I would very much like to get back to where I was, as a writer, three years ago. In 2010, I was writing for nearly all of my courses - creatively, academically and for the school paper. I miss that. I miss sitting down with the computer I had at the time (a hand-me-down Mac that had a hard drive smaller than my current phone's) and watching the ideas in my head become page after page in Word.
The past three years have seen so many changes in my life, and now that I'm in a much more comfortable place, I sincerely hope I will be able to break out of the severe writers' block that waltzed in pretty much the day I received my diploma.
This post is due very much to the fact that I just got rid of the computer that I had since 2001. It was the second computer I ever had (the first being an ancient Mac that had all these games that I don't think existed after 1992) and it served me well through high school and college... except for those times when it crashed and I had to re-install everything (30+ times, I've counted), or when the original monitor (that was about 15 inches deep) decided to invert every color, or when the mouse stopped working unless you slammed it on the desk, or...
Okay, okay, the computer sucked. Kelly and Teresa can attest to that - I apologize for all those slumber parties where they were forced to endure its testy ways just to IM people. Plus, the mess of wires that were required for the 12-year-old technology were caked in dust and resided just in front of the heater vent in this room. Let's be real here, I'm surprised that my room hasn't blown up because of that damn mass of electronics.
But that computer, heap of junk as it became, saw me through my most formative years. I wasn't the ~popular kid~ in 8th grade or high school, so I spent the majority of my free time parked in this very spot, screwing around on DiaryLand and LiveJournal and Moulin Rouge message boards (...was my lack of popularity my fault?!). I wrote all the angst-ridden emails I could from that bad boy, and when I finally came to my senses in college, I translated that angst into really awesome term papers, poems and news stories.
And then I graduated.
And everything came screeching to a halt.
I honestly can't tell you how many times I left the cursor blinking in Word for hours on end because for as much as I wanted to write another poem or blog, not one bit of inspiration struck. I think I've gotten out a grand total of two poems in three years, and there aren't even 20 posts on this blog yet. I know I know. Quality, not quantity in writing. But to not even get out shitty work? That makes me sad.
I'm getting a new computer this month - that's what prompted me to throw away the old desktop, once and for all. I'm finally back at my desk since my little laptop finally has a home there. I'm also busier than I have been in a long time, but that's where I thrive. Here's hoping the changes that life has thrown at me will lend themselves to a creative rebirth!
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Warning on lights one... and... GO.
This production of Children of Eden marks show number 41 for me -- including both performing and stage crew-ing. In all of those shows, there's been one common thread.
After all the excitement and emotions of green room, there is one moment that keeps me coming back to theater. The 30 seconds or so where I am in my place for the beginning of act one, waiting for the cue from the light board or orchestra to begin, is simultaneously the most thrilling and terrifying moment of my life.
It's dark.
15 years of acting and 10 years of stage managing has, thankfully, blessed me with night vision that frightens my mother. I can navigate any stage you put me on, in pitch-black, pick up five of those godforsaken brown stools we've used every show for the past three years at once and get offstage in five seconds. No sweat.
The darkness before a show begins, though, holds weight that scares the productivity out of me.
Any kind of performance, but particularly full musicals, exist in my mind as nearly living beings. There's so much potential for human experience from the first chord and, as I've witnessed numerous times, a line that the cast may find to be a throw-away could truly touch an audience member.
In the moment before that all begins, though? When the audience is hushed by the house lights dimming, the tech director is holding on cue one and the rail guys are just about to open the curtain? There's such a tangible possibility for complete failure. That's likely an entirely irrational fear on my part -- especially in the past few years, I've worked with casts and crews that could be considered near-professional and we've gotten through some massive technical problems with hardly a pause. Regardless, my mind races. I somehow compact everything I'll be doing during the performance into those few seconds, forget every lyric or scene change I have, remember every lyric or scene change I have, run over the opening number and hug whoever is near me. It's a horrifying process and should probably be grounds to get my brain checked out... but I love it.
