spirit. She seemed like she was starting to understand what we’re about here, and she sounded like she might be ready to join us soon.

MARK
I have been so proud of you. It’s such an honor to be on his missionary staff, Fiona. I hope you realize all he’s done for you.

FIONA
Oh, I realize.

MARK
And what joy you must have had, watching your sister come to the faith!

FIONA
But this morning when I called her, I needed to talk to her about something else. She was worried. She kept on asking me if I still believed in Becoming.

MARK
Well, of course you do. How could she even think such a thing?

FIONA
She said she had been reading about a religious group that was based in Lincoln a few years ago. She said that the leader had called himself the Eternal Father.

MARK
Who would dare—

FIONA
She told me that all the members were required to give up all their possessions to him in order to achieve “complete equality of status.”

MARK
Fiona—

FIONA
She said that the group was fiercely loyal but a little afraid of him. He could get them to do anything he wanted. A few months into it, however, he split. He just took their money and disappeared.

MARK
(more uncertain than he has been) You hear about that sort of thing all the time, Fiona. Just because their leader happened to blaspheme the name of our Eternal Father doesn’t mean—

FIONA
Their Eternal Father was a homosexual, as well as a thief and a liar. His prime victims were married couples, to whom he would preach that women’s bodies were vessels of evil.

MARK
(weaker) Wait—

FIONA
In order to achieve a higher spiritual plane, the men must abstain from touching their wives. To rid themselves of such wicked desires, the men would all go out into the woods together, take a bunch of drugs, and perform their own “spiritual cleansing” orgies. (pause, while MARK looks almost sick) Mark, what exactly do you guys do on your spiritual retreats? (he doesn’t respond) Look, it’s okay. I know you didn’t have a choice. It’s okay, Mark.

MARK
I thought it would make me complete. He said—

FIONA
He lied, Mark. Please, you’ve got to believe that now. He’s a liar.

MARK
It can’t be true. It isn’t possible.

FIONA
It is, Mark. Please, trust me on this. Come on, we don’t have to let him hurt us anymore.

MARK
I…

FIONA
Mark, it’s going to be okay. Just come with me. I’m not leaving without you.

(the bell tolls)

FIONA (cont)
Mark, we can get out of this. We can leave. Come on, Mark, please! Let’s just get out of here.

MARK
(thickly, and as if his voice was coming from far away) That was the fourth bell. We’re going to be late.

FIONA
(increasingly frantic) Mark! Mark, please think! We don’t have to do this!

MARK
If we don’t go we’ll never ascend.

FIONA
(desperate now) Mark, what’s going to happen afterward? All the women are going to go into that barn and we will slit our throats. There will be blood, Mark, blood everywhere. There will be my blood on the floor. You will walk in it. The blood will cover everything. Everyone will be plastered with blood. And then what?

MARK
We must ascend, Fiona. We must ascend.

FIONA
You will all be standing around our dead bodies, with blood on your hands, blood on your shoes, blood on your clothes. Where will the Eternal Father be? Where will he be, Mark?

MARK
He will be waiting for you on the other side.

FIONA
What if he’s not, Mark? What if he’s running off with everything we have, leaving you to deal with the mess, the cops, everything? You’ll be alone, Mark, all alone, with no wife, no money, no mind of your own…

MARK
We must meet him on the other side.

FIONA
Snap out of it, Mark. I need you. I need you to listen to me. (she grabs his hand again) He’s not who you think he is. Please, listen to me.

MARK
Let go of my hand.

FIONA
Just for a minute. I’ll let go as soon as you listen to what I’m trying to tell you.

MARK
Stop talking about the Eternal Father.

FIONA
He’s not what we thought he was, Mark. I know.

MARK
Don’t claim you can know someone so—

FIONA
Listen to me! Last night, you were gone, you…I don’t remember…I can’t remember where you were…where were you?! You weren’t there and…they came…and there were…so many of them…and he was there, Mark, he was there!

MARK
He was where?

FIONA
Here! And they…all of them…there were so many, Mark. And…and you weren’t there. You couldn’t stop them. And he didn’t.

MARK
Stop them doing what?

FIONA
They…raped me, Mark. They raped me.

MARK
(shocked, horrified; exactly the reaction FIONA hoped for) What? How could that happen? Fiona, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to stop them. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you. (holding her hand more lovingly and comfortingly)

FIONA
Would you have stopped them?

MARK
Fiona, I would never let anyone hurt you. You know that. I promised you that the day we married.

FIONA
Mark, I’m not leaving here without you. I need you to come with me.

MARK
(looking into her face) I—

(the bell tolls, MARK drops FIONA’s hand)

FIONA
(despairing) No, no, no…Mark, please don’t do this to me. You’ve got to stay with me.

MARK
That’s the last bell. We’ll be late. The Eternal Father—

FIONA
Will you shut up about the Eternal Father? I told you, he’s not who you think he is. Mark, he watched those men rape me.

MARK
I just can hardly believe that happened. We were all so close, so close to really becoming—

FIONA
Mark! They RAPED me. Raped. Me.

MARK
I know, Fiona, and it must have been awful. That’s why we need to finish this. Once your body is no longer enticing men to evil—

FIONA
(shocked, and unutterably crushed) Are...are you telling me it was my fault?

