MY NOT-SO-THOUGHTFUL REFLECTION

If a normal individual can write out pertinent and viable information in one sentence, it would take me two. Two paragraphs, that is. I have never faced a lack of verbosity. I enjoy the utilization of words, the power they provide me with, and how ingeniously they hide my lack of contemporary thought. Not contemporary- perhaps enterprising is the adjective I am searching for.
The fact of the matter is simply that I cannot write a phrase out without concocting a more intrepid, vastly unnecessary, stream of babble to stand in false place for the things I will not possibly have hopes of devising in my mundane span of living.
Perhaps that is why I have evaded the use of this thing in previous months. It would seem merely a matter of exercising useless phrases, moreso than speaking to actual experience or legitimate livelihood.

I am incredibly ready to be, once again, without my computer and full of worthwhile vitality.

DECEMBER POST.

Surgery, the fall term, and life as I know it is...
OVER. Done with. Finished.
I have never had this many individual moments to myself, full and bursting with reflection, snoring, and lifting my arms no higher than my chin.
Life, as I have obviously learned by now, is infinitely strange.

If my computer finds itself in repair, I might have more writing capability, but time and budgetary restrictions will be the teller of such fates.

I have missed writing. Perhaps it has missed me. We'll have to reunite. Perhaps when I am less medicated.

THIS IS WHAT MY FROZEN WEEKEND LOOKS LIKE.

I adore being a sixty year-old woman who watches Food Network for fun.

I read Terrence McNally, and I watch Food Network.
Watch out for my cat.

THIS IS HALLOWEEN.

Huh.

I'm currently in a Lakeland hotel room, enjoying a grande olde-timey rounde of "CSI:NY" (which is, earnestly, too many initials for me to follow without utilizing actual brain power).
Why is this compelling in any way, shape, or form?
I'm with Gibby.


You can take a few seconds to let that sink in.




Okay. And- we're good.

Could this evening get much more awkward? Maybe with booze.
Oh, wait- she refused to get a drink at dinner because she thought it might illustrate "bad decisions" in front of her "charge."
And then we almost died in traffic. And watched "Hairspray" for two dollars each.

There are very few linguistic phrases in the English language that truly lend themselves to describe this experience for me, and I still can't decide on one to use. Some include vulgarity, others irrational turns of phrase.
I just don't know.

She's asleep, now. And CSI has fifteen more minutes left. I'll just turn the volume down. After all, what if I don't stick around for what Gary Sinese has just spent forty-five minutes trying to decipher?! The evening will be lost.

I'll let you know what happens.

IF DREAMS THERE BE...

It appears that this evening remains trivial and trying, no matter how much I seek to give it romance or fire that I so earnestly miss.

Goodnight, my someone; whether you care or not, I still think of you.

DUMBLEDORE IS GAY.

This article just made my morning. Oh, lordy, this is amazing:

J.K. Rowling Outs Hogwarts Character.
By HILLEL ITALIE, AP National Writer
2 hours, 21 minutes ago

NEW YORK - Harry Potter fans, the rumors are true: Albus Dumbledore, master wizard and Headmaster of Hogwarts, is gay. J.K. Rowling, author of the mega-selling fantasy series that ended last summer, outed the beloved character Friday night while appearing before a full house at Carnegie Hall.

After reading briefly from the final book, "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," she took questions from audience members.

She was asked by one young fan whether Dumbledore finds "true love."

"Dumbledore is gay," the author responded to gasps and applause.

She then explained that Dumbledore was smitten with rival Gellert Grindelwald, whom he defeated long ago in a battle between good and bad wizards. "Falling in love can blind us to an extent," Rowling said of Dumbledore's feelings, adding that Dumbledore was "horribly, terribly let down."

Dumbledore's love, she observed, was his "great tragedy."

"Oh, my god," Rowling concluded with a laugh, "the fan fiction."

Potter readers on fan sites and elsewhere on the Internet have speculated on the sexuality of Dumbledore, noting that he has no close relationship with women and a mysterious, troubled past. And explicit scenes with Dumbledore already have appeared in fan fiction.

Rowling told the audience that while working on the planned sixth Potter film, "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," she spotted a reference in the script to a girl who once was of interest to Dumbledore. A note was duly passed to director David Yates, revealing the truth about her character.

Rowling, finishing a brief "Open Book Tour" of the United States, her first tour here since 2000, also said that she regarded her Potter books as a "prolonged argument for tolerance" and urged her fans to "question authority."