The thrill of looking all that fear in the face, knowing that I DO know all of my lines and movements, and knowing that the audience will be at least moderately captivated for the next two hours, is the most incredible feeling. I've had the lovely honor this time around of sharing that moment with a cast member who I've been very close with for several years. We don't actively talk about everything going on in our minds, but we hold on to each other's hands with all of our might and enter the stage together.
I can't think of a better way to begin a performance.
After all the excitement and emotions of green room, there is one moment that keeps me coming back to theater. The 30 seconds or so where I am in my place for the beginning of act one, waiting for the cue from the light board or orchestra to begin, is simultaneously the most thrilling and terrifying moment of my life.
It's dark.
15 years of acting and 10 years of stage managing has, thankfully, blessed me with night vision that frightens my mother. I can navigate any stage you put me on, in pitch-black, pick up five of those godforsaken brown stools we've used every show for the past three years at once and get offstage in five seconds. No sweat.
The darkness before a show begins, though, holds weight that scares the productivity out of me.
Any kind of performance, but particularly full musicals, exist in my mind as nearly living beings. There's so much potential for human experience from the first chord and, as I've witnessed numerous times, a line that the cast may find to be a throw-away could truly touch an audience member.
In the moment before that all begins, though? When the audience is hushed by the house lights dimming, the tech director is holding on cue one and the rail guys are just about to open the curtain? There's such a tangible possibility for complete failure. That's likely an entirely irrational fear on my part -- especially in the past few years, I've worked with casts and crews that could be considered near-professional and we've gotten through some massive technical problems with hardly a pause. Regardless, my mind races. I somehow compact everything I'll be doing during the performance into those few seconds, forget every lyric or scene change I have, remember every lyric or scene change I have, run over the opening number and hug whoever is near me. It's a horrifying process and should probably be grounds to get my brain checked out... but I love it.
The thrill of looking all that fear in the face, knowing that I DO know all of my lines and movements, and knowing that the audience will be at least moderately captivated for the next two hours, is the most incredible feeling. I've had the lovely honor this time around of sharing that moment with a cast member who I've been very close with for several years. We don't actively talk about everything going on in our minds, but we hold on to each other's hands with all of our might and enter the stage together.
I can't think of a better way to begin a performance.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
In which I ramble about children and being remembered, in a feverish ibuprofen haze.
I don't want this blog to become my place where I unload all of my "I'm not going to have children" rants but...
I'm not going to have children, and, once again, I need to rant about it.
When I was out on my birthday, an older friend and I delved into one of those ~conversations~ about my future. I try not to approach those with a begrudging sigh, but come on, guys. I know that I'm 25 and work at a zoo and am not using my degree to it's fullest potential so can we just drop it??? Alright, now that that's out of the way. I mentioned in passing that I know I won't be having children, and that put the emergency breaks on, FAST. I've grown very used to this happening (see: nearly all of my previous posts here), so I rattled off my usual thing about how I know only one thing for certain about my future, blah blah blah.
That explanation seemed to work for her, but she did have one more question that managed to stick with me until I was at the gas station this afternoon and this blog post managed to write itself in my head.
"Don't you realize that when you die, you're going to leave no part of you for people to remember you by?"
To quote the lovely John Mulaney, "First of all; no."
Does that mean that when people think of me, all they think of are my parents? I mean, sure, they raised me well and I'm happy to have them. But... my dad fucked up, big time, a few years ago. I don't like talking about it most of the time (most of the people who have entered my life more recently don't even know a thing about the situation) and I have to stifle a comical amount of anger whenever I'm greeted with a "Hey Meredith, how's your dad?" The concern is sweet and it is nice knowing that when I do need support, there are people out there. Whether the offender realizes it or not, though, they are pushing me more and more back under my parents' shadow, just when I've begun to make my stake in this bizarre world. I'm not saying I'm resentful toward my parents. In the future, when I think back on them, I'm going to remember them as their own people, with their own qualities and accomplishments, which is the least anyone can do for each other. I'm not a perfect person by ANY sense of the word, but the last thing I would want for any children I'd hypothetically have would be for them to be remembered simply as being my offspring.