MARK
(soothingly) Eve tempted Adam with the forbidden fruit. It’s your curse. Don’t worry; it will soon be behind you. You’ll never suffer that again.

FIONA
It’s my curse…

MARK
It’s almost time, Fiona. Are you ready?

FIONA
Mark. Is this really what you want for me? Do you really think this is the only way to be free?

MARK
I would never lie to you.

FIONA
Mark, I’m scared.

MARK
I’ll be right beside you. You’re doing the right thing. The sooner you can be free of your physical prison, the sooner you’ll be safe.

FIONA
I don’t know if I can do it.

MARK
Look at me, Fiona. This is the only way. It’s the only way to make us both free.

FIONA
(pause, while she looks into his face and loses all hope) Okay. I’ll do it. But please, Mark…will you…(she can’t continue)

MARK
Anything, Fiona. What do you need?

FIONA
I’m scared. Will you hold my hand while I…

(pause. MARK reaches for FIONA’s hand. Blackout.)

Seriously

2005-10-19T11:58:00.000-05:00

I have reappeared from the dusts of obscurity to discuss a very serious subject. It is something that has just recently come to my attention in a very personal way, and I think it is something that we need to consider carefully, and possibly take action. I am speaking of the high incidence of severe depression among wildlife residing along major highways.

Several weeks ago, I was driving with a couple of friends to Wal-Mart in LeMars (like you do). From nowhere, an obviously suicidal pheasant came rushing across my path. I did all of the things you are supposed to do when faced with such an incident (did not swerve, checked rearview mirror to ensure that there was no one following too closely, put my foot on the brake, and screamed), and at the last possible second, the pheasant (we'll call her Harriet) decided that she did, in fact, have much to live for. Harriet desperately tried to change direction as my green Dodge Spirit barrelled down on her, despite all my best efforts to restrain it. Her toenails scratched pavement. She glanced back at me. Her momentum was too much for her to reverse! Suddenly, she began flapping her wings. I was afraid she'd hit the windshield, but she was able to clear the roof of my car, with centimeters to spare.

Good luck, Harriet. Good job for choosing life. I recommend a good counselor.

A few days ago, my mother and I were driving along when a kamakaze squirrel hurtled his tiny body under our vehicle. This is a miracle, folks: somehow or other, he managed to make it to the other side of the road, unharmed. I don't know, he must have some invisible force field, or something. I don't know what prompted his suicidal behavior, but I hope that this narrow shave with death will inspire him to appreciate what a gift life is.

Yesterday, I was driving back to school. It was night--a common time for wildlife suicide attempts--and some ball of fur (a big raccoon? an oppossum?) managed to use my vehicle for his easy way out. Seriously, I don't think you could even argue that it was an accident; he wasn't even trying to cross the interstate--he was running toward me. I saw him just a mere second before he splattered himself all over the underside of my car. Which is not a pleasant image to have. Especially when driving. Especially when you feel responsible, in some small way, for his death--even though you know there was nothing you could do, etc, etc. (This incident, by the way, prompted more screaming, followed by desperate attempts to calm myself while I navigated the slightly crowded interstate at 70 mph.)

My question is this: what is going on among roadside wildlife? Why such hopelessness? And what should we be doing to combat this epidemic of despair? If you have any thoughts, please, share them. This is a very serious issue, and we need to be thinking about how to respond.

Peter Rabbit

2005-09-26T23:15:00.000-05:00

So, I'm trying to write a ten-minute children's play. It's based on the story of Peter Rabbit. Peter is based on my brother, Peter, and has ADHD and is good at video games.
Flopsy is bossy and motherly, and is based on me.
Mrs. Rabbit is based on my mother.

So why is it so hard to write?

Maybe I just suck as a writer.

Or maybe you have to be in a really really good mood to write cheerful children's plays.

Or maybe I'm just destined to fail Playwriting.

WTC?!?!

2005-09-25T16:15:00.000-05:00

So, my life sucks. What the crap?!?! Do I have any reason to be unhappy? No. Do I have any reason to be stressed out? No, nothing going on in my life that everyone else in the whole world doesn't deal with everyday. Do I have any reason to be afraid? No. Heck, I can't even figure out what I'm scared of. Am I starving to death? No. Is my family being killed by violent rebels? No. Is my house completely destroyed by a hurricane? No. I live in Iowa, for crying out loud. Do all my friends hate me? Not that I can tell. Is my mother dying of cancer? No.

Am I getting practically everything I've ever wanted? Yes. Do I get paid tomorrow? Yes. Do I have the freedom to practice the religion of my choice? Yes. Am I practicing that religion/relationship? Yes. Am I in a great show? Yes. Do completely amazing and brilliantly fun people live within yards of my door? Yes. Is my family supportive of me and what I do? Yes. Are my socks yellow? Yes. Do I have Nutty Bars and herbal tea in my drawer? Yes.

Then why the crap do I feel like crying? Why the crap can't I stand to be in my room? Why the crap is it so hard to get things done? Why the crap am I so overwhelmed...by nothing? Why the crap is it so hard to be here, where I've wanted to be for years?

Why the crap do I ask so many unanswerable questions?

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N

2005-09-05T20:18:00.000-05:00

Yes, I do have a three page script analysis on The Crucible due tomorrow morning. No, I haven't started it. Yes, I am blogging instead. But it's a short blog. I can still go to heaven, right?