Not everyone likes her work, Rowling said, likely referring to Christian groups that have alleged the books promote witchcraft. Her news about Dumbledore, she said, will give them one more reason.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I AM GETTING TO BE A CAT LADY.

Regardless, this cartoon is Murphy. The end.

HE IS DRIVING ME ABSOLUTELY CRAZY.

Regardless, I love him to death.




Yeah. He's the cutest damn thing ever. Don't dispute me.

I'M ON THE K-LIST.

I've been solidly planted on my rear end for several half-hour-periods, merely basking in the glow of that which is "Kathy Griffin- My Life On The D-List."
I wish I could spend my life being as incredibly vain and self-absorbed, but I can't. Luckily, I can waste my time watching her.

Oh, jeebus.

CONSTRICTION.

Every extremity I possess feels numb in this barrage of moments I'll call "today."

There's no definitive reason for it; I am merely stagnant, stuck in place, and devoid of some passion to loosen life's grip upon me.
My eyes refuse to focus. They sit, pale and frightened of physical revolution.
In earnest, I would use them to smile, but there's nothing behind it. I am unhinged.

Unhinged in a good way, I think.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

I am finally proud of myself. Finally.
And here's what makes it worthwhile: the people I feel the most for could care less.

Tonight is just one of those nights, I guess.

LIFE: COMING SOON.

There appears to be a mass accumulation of life and vitality ahead of me in the coming weeks, and I simply have no idea of how to approach it. It frightens me to think of being stuck in the fashion with which I have become accustomed in the last two months. I am gleeful to be moving forward, and incredibly grateful to have prospects on the horizon that do not disgust me, but instead invigorate my person toward something better than what I have grown weary of.

Life is fast approaching, and I cannot contain myself in such a manner to meet it with anything but open arms.

"STOP MEANS THAT YOU AREN'T MOVING."

This is why Oak Lawn, Indiana, has won my heart.
Stop. Seriously.

I AM GREEDY.

My primary motivation for the above statement is simply because of the following photo.

Not going to lie- I want one.
[Editor's Note: January 3rd. That's not too far away, right?]

MY KITTEN IS CUTER THAN YOUR KITTEN.

He's getting bigger, and I feel like a crazy cat-lady.
Yes.

RAINY DAYS.

The last three days have proven infinitely rainy, and simultaneously cozy. I sit, basking in the hurricane-esque feel of daily life, and I cannot help but wonder how the rest of the population would fail to enjoy how incredibly glorious weather like this can be. Not for the unceasing flooding or mucky waters, but for the infinite dominance and power unleashed entirely by the "forces of nature."
It's pretty damn impressive.

It's weather like this that leaves me practically unmotivated, but enthusiastic over what is to come. I could curl up with Murphy and watch the afternoons pass by, or push my car out of an outrageous puddle. The possibilities are seemingly endless.

WOYZECK IS QUEEN MARY.

If it wasn't for incessant Modern Drama research (because I love it) and Arrested Development on DVD (because I adore it), I would be leaning toward mental breakdown.

There is nothing that a hefty combination of Georg Büchner and George-Michael Bluth cannot cure.


I have so much more that I would love to verbalize, but little that could be made literate without incredible focus and determination. Neither of which I possess in any degree.

"MY FIRST CRUSH."

I love this.

Um, that's pretty much it.

I AM A CREATURE OF SORTS.

The mechanical noise of an air system clicks intently overhead, and I sit, just barely moonlit, fully intent on proving myself a capable person beyond any rational doubt.

It is an awe-inspiring thing to watch myself gradually drift away from idyllic notions of "romance" and "passion." I have begun to reserve these things as necessities for utilization not in interpersonal relationships, but, instead, in the realms ethic and organization.

Honestly, I have yet to see the negatives.
-I do not feel cloudy or overwhelmed.
-I am not an emotional wreck.
-I still have feelings, but none which interfere with who I am and how I resort to handling myself.
-I feel as stoic as I did in high school.
-I am suddenly (and very suddenly, at that) detached from the notion of "loneliness."

The less-than-calculated movement of my life thus far is presenting itself as a rather forward and eager ploy at molding my future through the hands of others. My design; their tools.

In earnest, I have never been crafty.

SHUT UP, CAMERON.

Oh, how I missed my Hugh Laurie. Yum.