Going beyond all my daddy issues (ugh, if there was ever a phrase I hate), her question set off the fledgling funny person that lives inside me. I know that for as long as I'm stuck in small-city Pennsylvania, I can't really make any huge strides toward a career in comedy. The instant I find myself in New York (or Chicago), with enough money to live and take improv classes, though? I'll finally be on the path to channeling the comedy I grew up with into something productive.
I'm not flying down some crazy delusional path. I know that the odds of my actually becoming a Weekend Update anchor are ridiculously slim and my 494 Twitter followers that I have now may very well be the closest thing I ever get to "fans." Whatever impact I make here... isn't it better to be remembered by the people who genuinely want to remember you? I'd like to think that if I've contributed something worth thinking about to the world, the people who want to talk about it down the road are going to do so, regardless of whether or not I gave birth to them.
...This was a weird post. I've had three protein shakes and four huge glasses of juice today (along with probably too much ibuprofen) because I have what feels like a sinus infection, minus the actual pressure in my sinuses, and I'm terribly paranoid that it's actually the beginning of this monster flu, and I do NOT have time to deal with that. Anyway. Thanks for reading this mess that is my brain.
I'm not going to have children, and, once again, I need to rant about it.
When I was out on my birthday, an older friend and I delved into one of those ~conversations~ about my future. I try not to approach those with a begrudging sigh, but come on, guys. I know that I'm 25 and work at a zoo and am not using my degree to it's fullest potential so can we just drop it??? Alright, now that that's out of the way. I mentioned in passing that I know I won't be having children, and that put the emergency breaks on, FAST. I've grown very used to this happening (see: nearly all of my previous posts here), so I rattled off my usual thing about how I know only one thing for certain about my future, blah blah blah.
That explanation seemed to work for her, but she did have one more question that managed to stick with me until I was at the gas station this afternoon and this blog post managed to write itself in my head.
"Don't you realize that when you die, you're going to leave no part of you for people to remember you by?"
To quote the lovely John Mulaney, "First of all; no."
Does that mean that when people think of me, all they think of are my parents? I mean, sure, they raised me well and I'm happy to have them. But... my dad fucked up, big time, a few years ago. I don't like talking about it most of the time (most of the people who have entered my life more recently don't even know a thing about the situation) and I have to stifle a comical amount of anger whenever I'm greeted with a "Hey Meredith, how's your dad?" The concern is sweet and it is nice knowing that when I do need support, there are people out there. Whether the offender realizes it or not, though, they are pushing me more and more back under my parents' shadow, just when I've begun to make my stake in this bizarre world. I'm not saying I'm resentful toward my parents. In the future, when I think back on them, I'm going to remember them as their own people, with their own qualities and accomplishments, which is the least anyone can do for each other. I'm not a perfect person by ANY sense of the word, but the last thing I would want for any children I'd hypothetically have would be for them to be remembered simply as being my offspring.
Going beyond all my daddy issues (ugh, if there was ever a phrase I hate), her question set off the fledgling funny person that lives inside me. I know that for as long as I'm stuck in small-city Pennsylvania, I can't really make any huge strides toward a career in comedy. The instant I find myself in New York (or Chicago), with enough money to live and take improv classes, though? I'll finally be on the path to channeling the comedy I grew up with into something productive.
I'm not flying down some crazy delusional path. I know that the odds of my actually becoming a Weekend Update anchor are ridiculously slim and my 494 Twitter followers that I have now may very well be the closest thing I ever get to "fans." Whatever impact I make here... isn't it better to be remembered by the people who genuinely want to remember you? I'd like to think that if I've contributed something worth thinking about to the world, the people who want to talk about it down the road are going to do so, regardless of whether or not I gave birth to them.
...This was a weird post. I've had three protein shakes and four huge glasses of juice today (along with probably too much ibuprofen) because I have what feels like a sinus infection, minus the actual pressure in my sinuses, and I'm terribly paranoid that it's actually the beginning of this monster flu, and I do NOT have time to deal with that. Anyway. Thanks for reading this mess that is my brain.
