Wilderness

How does one become disciplined to do something every day? I miss writing. I miss having a sense of accomplishment, instead of discouragement and frustration and the constant running and running and running from one thing to the next, living moment by moment with hardly a moment to breathe in between. And yet it seems to be the things I want to do the most that seem the farthest away. The show in the fall: in a city forty-five minutes away when I don't have a way to get there of which I know, and required presence at some other rehearsals later on that I'd have to negotiate. And being at Cedarville: I wasn't supposed to be back this year. I didn't want to be. Why am I still going back?

Maybe I'll write a poem later. But right now, it's all I can do to form words into sentences on here, let alone be creative.

I'm sunburned. It hurts.

Sentences

I miss my black sequined dress
the one I wear to dance in Chicago.

Bomont? Where the hell is Bomont?
(Donald always said fuck instead of hell.)

Somebody's eyes are watching
somebody's eyes will never close, never sleep
somebody's after the secrets that you keep.

I had a pink slippery suit when I was five
and now I wore one again for gym.
Funny, the way things come full circle like that.

My church dress
looked like Eric's beach towel.
So he said, anyway.

Amy did my hair every night.
She said it was exactly the same as her hair was in the 80s when she was a teenager.
I miss her already
and it's only been four hours since we hugged goodbye.

I need to learn to sing from my heart more.

I'm sad this is over. I'm going to miss it tremendously.
Even more than I miss my hot sequined dress and big hair and purple eyeshadow
I miss people.

Night

Hi, God.
I don't know why I'm still here.
Yeah.
That's all.
Bye.

Movement Studio

Tears
Blood
Breaks
Sweat
Pain

Hugs
Friendship
Love
Laughter
Life.

Hands

"Good.

It's all settled,
then.

You will major in theatre
and be an amazing and talented artist

And have a blast
every
day
of
your
life.

The end!"

I think
I'm awfully glad
I have people
who tell me I'm not insane
and remind me
how much I want this.

Lessons learned, and things

The flowers divided prettily among four thin vases (really empty Jones Soda bottles) and sitting on my desk, computer cart, other desk, and dresser do a lovely job of brightening up my room.

I like performing in real roles in things, even if it's scary.

Margaritas are amazing things. They taste wonderful.

I want to learn to be more outgoing all the time... I don't like getting quiet. I don't like being insecure.

I want people to love me.

Water with lemon and lime is nice, too. I always take the lemon and lime slices off the side of the glass so they can flavor the water. It tastes good that way.

I don't like it when people talk about other people. And I wonder what people think of me... what they think of me.

I want to keep performing in musicals
and having flowers
and drinking margaritas.

Voice

I can't worry
what the world will say
I may fly or fall,
but either way
I'm free.

I need to exemplify this
in my solos Saturday
and stop worrying and worrying,
constantly worrying
about sucking or fucking them up.

DIE, VAMPIRE, DIE
DIE
DIE
DIE
DIE.

Right now, right here, making our breaks for heaven's sake!
We will be released--
Heaven helps the man,
heaven helps the man,
heaven helps the man--
I'M FREE!

Jumping

Remember how I decided
I was going to stay here
and make the best of it?
Well,
I question that decision
every single day
and wonder why the hell
I'm staying where I am.

Two plus zero equals
nothing in terms of a future.

Ideal

Remember last year,
when I didn't make callbacks?
I went to dance in the movement studio
and put on Hairspray
and fell down.

Three tendons torn
and three chip fractures.

My ankle hurts sometimes, when I'm tired.
I limp on it
and I don't even notice
until someone asks me,
"Hey, are you limping? Is your ankle okay?"
And I look down
and shrug
and say I'm Fine, just tired.

But I would really like to be in a play.

Sign

"NO FOOD OR DRINK IN THE DESIGN LAB"

Clear thumbtacks hold it up in the corners.
Its bottom corners curl out a little,
like it's trying to get away
and escape the emptiness of the white, white wall
that can't help but blend into its white, white paper;
and that white paper is stippled with black, black dust
pinning the paper down to whisper sardonically into its ear,
"Not yet. Not ever. You're going to stay.
HA."

And it knows that if it tries to curl up and away
it won't work
and the dust and the tacks will push it back down again
straining it on that tumultuous trip down the mountain.
The only thing to do would be to start back up the mountain,
towing that boulder with heavy ropes,
to be pushed down again as soon as it reaches the top.

Circle

When I was twelve,
I wrote down
in the front of my brand-new Bible
(on the page that had a space
for how I was unique,
eye color and hair color
and when-i-grow-up sorts of things)
that I wanted
to be an Actress.

Sveta told me
that I should be in movies someday
because I looked right for it.
I laughed
but kind of thought it would be nice.

When we put on shows in our bedroom
(those were always the music revues -
the plays were downstairs,
so we could use the sliding doors
like a proscenium arch)
I balanced flashlights against the top bunk
to direct focus
with our sort of spotlight.

I would know that confidence
if I knew a way back to then.

Tuesday

Autumn stipples the leaves.
Orange and yellow and white lights
shine onto the scrim
through glass gobos
and colored gels.
Beam breaks dust,
and shadows dance behind the fog.

There is a blue bulb
naked behind a cage
and it looks kind of happy
in a sad sort of way.

I think it wishes it could see the tree.

Blue

I was going
to write a poem
because I'm backstage
so could write some brilliant thing
about the miracle
of theatrical life

but I'm too tired
so I won't.

Menagerie

Fingers open, reaching
toward diamond figures,
animals arranged just so
on the oaken bookshelf
rag-polished every day
(at three:thirty-five p.m.;
Amanda sees to that.).

Maybe far away,
or maybe real near by,
he may be pouring her coffee;
she may be straight'ning his tie.

I like the way the light
catches the glass of my statues
and shines and sparkles through them.

I don't want realism. I want magic!
Yes, yes, magic.
I try
to give that
to people.

"Oh, Laura, haven't you ever liked some boy?"

Face flushes
as crimson hue jumps instantly to cheek.
Eyes flit, unable to decide where to go.
And heart, heart has long ago given up
beating in time with the tickings of the clock.

Lashes brush.
Dark, thick, heavy lashes
framing eyes
that see a lot
and say very little.

I guess
I might have
liked one,
once.

Point

Look at that face in the mirror,
see why in shadows I hide.

Propositions

Oh
Thirsty, thirsty, so thirsty
Parched

"Here. Have some milk."

You pour water
and try to satisfy
and Oh, I want it to,
but I stretch
and groan
and break
without really holding
much water at all.
I am a vessel
too weak to carry
even this little bit
of water you pour
and unless you can find
someone to strengthen my leather,
make it pliable and relaxed
and attentive and free,
and patch my holes and tears
that let water out in tiny trickles,
I cannot hold any of this
so it means naught to provide.

Ascot

Lace
Black lace
over white silk
Cascades
Falls

down.

Play

Swirling colors
like fixtures with glass gobos
shining onto some stage
illuminating the actors,
revealing their presence.

Passionate pleas
entangled in dark crevices
reaching for a spot of sky
and singing to the moon above.

Reach out your hand
and let me hold you.