This weekend should prove to be nothing erroneously special beyond pulling my body out of an intolerable level of sickness, and reveling in season three of House, M.D...

...oh. And, trying to find suitable living situations, class assignments of the accounting/managerial/economic natures, and departmental work. Those wonderful things that solidify myself as an incredibly lazy over-achiever.

THIS IS GOING TO BE...

...the most hectic week of my life. Yeah. I think so.
Here's to something I can't be bothered to recall and toast to.
Oh, and here's Murphy.

Never mind. The video refuses to upload. I love technology.

EFF THIS SHIZZ.

I hate this time that leaves me less than senile to draw on life, previous experience, adorations, love, etc.

My life is maniacally boring.

There are times when I genuinely hate the individual I've become.


I guess I need to read more.

"ASK ME ABOUT MY WISH."

I just completed viewing an episode of "Ace of Cakes." Nothing in that sentence is in any way out of the ordinary, yet the content of the episode forced me to a heightened level of reminiscence.

A little girl named Laura was flown to Baltimore in order to meet Chef Duff and his gang of wiley cohorts, and to construct a jungle-esque monstrosity made of fondant and everything yummy, all in the name of the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

She was so incredibly happy. Every second. I remember that.

There appear to be these considerable chunks of lifestyle or situation that I have, rather seamlessly, pushed aside from my consciousness. Not for any deliberate, emotional, or overwhelming reasoning, but merely because they seem to complicate who I am, what I seek, what motivates me.

That boisterous smile shall not soon leave my head.

I MISS SHAWNEE. AND, I AM NOT LYING.

I am finally home, which will, without doubt, drive me up the wall.

Reasoning: I could not ask for much more than what this last week held, and I can't fathom the possibility that it won't happen again for some time. There is, however, the smallest bit of doubt in my mind that the whole thing was merely whimsical, lackluster fantasy; the kind my heart is built on. But I truly was there, earnestly spent my time, and gradually allow myself to fall back into the mudane feeling that is being alone.

I would curse if I felt as though my fingers could type with any sort of productivity. Lazy, lazy fingers have I.

I'll put pictures of the kitten up soon. He's insane. INSANE.

SO, THIS ONE THING HAPPENED.

Only, I cannot speak of it. Later, perhaps. Now, NO.

Lots of emphasis. Must be a good story, huh?

Oh, when I can finally speak freely of this fiasco of faring, it will prove to be quite the tale of wonder and adventure only imaginable in the minds of...well, in my mind, I suppose. Or the minds of unnamed major corporations.

Here's hoping that unnamed and aforementioned major corporations don't ruin my chances of writing, too.

Down with the man, man.

HIS NAME IS MURPHY.

More. Later.

LET'S CALL IT "BUGG'S BISTRO." YUM!

After seeing this published via the Flagler College website, I decided it was worthy of mention. Or at least the parts that reference our new Specialty Food Location title. Jeebus.

Flagler College Student Center nears completion
August 06, 2007

St. Augustine, Fla. -- Flagler College’s new, multimillion-dollar Ringhaver Student Center is almost finished.

Major construction of the 42,000-square-foot building on the corner of Sevilla and King streets has wrapped up. The center will open its doors this month, offering students an Internet café, modern recreation lounge and more.

“Everything about the facility is exciting,” said Daniel Stewart, Flagler’s dean of student services. He listed a host of new features and activities planned for the center, including Pilates, yoga, aerobics and ballroom dancing instruction; billiard, foosball, ping pong and air hockey tables; movie nights in the domed Gamache Theater; and a variety of food options at Bugg’s Bistro.

The building aims to be the epicenter of student activity on the 2,200-student campus. In addition to the dining and lounge areas, it will be home to the college bookstore, multi-purpose rooms, faculty offices and the student and career services offices.

A dedication ceremony for the Ringhaver Student Center is planned for September. More details on that event – along with the completion of the Molly Wiley Art Building rehabilitation – will be provided as they become available.

For more information, visit www.flagler.edu/studentcenter. See pictures of the Ringhaver Student Center getting its finishing touches here:http://www.flaglergargoyle.com/gallery/student_center_completing.

BUGG'S BISTRO.
Yes.

Seeking a logical explanation of some sort, I completed further research and discovered this little tidbit which provides a tiny bit of evidence in the case against tasty names:

Flagler College honors two alumni
Special to The Record
October 6th, 2004

Flagler College honored two alumni with special awards at the Fifth Annual Alumni Awards Dinner earlier this year.