I miss...

my mom

my cat

real toilet paper

free time

air conditioning

paychecks

There, that should do it. Now I don't have to feel guilty about neglecting my blogging responsibilities, and I have sufficiently put off my paper so that last minute panic is beginning to evoke some feelings of inspiration (or desperation).

And remember, kids: Only YOU can prevent forest fires!

Yay, Passwordness!!

2005-08-25T18:51:00.000-05:00

So I didn't have one, for about a week, and now I do, and I had 54 emails. Woot. Or something. Anyway, really don't have time to write right now (Yay, Homeworkness....or not), but just wanted to share that little joy that comes with being able to sign onto the network.

Heart! Lindsay

Do You Want to Know How I Really Feel?

2005-08-21T01:02:00.000-05:00

(WARNING: IF YOU'D RATHER READ THE USUAL LIGHT-HEARTED, SLIGHTLY RIDICULOUS BLOG ENTRY, SKIP THE FOLLOWING.)

I'd write about it, but whatever I would say would fall woefully short of actually expressing what I feel and have been feeling for several weeks now. So, I will rely on a God who, some thousands of years ago, was thinking of how I am today when he inspired this poem:

"I am the man [or girl] who has seen affliction by the rod of His wrath. He has driven me away and made me walk in darkness rather than light: indeed, He has turned His hand against me again and again, all day long.

He has beseiged me and surrounded me with bitterness and hardship. He has made me dwell in darkness like those long dead.

He has walled me in so that I cannot escape; He has weighed me down with chains. Even when I call out or cry for help, He shuts out my prayer. He has barred my way with blocks of stone; He has made my paths crooked.

Like a bear lying in wait, like a lion in hiding, He dragged me from the path and mangled me and left me without help. He drew His bow and made me the target for His arrows. He pierced my heart with arrows from His quiver.

He has filled me with bitter herbs and sated me with gall. He has broken my teeth with gravel; He has trampled me in the dust.

I have been deprived of peace; I have forgotten what prosperity is. So I say, 'My splendor is gone and all that I hoped from the Lord.' I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I WELL remember them, and my soul is downcast within me.

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. I say to myself, 'The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him...there may yet be hope.'

For men are not cast off by the Lord forever. Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love. For He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men."

Lamentations 3:1-3, 5-13, 15-24, 29b, 31-33

So far the last little bit there hasn't quite sunk all the way in, but it is encouraging to me. If you happen to have a spare prayer on you, I could use it.

Boo!

2005-08-19T14:36:00.000-05:00

Yes, I realize that I already blogged today, but I forgot to mention the new addition of my profile pic, which (as you should know) is Boo from Monster's, Inc. I'd just like to make a suggestion if I could: click on "see full size." It is well worth it. I once told someone that if you could drill deep into my psyche, that little girl would pop out. If you know me, I think you'd agree.

Heart! Lindsay

Okay, maybe I lied.

2005-08-19T13:54:00.000-05:00

So I didn't get back to you on the fascinating details of my trip. Don't judge me. I'll give you a quick run-through now:

Marly's Play: Amazing. Seriously. Tracey and I literally sat through like half of it with our mouths open, occasionally turning to eachother to say, "wow!" or simply smiling with delight. Thank you Marly!!!

Amusing Children: Alright, so they weren't that amusing, obviously, since I can't think of any really good stories now. Although one child, Gannon was his name, improvised a five-minute monologue to me, filling me in on the entire history of Junior Theatre, none of which happened to be true. But don't tell him I know.

Entertaining Banana Puns: Every play the kids wrote this year had to, among other requirements, use a banana somewhere in their script. Which immediately makes half the plays involve monkeys, but you know. Oh, and, just to make this next part slightly more entertaining, you should know that there are two classic characters that appear in almost every Drama Day Camp script: ninjas, and aliens. My class wrote a play involving ninja space monkeys. (Is it too soon to whisper "Tony?") Anyway, this is one thing that I actually added to the script myself when I was typing it up at 10:00 at night: See, the kids wanted this blind character to at the end reveal that he was not, in fact, blind, but was a secret agent, stopping the ninja space monkeys from stealing the Magic Banana. (I know. Possibly the next Neil Simon or Arthur Miller will emerge from this year's Drama Day Camp.) So, at the end, he whips off his sunglasses and says, "Hold it! I'm an undercover agent for the Banana Republic!" Whoo-hoo-hoo, ho ho ho, hehehe...Okay, I guess you had to be there.

Country Music Concerts in Ungodly Heat: Actually, with a header like that, there isn't that much else to explain. Yay for Mississippi Valley Fair, boo on 100+ degree heat index.

Quaint Anecdotes of Random Silliness: I discovered that Family Guy, which I used to abhor, actually just requires that I be in the right mood, because I watched an episode with Cindy and it was absolutely hilarious. I met up with a really good friend of mine whom I have not kept in touch with and we talked and laughed and it was really fun. I finally saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Johnny Depp is a genius. I visited Davenport's new art museum, and, though one part in particular was amazing (the boy's choir in complete surround sound), it was mainly disappointing. My car wouldn't start after I stopped it to get something to eat on the way back home, and that was upsetting, but I gave it time to rest and then it started fine, so Thank You God! And I spent way too much money.

So there you have it, folks! My Quad-Cities/Drama Day Camp odyssey!