Monday, December 24, 2012
This is a Christmas blog post? Alright.
Christmas is really fucking weird.
Like. For one week of the year, we're supposed to get together with people we never see otherwise and give them presents that they may or may not like? For existing???
I mean, honestly, it's hard to not look at that end of Christmas in Michael Scott's view: "Presents are the best way to show someone you care. It's like this tangible thing that you can point to and say 'Hey man, I love you this many dollars worth.'"
I don't want this to become a preachy soapbox thing where I wax rhapsodic a la Charlie Brown (or right-wing wing-nuts who sneer at a "Happy holidays!" greeting when really, isn't the thought behind ANY greeting at all better than nothing?). I mean, sure, there are those moments where I'd love to go back to the simpler times, when Christmas was a joy-filled dinner in my grandma's basement (no, really), but I'm grounded in the real world, where things move crazy fast and our society is always growing and expanding. I love that.
Um, anyway.
What I'm trying to get out in this blog post is how weird it all is. We literally save up money (or, in my broke-ass case, scramble to make non-existent money move around in a favorable way) to buy more things than we do for the rest of the year, for the people in our lives? But, like, 90% of those expected presents are for people we don't see except for when we're giving them presents? So we're conditioning children to Pavlov-dog their way into every family gathering??? I remember being disappointed when my uncle got re-married because I knew it was a big family event, and then I didn't get one gift. What IS that?! Yes, Meredith. Your uncle is getting married so here's a ton of presents! It's April!!!
...I truly don't know where I'm trying to go with this post but I suppose this is my Christmas gift to the internet. You're welcome.
ALSO!! IMPORTANT ~BLOGGER~ NOTE. I was one of those fools who hastily deleted my instagram account the second they pulled the rug out from under us pseudo-photographers, but I decided to take that and turn it into something positive to hide my shame for being so quick to remove my beautiful shots of my dog and beer. I made a new account, meredithcesare (whoa, just like my name!), and for the entirety of 2013, I am going to post one picture every day. It'll keep me a bit more reigned in and will really let my iPhone photo editing skillz (?) shine. So, if you want to follow that project (the more followers I have there, the more pressure I'll feel to actually keep up with this), go for it!
I also hope to actually blog more in 2013. This past year has kind of been a waste for me, intellectually-speaking. Obviously, I'm not back in school or anything like that -- nor do I ever plan to be -- but I really feel like I didn't accomplish anything. Sure, I saw a lot more responsibilities at work and helped put on some freakin' massive musicals and plays, but... I need a writing outlet. So. Peer pressure. Tell me to write.
AND, speaking of peer pressure, I also got a gym membership from my aunt for Christmas. I haven't had a gym membership in nearly three years, and after one dance rehearsal two weeks ago, I was sore for four days. I need to better myself. YELL AT ME IF I DO NOT TWEET REGULARLY ABOUT GOING TO THE GYM.
...
Merry Christmas?
Like. For one week of the year, we're supposed to get together with people we never see otherwise and give them presents that they may or may not like? For existing???
I mean, honestly, it's hard to not look at that end of Christmas in Michael Scott's view: "Presents are the best way to show someone you care. It's like this tangible thing that you can point to and say 'Hey man, I love you this many dollars worth.'"
I don't want this to become a preachy soapbox thing where I wax rhapsodic a la Charlie Brown (or right-wing wing-nuts who sneer at a "Happy holidays!" greeting when really, isn't the thought behind ANY greeting at all better than nothing?). I mean, sure, there are those moments where I'd love to go back to the simpler times, when Christmas was a joy-filled dinner in my grandma's basement (no, really), but I'm grounded in the real world, where things move crazy fast and our society is always growing and expanding. I love that.
Um, anyway.
What I'm trying to get out in this blog post is how weird it all is. We literally save up money (or, in my broke-ass case, scramble to make non-existent money move around in a favorable way) to buy more things than we do for the rest of the year, for the people in our lives? But, like, 90% of those expected presents are for people we don't see except for when we're giving them presents? So we're conditioning children to Pavlov-dog their way into every family gathering??? I remember being disappointed when my uncle got re-married because I knew it was a big family event, and then I didn't get one gift. What IS that?! Yes, Meredith. Your uncle is getting married so here's a ton of presents! It's April!!!