Yes. Boring. I know.
But here's where it starts to get interesting:

Michael "Mike" Bugg, president/broker of Lifestyles Realtors of Jacksonville Beach, was honored with the Flagler College Professional Achievement Award. The award recognizes alumni who have achieved outstanding success in their career field, as well as having demonstrated exceptional leadership and excellent performance in his career.

After graduating from Flagler in 1978, Bugg began a career with MCI where he earned the Presidential Award for Excellence, MCI's top award, 12 years in a row.

That rise to the top at MCI led Bugg to pursue his passion -- real estate sales. He co-founded The Condo Store, an Atlanta-based residential firm specializing in sales and marketing of condominiums. Under Bugg's leadership, the store grew from two agents to more than 150 agents and sold in excess of $850 million in residential sales.

After selling the company to a large national real estate firm, Bugg returned to the First Coast and settled in Jacksonville Beach where he founded Lifestyle Realtors. His firm specializes in town homes, loft and condominium sales.

In 2001 Bugg turned his enthusiasm for entrepreneurship into a very special gift to Flagler College -- the Michael W. Bugg Endowed Scholarship. The scholarship benefits students who demonstrate leadership potential, entrepreneurial skills and a commitment to the College and/or the community.

It comes as no surprise that campus developments would be named after contributors.
Duh.
But with a name like "Bugg," how tasty can your food be? Seriously?

Thank you, Flagler College.

IT WAS A HIPP SUMMER.

I recognize that I have utilized that punny phrase before, but seeing as the whole process has finally come to an end, I thought I'd exploit it just one last time, and light up the page with some of the summer's finest photographic moments.
Enjoy.

GOODNIGHT WISHES.

I hope there is a day coming along in which people will fail to take me for granted.

Not that I'm much to take for granted, I suppose.

I hate everything about this moment.

CHRISTOPHER WALKEN COOKS CHICKEN AND PEARS.

Oh, lordy.
This just completely made my otherwise shoddy existence.

Man Makes Chicken With Pears.

If it weren't for this video, I would be left alone to consider how awkwardly humiliating my emotional life can be.
Instead, all I can think about is how the pear bottoms taste like "cookies."

I want Christopher Walken to make me juicy pear cookies. Right now.

BOOKED, Y'ALL.

PA from August 13th to the 21st.
No complaints.
I'm ready.

Almost.

I'VE SAID THIS A THOUSAND TIMES. OR, MAYBE JUST ONCE.

Every few months, I find myself caught back up into, what I have deemed, a "cycle of caring."
Some might recognize said "cycle" as a decent, humanistic sort of thing, worthy of applause and merit.
I have no other choice but to see it as a pathetic waste of my time.
No. Not my time- my dignity.

I'm so utterly exhausted from waiting around for goodness to prevail, happiness to waft in my direction, or some enchanted fairy-tale glory to envelop my being.
I seek out good things, and drain myself in sharing those feelings of worthiness and compassion with others, yet they continue to be pointless, unrecognized, wholly detrimental to my surprisingly fragile self-esteem, and best of all, unrequited.

I don't know how many times I will have to reiterate to myself via the written word that I have issues with reciprocation. There is a level of charity that has been surpassed, and is now simply an arrogant, advantageous sort of rite, I think. Something that others can chuckle at in its simplicity, but something that draws me deeper and deeper into falling away from interaction with anyone.

On that chipper note, I remain far from depression- it's loneliness.
Plain, simple, and blatant. Loneliness.

AND...CHUCKLE.

I might be in love with someecards.
They're pretty much amazing. That's all I'm saying.




Um, yeah.

A QUICK NOTE:

Mr. "Our Lord And Savior" Jesus H. Christ did not die on the cross so that you could memorialize him with gaudy airbrushing on the back of your Neptune Blue PT Cruiser, license plate [Editor's Note: Vanity Plate removed out of the sheer generosity of my heart, and because the driver would get their nilly rear kicked if someone were to actually post it for other intelligent human beings to see.].

Thank you.

-Kelley L. Smith

AVADA KEDAVRA, BOOK SEVEN.

And, I've finished it.

Still not sure what to think of it, but it's been devoured, in whatever sense exists where one can feverously consume pieces of literature.

So...individual reflection time. Yep.

I'm posting this because I think it is adorable. And by "it is," I mean "we are."