Post Script: To fill you in on my continuing battle against spam blog comments (The War On Terror--oops! sorry, I mean The Struggle Against Commercialism), I finally found a place in setup where it says something like, "word verification for comments" or whatever, and so now when you comment you have to prove you're not an evil spam robot by typing those weird looking letters and numbers. I think. Anyway, when I checked today, someone had sent me a three page stock report. As a comment. It was rifrickindiculous. So hopefully this discovery will cut down on such extremist activities.

Spamming Reaches New Lows

2005-08-10T18:18:00.001-05:00

So, I go to check my email today, and I get all excited because there were FIVE comments made on my last blog and I think to myself, "Wow! People like me!" but then I go to look at said comments and discover four of them are patterned after this model, or a close variation:

"Loved your Blog! Fantastic job. Hey, come visit my blog, link to some weird website, like Free Software! or DISCOVERING XBOX 360 SECRETS!"

One of them even tried to coax me into visiting their website devoted to methods for the prevention of premature ejaculation, which--I don't mean to brag--has never given me a problem.

So now I'm like, hold on a second! Spam blog comments? That's really low. There's nothing worse than tricking someone into thinking they have friends and then bringing up the awkward and, I understand, occasionally painful subject of erectile dysfunction. It's worse than being woken up from a nap by phone calls trying to get you to sign up for credit cards you don't want. What is going on with this country? It's bad enough that computers now need to be equipped with spyware protection in order to surf the web without being bombarded by pop-up ads, households need to sign up for the "No Call List" to avoid having their naps interrupted by telemarketers, and probably half of the nation's landfills are full of junk mail, but now we can't even safely use an online journal without being harassed by those wanting us to buy things we don't need or want.

This entry was going to detail the fabulous trip I just returned from, but now my anti-capitalist indignation (and the time I had to take deleting the unwanted comments) has used up the half hour I gave myself to blog before getting stuff done. I say Thoreau had the right idea. If you want me, I'll be in some obscure wooded area, eating roots and berries.

Honey, I'm Ho-ome!

2005-08-08T20:49:00.000-05:00

Wow, what a week. I'd tell you about it now, but I'm too tired out to think clearly. But, as a special preview, this is what you have to look forward to:

stories about Marly's house and fabulous play

stories about amusing children, and some not quite so amusing

fairly entertaining banana puns

country music concerts in ungodly heat

and possibly some quaint anecdotes of random silliness

So tune in next time for the conclusion of this exciting episode of FoundSpace!! Hehe, all blogs should have teasers. Grin.

It's been a pathetically long time.

2005-07-28T17:22:00.000-05:00

Well, I guess I'm lazy. There is no other excuse. I simply haven't felt like thinking hard enough to write in here for a reprehensible amount of time. Apologies.

And now for some happy news! Guess what I get to do on Saturday? Go ahead, guess!

You: Fly in a hot air balloon to the middle of Montana and chat with a friendly grizzly bear?

Close, but no.

You: Go speed dating with your elderly widowed neighbor?

Sorry, that was last week.

You: Get married to a Texas oil baron who feels that women should be provided with every comfort known to man and who insists that you wear diamonds at all times and who pays off all of your student loans and builds you a castle just north of Edinburg, Ireland where you will be happy for the rest of your luxurious, over-indulgent lives, except when you travel to your summer palace in Milan where you will be happy for the rest of your luxurious, over-indulgent and fabulously tan lives?

Nope, even better. I get to go see my dear friend Marly stage manage a play! (Actually, technically I won't be able to SEE her stage manage it, but I will see the effects of her stage managing. It's like God, kind of...) I get to drive to her house in Grinnell where I will get to visit with her and my good friend Tracey, Marly's roommate, and then we get to go watch her show, and then we're going to hang out that night and do ridiculously fun things (because it's us!) and then go to Marly's church in the morning and then I do some more driving until I come to my friend Tina's house in Davenport. (I was going to just let that sentence keep running on, but I decided it was even annoying me. A bad sign.) Tina and I will hang out, and then we go start Drama Day Camp early Monday morning, where much fun, frivolity, and frustration will be had by all. Monday night will see me at Cindy's house, where we will settle into a routine of DDC in the daytime and country music concerts at the fair in the evenings.

See? I told you. Happy news. Anyway, have a day filled with penguin references and M&M Peanuts. To close, here's something I did not write, but appreciate greatly:

"God is good. He comforts and sustains. He protects and provides. He works and ministers in ways unseen, unknown, and which cannot be explained. Praise be to Him who is faithful."

Let's Do Something PE-culiar!

2005-07-10T16:10:00.001-05:00

(That's a line from one of my favorite cancelled Saturday morning cartoons, btw.)

We were driving on the highway yesterday (me being my mom, the two kids we were working with, and of course, me) when a white butterfly suddenly shot through the driver's side window, ran into my knee, and flew out the passenger side window. In about a second. It was very peculiar.