...I truly don't know where I'm trying to go with this post but I suppose this is my Christmas gift to the internet. You're welcome.
ALSO!! IMPORTANT ~BLOGGER~ NOTE. I was one of those fools who hastily deleted my instagram account the second they pulled the rug out from under us pseudo-photographers, but I decided to take that and turn it into something positive to hide my shame for being so quick to remove my beautiful shots of my dog and beer. I made a new account, meredithcesare (whoa, just like my name!), and for the entirety of 2013, I am going to post one picture every day. It'll keep me a bit more reigned in and will really let my iPhone photo editing skillz (?) shine. So, if you want to follow that project (the more followers I have there, the more pressure I'll feel to actually keep up with this), go for it!
I also hope to actually blog more in 2013. This past year has kind of been a waste for me, intellectually-speaking. Obviously, I'm not back in school or anything like that -- nor do I ever plan to be -- but I really feel like I didn't accomplish anything. Sure, I saw a lot more responsibilities at work and helped put on some freakin' massive musicals and plays, but... I need a writing outlet. So. Peer pressure. Tell me to write.
AND, speaking of peer pressure, I also got a gym membership from my aunt for Christmas. I haven't had a gym membership in nearly three years, and after one dance rehearsal two weeks ago, I was sore for four days. I need to better myself. YELL AT ME IF I DO NOT TWEET REGULARLY ABOUT GOING TO THE GYM.
...
Merry Christmas?
Friday, December 7, 2012
Ugh, a blog post about ~feelings~ [Insert Liz Lemon eye-roll here]
In any given group of people, I'm that person.
The one who cheers too loudly, laughs too hard, cries for a little too long after the credits roll.
You name the feeling, I feel it. Strongly. Stronger than anyone else I know. It's all-consuming. I get excited to a fault; I put too much faith in people. In some settings, it's really good -- I don't think I would have been front row, center, for the Steve Martin concert last year if I hadn't parked myself outside the theater eight hours before he took the stage (for mic check -- it was an additional two hours before the actual show).
Actually, in most situations, this is ultimately a good thing. Sure, I may take over peoples' Twitter timelines because I reply to comedy writers and celebrities all the damn time, but when exciting or genuinely nice exchanges come from it? Those tweets are worth it. When I'm working on a musical and can't see the light at the end of the tunnel that is tech week, I subconsciously dig my heels in a little deeper and pour every bit of energy in me into the production. It's exhausting and makes me unbearable to be around if you're not on my crew, but again, in the end, it's worth it. I'm so proud of the theater kids I've worked with who are now in college, off starting their own careers. I hope it's a comfort for them that no matter what they go on to do, they have at least one constant cheerleader who believes in them.
I'm not in the best of moods as I sit here, writing this, though. I'm watching The Fifth Element because I wallow in stupid girly feelings in really stupid ways, and I'm trying to keep my mind off circumstances that are making me really, really sad.
For all those times I feel so proud or excited or valued, I feel those stupid single girl feelings. Even though I don't see myself """"settling down"""" in the stupid traditional sense (what even IS traditional anymore?), I feel all those desires that go along with being a woman. I know that I'm not always the best at expressing those feelings, and I know that changing that is entirely in my hands, but when those feelings are as strong as they are, it's hard to get them out of my head. It's frustrating. It's also something I've been forced to grow comfortable with, as much as it sucks (like right now). Basically, when it comes to romance, there's a whole lot of thinking on my end, but not a lot of action. I like that I'm a grounded person, and on nearly any day, it serves me well. Then, there are days like today, where everything just builds up and comes to a frustrating head that doesn't offer any sort of closure or comfort. It's just a mess of feelings that I can't express quite to my liking or explain away.
On days like this... I write. And I hope that someone reads what I write. And that maybe, something will resound within them, and they'll be a little better off for it. At least then I can feel like my mopey evening hasn't gone entirely to waste.
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