Uh, huh.

OH, YES.

I, like many millions of individuals across the globe, am highly anticipating Friday evening's release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling's final novel in her seven-volume series.

But, in earnest, it is the bookies across the globe that make me smile.
Why, you ask?
Because, at this very moment, international odds for Harry "offing himself" are at 33-1. Thirty-three to one.

That's ridiculous.
And absolutely amazing.

I love gambling.

WALK IT OUT, FOSSE.

This is the most amazing thing in the history of the dance/hip-hop universe.

Don't dispute me.

"I'M OBNOXIOUS AND DISLIKED; DID YOU KNOW THAT?"

Having just concluded an evening of 1776 with my grandmother, I am easily the happiest, most patriotic human being ever.
Not really. But, yes. Obviously.

Dear Gracious Lord on High, do I love that little show, that little piece of historical gluttony that brings my musical soul to a quirky quiver. I could babble for hours over its glory and dominance and simplistic finery and so on and so forth. And IMDB happens to mention some undisclosed project slated for 2009 that bears the same title of my most beloved musical, which could easily throw me into Crazy Hyperactive Medicinal Speech Mode. [Editor's Note: That's right, CHMSM. I don't have any feasible idea how one might pronounce or define that, nor do I give a flying (or grounded) care either way.] Regardless, the mystery that surrounds what I hope could be some perpetuation of greatness sends me into shock and an uncontrolled desire to...

...well, actually, I have no idea what it urges me to do. Buy a premium IMDB account?
No. Absolutely not.

Yeah, I've got nothing.

BYESPACE.

It's finally over- I've removed myself from the world of Tom's MySpace, solely for the fact that I never utilize it, fail to recognize its value, and have no desire for it any longer.

Liberation. This is what I'm talking about, little ones.

ONCE.

Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová made my evening.

Please, please go see this movie. Or buy the soundtrack. Or associate yourself with the film/its musicians in one way or another.

It was brilliant. Incredibly simple, and utterly gripping.

SWEAR JAR.

Ha.
Ha, ha. Ha.
Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha. Ha.


This made me chuckle, if you weren't already made aware of that by the gratuitous "ha"s listed previously.
Try to guess my favorite sequence. It won't be hard, and it involves a term that rhymes with "truce-hag." I'm classy like that.

WORDS.

I am at a loss for-




Well, you know.

THE KIND OF NEWS THAT KEEPS ME IN MY DAY JOB.

(If only for the sheer knowledge that others are fighting the bigger and better battle in the artsy-fartsy war. Someday, I'll be able to jump right in. I have absolutely no doubts about that.)

I read this article through The Village Voice almost a month ago and found it supremely inspiring, if not for the sake of acknowledging what theatre can and will be in cultures that embrace it, but also with the sheer excitement that comes in seeing other individuals fight for new and innovative expression.
Suck it up, New York.

Obies
Meanwhile, in the Rest of the World...
The best international theater New York still needs to see
by Tom Sellar
May 22nd, 2007 3:23 PM

When avant-garde playwrights Gao Xingjian of China and Elfriede Jelinek of Austria won their Nobel Prizes for literature, in 2000 and 2004, the New York theater world responded with a big shrug. A shrug that endures: We've still yet to see a major production of Gao's time-bending salvation dramas (sometimes banned in China) or Jelinek's humorous language twisters. Jelinek has inspired controversy throughout Europe for her aggressive counterculture stances (her recent play Bambiland deals with the U.S. and Iraq). She has admirers and detractors, but New York has been left out of the debates.
The glaring absence of these playwrights' work shows how easy it can be to overlook international voices in this city. And though New York is slowly improving its attention to foreign work—due to some new, energetic producers—we continue to miss out on many of the world's theatrical riches.


(Photo taken from "Mnemopark")
Part of the problem: New York's larger, most prominent theaters rarely stage their own full productions of new writing in translation. In a time of global upheaval, where are the plays from the Middle East? The lyrical, abstract work of the young Iranian Amir Reza Koohestani, for instance, has been translated and presented at London's Royal Court Theatre. Africa and Latin America—couldn't mainstream theaters here include one play in their seasons? We're lucky to have the Signature Theatre, which devotes each season to a single American author. But imagine what additional voices we might discover if we had an equivalent major institution exploring a foreign dramatist every year. A smaller group, the Play Company, does cultivate new foreign plays; in 2005 it brought us Terrorism, a domestic tragicomedy by Oleg and Vladimir Presnyakov, a fraternal duo from Russia's Ural Mountain region. It was a useful introduction. But there's lots more Russian writing New York should witness—dramas about Putin and Chechnya from Moscow's Teatr.doc, and young writers with bleaker social visions like Vassily Sigarev, who explores social brutality, or Ivan Vyrypaev, whose stunning Oxygen and Genesis-2 combine techno beats with haunting existential parables.