Well, I'm tired. Friday saw a 14.5 hour day of work for me, and Saturday gave me 10 more hours. I love the kids I work with, I really do, but after 30 hours in three days, I find myself becoming something I'm ashamed of. After a few hours of anwering the same question every three minutes, and after watching the same movie over and over and over again (Saturday we watched it for the 7th and 8th times since Thursday), I start getting frustrated and irritable. I believe I've mentioned how little sign language I speak. I'm learning more every day I work, but the challenges of trying to communicate using a language I don't know are nothing compared to the frustration of asking important questions of my charge, which invariably go unanswered. She has never answered a single question. Whether it's "Where are your glasses?" or "What do you want?" or "Are you hungry?" there is never an answer. So then I'm frustrated, because I don't know if she doesn't know enough sign herself to put together a response (Mom and I have just recently taught her how to put together more than one word in a phrase, and she only knows that one phrase), or if she doesn't know the words I'm using, or if I'm using the wrong signs, or if she simply doesn't feel like answering. She can't even answer "yes or no" questions.

And she requires my undivided attention, something I'm a little short on, when I have to be watching her active little brother at the same time. So then she'll sign "bathroom" to me, knowing that, since she needs help, I have to leave him and go with her to the bathroom, only to help her sit on the toilet and do nothing, because she never had to go in the first place. Or she'll say "eat" or "sandwich" so I'll go in the kitchen to make her some food, which she will take one bite of and then run off to get me to do some other activity with her.

And she hates her home. As soon as I get there, she'll sign "Drive?" to me, asking to go somewhere. This question she will repeat, at a minimum of every 5 minutes, even if we're already in the car. Then she'll start asking me other questions while I'm driving. Which I can't answer, or even "listen" to safely, since I have to look at her, then take my hands from the wheel to respond. Once we've gone somewhere, as soon as she realizes we're heading back home, she might start crying, or she might hit my car in anger. "What happens at home that she hates to be here?" That's the question her case manager asked me when I mentioned it to her. That's the question I ask every day.

When I leave, she stands at the door and cries. She never cries when her mom leaves. That doesn't seem normal to me. Kids are supposed to cry for their parents, not the babysitter.

Sorry for the whine session. Life really is too short to spend all of it complaining. On the other hand, it's too busy to spend all my energy keeping in all my frustration, so I figure, better to get it out in a few paragraphs and get on with funner stuff. And yes, I realize that funner is not a word. I still think "more fun" sounds stupider.

There's Just Something About My Job

2005-06-28T15:32:00.000-05:00

There's something excrutiatingly frustrating about trying to talk to a little deaf girl who doesn't speak much more sign language than you do. Which isn't a lot.

There's something wonderful about the thrill you get when she understands what you're saying and you realize she's finally learned the word you were trying to teach her.

There's something strangely heartwarming about the feeling of a little hand in both of your larger, stronger ones.

There's something of perfection in holding a little boy in your lap, after he's crawled there himself.

There's something supremely exhausting about carrying said little boy on your back for "horse rides." Especially when he wants you to jump.

There's something peculiarly un-awkward in explaining to the other children at the park that the little girl is deaf, and then teaching them how to say a few words to her in sign language.

There's something a little daunting about leaving for work every day at 5:15 in the morning. (Edit: There's something about the sunrise this morning that made it pretty much worthwhile.)

There's something completely peaceful about blowing bubbles and watching two little kids try to chase them before they get away.

There's something nervewracking about watching a mother scream obsenities at her child, even though you both know she can't hear it.

There's something awful about having to search through the stacks of hundreds of horror movies to find the ten or so movies halfway suitable for children, only to have the little boy ask for "Dawn of the Dead" anyway.

There's something heartwrenching in the fact that every time we play, he ends up brutally murdering someone either by decapitation, stabbing, or dismemberment. He's eight years old.

There's something totally reasonable in believing that the above behavior simply stems from the lack of movies that don't feature bloodied corpses terrorizing the populace...

...And yet there's something in you that says there's something else going on.

There's something terrifying in suspecting that something's wrong in a child's home and not being able to do anything about it.

I love my job.

I hate my job.

There Can Be Only One Conclusion

2005-06-15T13:07:00.000-05:00

Consider these rather ominous symptoms:

I have had a headache for four days.

I have been craving Chinese food at every meal, and I can't seem to get enough.

Yes, after careful analysis, I have finally come to the same conlusion that you have doubtless arrived at yourselves: My head has been invaded by a tiny Chinese man. Really, I'm surprised I didn't think of it before. It's so obvious. It explains everything. Apparently, he's not quite tiny enough, because it's far too crowded in there (hence the headache). And, he's hungry, and possibly homesick (I know I would be), so he wants food that will remind him of home.

But since I simply cannot eat out all the time, he's been forced to content himself with whatever we fix here at home, which has not been even remotely Chinese. So then he gets angry and throws little temper tantrums, which explains why my head hurts worse at some times than others.

And occasionally, he simply refuses to eat American food at all, choosing instead to munch on my brain. Which explains the contents of this blog.

I Have Been Having a Torrid Affair...

2005-06-14T17:24:00.000-05:00

...with a headache! It keeps coming back every night to sleep with me. It's been three nights in a row now. I feel so used...

Anyway, I did in fact secure the job I interviewed for in the previous blog. (Well, the interview wasn't in the previous blog, but I did mention it there.) So that's good. It means I have a paycheck coming, but it also means I can't go to D-port next week because they think I should actually show up to work at this new job. Jerks.

But apart from those two items, my boredom is surpassed only by Larse's, who wrote a disgruntled email about grass. And I didn't make that up. Although we do have similar thoughts about a missing hue in the highlighter industry, I have fortunately not sunk so low as to be upset about the color of grass. I am counting my blessings.

Heart! Headache Face

[insert creative title here]

2005-06-09T10:22:00.000-05:00

I have a job interview today!! Woot. If I get the job, I'll be working with two little kids, a brother and sister. The girl is deaf and the boy is slightly mentally retarded. It also starts at 5:45 in the morning about 40 minutes away from here. So my enthusiasm is slightly dampened. (That's kind of an odd figure of speech, don't you think? How can your emotions get wet? And do they ever dry off? Ahh, life is full of mysteries. Perhaps this colloquialism will serve in my plan to add an air of mystery and excitement to my life...) Anyway, the interview is at one. I'll let you know how it went. Whether you care or not. Because now that you're here, you will read whatever I have written! There is no escape!! Beware the perils of Found Space!!! Mwahahaha!!!! Alright, my evil laugh sucks. I'm sorry. That totally took you out of the moment, didn't it? I mean, it was all pretty believable until that little blunder, right? My sincerest apologies if your sense of unholy fear was dampened.

Moving on.

So, for those of you who were wondering why I haven't blogged in over a week, here's a little explanation: I found a lump (hehe, lump lump lump lump--that was for my friend Tracey. Shoot. I shouldn't have clarified. It might have aided my quest for a mysterious and exciting air.) (By the way, how can air be mysterious or exciting?) and went to the doctor about it last Thursday. He was a little more concerned than he tried to let on, which made my mom and I a little more concerned...basically, by Saturday I was sure in my heart that it was breast cancer, because the longer I had to wait to find out, the more I thought about it. Add to that the fact that I just died of breast cancer onstage earlier this year, and I was kind of freaked out. I had an ultrasound on Tuesday, and I saw the offending little black blotches with my own eyes. And by "little" I mean "really-big-and-scary." The technician said right away that they were benign, and confirmed it with the radiologist down the hall, so that we could be sure before we went home. But my feeling of relief was dampened by the sight of the little buggers. And by "little" I mean "completely-unnerving-and-terrifying-despite-the-fact-that-they-are-not-cancerous." So even though my worst fears had been proven wrong, that whole day I was just a mess. It's just kind of disturbing to see things growing in you that aren't supposed to be there, no matter how non-lethal they may happen to be.

I'm better now. I'm imagining them differently, and pretending they're cute and cuddly. Not really. That's kind of weird. But I am trying to think differently about them. The whole week or so that this was bothering me, I didn't really want to blog about it, and I didn't have anything else to talk about, since that was pretty much all that was on my mind. And I didn't want to blog about this because I was afraid people would think I was being ridiculous, because you just don't get breast cancer at age 21. I didn't even want to talk about it to anyone, not even to have them pray for me, because I was afraid they'd think I was dramatising myself. (I accidentally mentioned it to one friend, simply because I didn't have anything else to talk about, and while he assured me that I was not being dumb, I'm still not sure if I'm glad or sorry I brought it up.) Plus, if I blogged about it, I'd have to swear on the internet (you know, br**st...). But I decided that the only people who read this thing are my dearest friends, anyway, and they're kind of like my family. And even if they thought I was being ridiculous, they deserved to have the opportunity to pray for me (I could still use it). And besides, what are friends and family for, if you couldn't tell them what's really bothering you? That would kind of dampen the whole spirit of community, wouldn't it?

So there you are. That's what you get for being my friends. Now I'm going to go get ready for my interview. I hope you all have lovely days, and your feelings are kept completely dry. Heart!

I-80: Home of Cars

2005-05-31T11:03:00.000-05:00

(This title, by the way, is shameless plagiarism from the title of one of Tracey's blogs. Only now it's not, because I gave credit where credit was due. Dang it. I just DK'd at plagiarizing. And that's kind of sad.)

I got back last night from my little excursion to Marly's house and Cynthia's house, and now I'm going to tell you about it. Because I want to. And it's my blog, so there. Anyway, it was sooo good to see everyone. I wrote last time about my little fishing adventure at Marly's house. Well, that set the tone for the rest of the weekend. Tres fun. (For those of you who don't speak French, or who can't recognize it without the proper accent that I don't know how to do on the computer, 'tres' means very.) The little retirement party for Bonnie was great, although sad at times, and it was wonderful to see her and everyone else I've been missing.

And the drive there from Marly's house was very fun. I'd never driven on I-80 before, and I wasn't used to there being other cars on the road. There usually aren't that many on the little two-lane highways I drive on in rural Iowa. So I got to pass people, and be passed, and change lanes all the time...and it was really fun. Of course, that was only a two hour trip. When I was coming back, I was on I-80 for almost four hours. Then it wasn't quite so amusing.

The bonfire at Cynthia's house was lovely, and we went shopping on Monday, and that was also quite agreeable. I've decided I must find a good job so that I can afford to go to both Drama Day Camps this summer. Because I love those people. And it costs almost $50 just in gas to drive there and back, and I'm broke. So my fingers are crossed. We'll see.

So, this blog was going to be a lot more interesting when I started it, but I see I've DK'd in that endeavor as well. It seems as though I'm starting a sinister pattern for the day. Although, conceivably, it might make it more interesting.

The One That Got Away...