Playwriting, though, is only one issue. These days, the most exciting advances have been coming from Europe's so-called "director's theater," where stage artists work on large-scale canvases, encouraged by generous state subsidies. New York has basements for foreign avant-garde plays, and audiences can catch visiting ensembles and smaller productions at venues like P.S.122 and 59E59. But encounters with great contemporary directors on a grand scale remain rare.

When large productions do travel, the most pioneering projects aren't necessarily selected. For instance, in recent seasons the Brooklyn Academy of Music has brought over Thomas Ostermeier's sleek productions of Nora and Hedda Gabler from Berlin's Schaubühne. Yet Germany's most exciting and progressive theater, the Volksbühne, sets a world agenda for the avant-garde, and we've seen nothing of it. Master directors like Frank Castorf, René Pollesch, Christoph Schlingensief, and Christoph Marthaler have combined performers' improvisations with new extremes for naturalist acting and theatricalist mise-en-scéne. Castorf's five-hour adaptation of The Idiot, for example, challenged an actor to improvise one speech for up to an hour, egged on by his fellow ensemble members. Castorf's stagings routinely incorporate lengthy mud and food fights, and the company once shelled a live cannon at the audience (no casualties). Schlingensief investigates late capitalism and contemporary politics, and his performance antics have involved live TV broadcasts and forming new political parties for audience members. These directors work and tour productions across Europe, where the next generation already imitates their aesthetics. This, if anything, is the Next Wave.

We've also missed an accompanying visual revolution, launched by European superstar stage designers like Bert Neumann and Anna Viebrock, who use Home Depot prefab materials, secondhand plastic furniture, and lots of neon lighting. Their sprawling environmental sets radically rethink theatrical space, and other designers have increasingly absorbed their principles (and copied the favela-chic look). Together these directors and designers have been expanding and evolving the art form, nourished by state subsidies and a theater system that prizes innovation.

Theatermakers whose creations don't fit into clear categories especially need to be seen here. Belgium's Alain Platel, with his phenomenal Ballets C de la B, has pushed dance theater into politically resonant metaphors. Hungary's Béla Pintér—a director-playwright with a knockout ensemble—stages hallucinatory, comic fables about nationalism, ethnicity, and country life, with exquisite original music and plenty of Hungarian folk dancing. The Swiss-German group Rimini Protokoll weaves a thick web of ironies out of political documentary, amateur participants' biographies, and fragments of plays such as Schiller's Wallenstein trilogy. Their current piece, Mnemopark, features elderly toy-train enthusiasts narrating a nostalgic journey through fake Alpine villages, as micro cameras on the toy trains provide hypnotic video feeds.

This is not to deny the vitality that's spread across New York. There's plenty of homegrown talent to celebrate, and some dazzling entrepreneurship makes it all possible. But why does a city that otherwise prides itself on resisting the nation's cultural phobias so often seem like a parochial theater town?

Internationally minded producers cite a long list of factors: These are tough times for challenging art of any kind. Raising money for unknown names and productions makes things harder. Flying and housing foreign artists (with sets and equipment) adds to the high costs of a big production. Obtaining visas has become a major difficulty and expense since 9/11. And even if a show can get here, New York has few spaces adequate for the grand scale of other nations' state theaters. Worst of all, producers fear that audiences (and press) unfamiliar with a foreign title, director, or ensemble will stay away. And now another problem looms on the horizon: Culture ministries of foreign governments, which help their American producing partners with funding and planning, face new rounds of budget-tightening.

Happily, some brave producers go undeterred. "Act French," last season's program of French productions and readings, brought Ariane Mnouchkine's emigration epic Le Dernier Caravansérail and introduced us to fresh dramatists like Koffi Kwahulé and Marie Ndiaye. At St. Ann's Warehouse, Susan Feldman has presented work by (among others) Grzegorz Jarzyna, the visually inventive young Polish director; she's pursuing his giant site-specific Macbeth for next year, at a roofless warehouse in DUMBO. New York Theatre Workshop is collaborating with Pollesch and Neumann to mount an American version of 24 Hours Are Not a Day, their witty and wild 2002 Volksbühne fantasia about globalization, 9/11, and postmodern identity. And Belgian director Ivo van Hove will return to NYTW this fall to create his version of Moliére's The Misanthrope.