2005-05-28T21:16:00.000-05:00

I am at Marly's house as we speak. Or type. Or whatever. Guess what we did today? Give up? We went on the paddle boat on the lake behind her house and...we went fishing!! I have never fished before in my life. It was an adventure.

We began with a casting lesson. I'm good at it. Sometimes. Sometimes not. But I try hard. Anyway, so we went in the boat and I fished. I cast my line into the water like a pro, and then we "trolled" through the water. And then my line got caught on something...or rather, something got caught on my line. Marly said, "A fish! Lindsay, you caught a fish! Reel in, reel in!" So I reeled in. And then I discovered yet another unknown phobia of mine. I--for whatever reason--could not stand the thought of seeing my fish when it wasn't safely in a tank. So, I reeled in with my eyes closed, making ridiculous little girly noises the whole time. I know. It's pathetic. Don't judge me. Luckily, before I got the fish reeled all the way in, the wily creature escaped. Marly was disappointed. I was too...only not really, because I was too relieved not to have to look at it. Grin.

Then Marly caught one too. It was a big one. I saw it, but it was okay, because it was on her line and she was on the other side of the boat from me. Apparently, however, it had taken the same class as mine, because just as it broke the surface of the water, it slipped off back into the lake. That time we were both really for real disappointed. Marly wanted to kiss it. Who can fathom the mysteries of the Marly-brain?

I've decided I like fishing. I don't really want to actually catch anything, but sitting out there in the boat with a fishing pole, casting and re-casting, is really very peaceful and enjoyable. Maybe next time I'll fish with just a string and a rock on my pole, so that the rock will pull the line so that I can cast, but won't attract any of those scary fish.

I know, I'm ridiculous. But then, so is life. I'm just trying to blend in.

Batty

2005-05-27T21:43:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow I get to drive for three hours and thirteen minutes (according to mapquest) to see my good friend Marly! And on Sunday I get to drive for one hour and fifty-five minutes to see a bunch of my good friends in Davenport! How lovely, indeed. And then on Monday, I get to drive back...

I sent an email out to a bunch of people about the terrifying experience I had the other night. And I've decided to include it in this blog, because I think it belongs here. But most of you have already read this, so if this sounds familiar, there is no need to read further. Because redundancy is just pointless.

And now it's time for the subject of this blog...the part of the blog where I come out, and tell a silly story...
So, I was reading in my bed Wednesday night, about 11:45-midnightish, when I hear a strange noise in the hall. It sounded like a cicada or a june bug or something. So, immediately, I'm slightly uptight. The dog seems threatened, and is backing into my room. My cat, Joshua, is making his way down the hall and into my room, toward the closet. My first thought is that he's caught a june bug or whatever in his mouth, and is taking it into "his" closet to play with. But what I see in his mouth looks like some sort of velvety leaf--obviously no bug. My second glance prompts a scream of mortal terror, "A BAAAAAT!!!!!! AAAAAAAHHHH!!!!" which startles Joshua and the bat flies out of his mouth...in my general direction! Practically hysterical at this point, I have just enough presence of mind left to throw the blanket over my head and continue screaming indiscriminately. Of course, bedroom doors fly open in all directions (well, two, anyway), and my parents and my youngest brother, Peter (he's 15), convince me that the bat is under the bed so that I will come out from under the blanket and leave the room. My dad and my brother go in with a broom and a plastic bag, and close the door, while my mother and I barricade ourselves in the master bedroom. I have never been so terrified in my recent memory. It was the kind of fear where you shake uncontrollably, and cry, but no tears come out because you're laughing nervously at the same time. Hysterics.

Here comes the most sinister part: the men can't find the bat. They've searched my bedroom, and they're certain it's not in there anymore. But I didn't see it leave, so I'm not convinced. I refuse to sleep in there, and no one argues with me. I make myself a cup of tea and set up camp in my parents' room for the night.

My other brother, Steven (17), comes home probably about 1:30 or so. Everone else is asleep, but the cat is guarding his closet, from whence strange noises are emanating. More than a little unnerved himself, he slams the closet door shut, chases the cat out of his room, and goes to bed.

And that's where the bat is now, hanging around in Steven's closet, waiting--like the rest of us--for my dad to come home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue: The bat has been neutralized, the screens have been repaired, and all other conceivable bat portals have been eliminated. And now it takes an extra two hours to get all your luggage through the customs lines.

Two In One Day!

2005-05-24T22:29:00.000-05:00

(Aren't you lucky?)

I just finally called one of my favorite people. I've been wanting to call her for just about ever, but I hate the phone. I am not a gifted phone user. I suddenly forget everything interesting I've ever known and become the most inane, babbly, pointless human being. Seriously. But it was totally worth it. My old friend Cynthia has to be one of the most fabulous people I know. (It sounds weird to say "my old friend," like I'm 80 years old or something. I'm not, by the way. Neither is Cynthia.) I'm going to see her in a few days. I'm super excited.

New subject. Since today has been a day of new discoveries, I've decided to preserve them forever in cyberspace. Yes, once again, it's all part of my plan to cultivate an air of mystery and excitement about my life. (Or, as Aubrey once thought, an "Arab mystery and excitement.")