Some of this past season's most thrilling foreign stuff got close, but not all the way to New York City. Jed Wheeler brought two ravishing productions by major visual directors to his Peak Performances series at Montclair State University: the Flemish master Jan Fabre's Je Suis Sang, a dance-theater bacchanal of violence and medieval bodies, and Romeo Castellucci's stark, painterly spectacle Tragedia Endogonidia (L.09). Both companies plan to return with other projects.

These are just a few of the world voices New York needs to hear more from, but no list is comprehensive. Drama always needs a steady supply of fresh ideas to propel it forward. Doubters need only think of the Moscow Art Theatre's 1922 tour, which introduced American audiences, artists, and critics to new acting forms. Had this legendary ensemble not visited, would anyone stateside have ever experienced Stanislavsky's visions in their fullest living dimensions—and assimilated what they saw? Foreign influences have altered the American theater's DNA at critical junctures. New York should make sure this is one of them.

FOR THOSE TIMES WHEN I AM NOT ON TOP OF THE PROVERBIAL WORLD...

...I look to you, Pespi Dog.


Oh, and ICANHASCHEEZBURGER. It's pretty much ridiculous. And that's why it's wonderful.

No. Scratch that. Just ridiculous.

COMPANY.

I need some. Company. Companionship. Anything that will keep me from feeling what I'm feeling right at this very second.

What else do I need to express?

BRUISED REFLECTIONS.

The last two days have proven my most klutz-prone in weeks. Months, perhaps, if we're willing to lie to ourselves with just a tiny bit of fervor.
I am.
I have a bruised arm, leg, second arm, waist, near-buttock region, and ankle.
If it hadn't already crossed your mind, I'll establish the pleasant end of this situation: I am having the medicinal time of my life.

And...A shift in thought leads me to:
I miss him. I desperately, eagerly miss him. There is nothing in my life I have ever longed for in such a sublimely serious way, nothing I have ever needed as much as I vulnerably and earnestly need him.
I hope he'll come back to me soon enough.
Or vice versa.
Merely the cost of airfare will determine our reunions.

As humorous as I seek to be, a weight has suddenly fallen over my chest. My eyes find themselves tensing, straining from the force that compels them downward. A tightened throat accompanies.

I miss him.

THINGS I AM TOTALLY OKAY WITH ON THIS TONY-FILLED EVENING.

1. David Hyde Pierce. The unexpected, the unbelievable, and the much-deserved. Hooray.
2. Raul Esparza's performance of "Being Alive." Truly genius. Wonderful. And he hates David Hyde Pierce.
3. Julie White's defeat of Broadway's legendary ladies. She's funny, and under-appreciated up until this point. It was reasonable and lovable.
4. Grey Gardens as the thinking-man's musical. Enjoy your Spring Awakening, kids. I'll take Crazy Christine and her cats any day.
5. A chandelier falling and silencing out our two beloved ATW representatives, Sondra Gilman and Douglas B. Leeds. And, of course, John Mahoney definitely managed to utter "God-damn" on national television. I love him.

ANTIONETTE PERRY PARTY, YO.

Ooh. Tonight is my night of all nights- The 61st Annual Tony Awards, featuring munchies and theatre nerds.

My commentary will have to wait. Which, without question, will be a desperately sad thing for everyone who is named Kelley L. Smith. Namely, me.

I'm going to go bake cheesy bread things for the sheer sake of giddiness.
Go. View and be merry. At eight. On CBS.


Except for people who have no aspirations to awesomeness. They are lacking Broadway. Significantly.

SNORE.

Exhaustion, as close to descriptive as it may come, is still marginally less intimidating than what I was left with after this past week.

I am loving this job and the responsibilities that come along with it. All of them? Of course not. But I am without doubt that I am leaning on the side of "fulfilled."

Nap time.
How glorious it is to utter that phrase.

THIS IS NOT ABOUT EMOTION.

A preface: I am on my way to bed. And yet, I cannot sleep. Typing until I nod off, I promise almost no essence of sensible content.