Today's Discoveries:

No matter how hard I try, my car key will not start my mom's car

My friend Matt DG has way too much time to write emails (but I have way too much time to check them, so I appreciated it)

When the sun comes out, it gets hotter

If you spend more money than you make, you will run out faster

I have a magic talent: according to three different people, my emails transmit an actual audio of my voice directly to the reader's brain. That's got to be pretty mysterious and exciting, right there.

There is a man in Richfield, Minnesota who has made a hummingbird feeder out of a bicycle helmet so he can wear it on his head

I'm hungry.

The End.

Psychotherapy may be required.

2005-05-24T14:10:00.000-05:00

So, I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamed a bunch of my NWC theatre friends and I were making another Lord of the Rings movie. But not as an independent project or anything, it was like, New Line Cinema and Peter Jackson and the whole deal. And I played Pippin. And I think Eric was there, and Matt H., and Tracey, and K.O.J., and Marly...and Christopher Lee. And a lot of other people too. It was really odd. But not in the dream, of course; in the dream it was all perfectly natural. And I gave Christopher Lee a line note.

The weird thing is, that was like, the fifth dream I've had since I've been home that NWC people have been in. I don't remember ever dreaming about them when I was there. Except maybe once. Perhaps Mundania is getting to me, a bit. It may be time for drastic measures. Like....okay, I can't think of anything drastic. Don't judge me.

I heard this on one of my brother's mixes today. It's by Starfield:
"What do I have if I don't have you, Jesus? What in this life could mean any more?" I've decided it's the quote of the day. Right now it says what I feel like saying. Only more musically.

I saw an emu today.

2005-05-23T21:48:00.000-05:00

It was standing in the middle of an unplanted cornfield. Isn't that weird? I couldn't figure out what it was at first, but we're pretty sure it was an emu. Odd.

Poetry

2005-05-20T23:31:00.000-05:00

My mother and I went for a walk in a wooded park just outside of town, and what we found when we got home resulted in this wondrous literary achievement:

Today we walked
(cause we should)
Walked in a wood
(it was good)
We crossed a stream
And then, I deem,
We stepped into
And walked right through
A family's nest.
They thought it best
To cling to us.
I know because
When we were back in
I checked my skin
And I found some ticks.
They numbered six.
I let out a shout
And plucked them out
And I put them, in time,
In a little rhyme
That doesn't actually rhyme at all
In the last little bit.

And there you have it, folks. The most amazing example of literary genius this side of the Mississippi. But seriously, all poetics aside, I really did find six ticks. And if anyone can think of a creature more disgusting than a tick, let me know. I dare you. When I found the first one I had to go into an elaborate ritual to drum up enough courage to touch it, even with the tweezers. I freely admit--I'm not ashamed--this included jumping up and down and screaming like a girl. Go ahead. Laugh. But let this be a warning to you to wear long sleeves and bug spray the next time you venture out for some fresh air. Because you never know when a tick might be waiting for you...

I watched Finding Neverland with my parents tonight. It was nice, because I noticed a whole bunch of things I never realized before, and it's really a fantastically made movie. I love how intrically the plot is woven together. And I think so much of the diologue is just beautiful. I approve.

Goodnight friends.

It's Ridiculous

2005-05-19T16:47:00.000-05:00

It's ridiculous. I do not know who was voted off American Idol last night!!! For the first time in...a long time...I don't have a bunch of wonderful girls to watch it with, and then I forgot, and now I don't know! It better not have been Vonzell, because then I'll be mad.

A week since I've been home, and boredom has officially set in. I've done dishes, laundry, grocery shopping, I've read three books--everything except actually unpack, which I planned to do this afternoon, but I guess my procrastination came home with me too. My mom worked all day today, and my dad slept since he's on painkillers (long story), so my day has been silently boring. Ah well. I do, of course, have those boxes to go through if things become too tedious.

On a brighter note, I got three emails from my wingmates yesterday, and another from my roommate today! How lovely.

Word of the Day: Hmmm

2005-05-17T01:53:00.000-05:00

I just shipped off my roommate back to her hometown in Oregon. This is now officially the beginning of my not-school life, and it feels weird. Ever since I got home on Thursday, I keep feeling like I need to get ready to drive back in a few days. And I keep laughing at little inside joke things--or making little inside joke things--that I forget normal people don't understand. How do you explain to people that "DK" means failure, or that "Wrong answer!" isn't actually an insult? I tried to impart the joy that was Mario Party on a humongous screen, but it so falls short of the actual event. And then of course there's sky monster, and Eric's laugh, and Betsy's funny noises, and BMW episodes, and Friends episodes, and long walks in the rain, and long geeky talks about theatre, and freaking out (slightly) about American Idol, and being able to borrow practically any movie you could possibly want to watch...College is a unique place.

So is my house, though. I really missed our inside jokes, too. Well, and the people, of course. I called my brother from a rest stop on the way home to tell everyone I'd be later than I'd planned (I'd of course no idea how late, because I hadn't really planned on missing that turn-off and adding an extra hour to my drive time) and he said "Okay-bee" which is from...well, nevermind. Anyway, I got all excited that now I can use my old, family inside jokes. And I can hang out with my mom, and go to all the cute restaurants, and sit around and play video games or read and not feel guilty for procrastinating, and catch up with my brothers and my dad on what's going on in their lives, and cuddle with my cat...It's kind of odd to be sooo happy to be in one place, yet miss the other.

Life is kind of a weird place. I guess that's okay, though. I pretty much like it anyway.