I've had songwriter and singer Mika's "My Interpretation" floating around in my musical ear for the last week, and I would go off into more lyrical detail, but I could easily guess that my nearly harmless intentions would be misconstrued. Not that I fail to recognize motivations within myself that shudder at the urge to shout along with his chorus- it feels good. Damn good, in fact. His words saunter along like a proverbial fist of retaliation, and I find myself as eager to recite his words as his Albumatic Self would seem to mirror.

I love viewing singers performing live. Not listening, mind you. They seem more humanoid in nature when your off-pitch moments seem to blend.

Goodnight.

SIGH.

So, yes.
This is tonight, I suppose.



I appease my sanity by way of a scathingly cute shirt.
This is, of course, regardless of the fact that I may never actually wear it.


Why is it that no one needs me the way I need them?

I tire. Constantly.

I FEEL LIKE THE GIRLS SHOUTING DOWNSTAIRS.

Groceries.
New haircut.
Dish-washing scrub-brush.
Giant bottle of water.
Spatula.
Reversible belt.

This day, dare I say it, was fun. Not conventionally fun, with balloons and merry-go-rounds and streamers. It was a mundane sort of fun, the type that draws reality into vision and makes apparent the simplicity of daily life. Perhaps I'm just getting old.
This week, defying my greatest expectations, has been feasibly, plausibly, wonderfully stupendous. Specifically, it was brought about by the individuals and interns surrounding me, the staff of the Hippodrome State Theatre, and, better than almost anything else, the underlying knowledge that I am in the process of making genial strides towards independence. Not monumental, mind you, but close enough to satisfy for this particular minute.

For the next day-and-a-half, I have minimal work to accomplish. And, better yet, sheer relaxation to pursue.
I'm aware of the fact that these things do not last for long, but I shall revel in them while I am able.

The two little girls that live below me are shouting and giggling, just out of the sheer joy of being. I want to be like that someday.

GAINESVILLE.

In.
Settled.
Typing atop a four-hundred-count-thread fitted sheet.
Oh, and a bed.

My living space is much larger than I would have expected, and though I've yet to spend any time speaking with my roommate, I am feeling as though things are going to work.

I really think so.

I should be reading (which I will do shortly), or sorting clothing into drawers (which may never happen), but I'm currently sitting, which still proves a much more solid alternative to things such as shark-fishing or dying.

I am marginally out of sorts. It appears to be no one's fault, but I daresay I am sitting on the brink of a tiny bit of fear, smidgen of mental breakdown, and a precocious ounce or two of indecision about what the summer holds for the next two months.

Things will be alright. I am well aware of this.
Hopefully, they will, in addition, be amazing.
I am striving for exceptions today.

I HAVE HIT BOOKS.

I cannot fathom a world with less sleep than this, and yet, I will have to, starting on Monday.

Sleep is certainly on the bottom of my "frightened to no end" list of Intern Expectations. I've read [almost] every text on improvisation that's revered in one circle or another.

Commercial for "Pirates": It was better than I thought is was going to be, with only a few gaping holes left taking on water. And Depp is still unfathomly not attractive. Talented, certainly; crazy, a bit; attractive, ugh.

I'm intentionally supressing the ginormous fear that Gainesville is going to prove me significantly incompetent and, furthermore, unavoidably unskilled, foolish, teetering on the brink of theatrical insanity [I typed that and I realized how redundant that was. So much for rhetorical expression...].
I should go back to reading. It seems I need all the text I can get.

MORNING.

Loooooong day ahead. Considerably long. Something close to nine hours at a cash register and hustling sticky, sticky indulgences.
Hopefully I fail to garner a massive and frustrating headache. Hopefully.

If not, I will simply gouge someone in the face with a nacho tray. It could happen.

SCOUR, SCOUR.

Sleeping is proving a rather difficult feat this evening.

Ha.

AND FOR ONE-DOLLAR AND SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS, YOU CAN UPGRADE TO AN ICEE.

Ahh. The slow and meager tinkle of coins, drifting by daintily on the River of Concessionary Delights.
Working. It's been, to my surprise, pretty tolerable thus far.
Apparently, my Teenage Mutant Ninja Film Crew Trainers told both of my Mighty Morphin Power Managers that my skills went far beyond the realm of Karate Fountain Drink And Popcorn Kid. I have surpassed even my wildest of functional dreams. That is, of course, nothing close to the case, but, regardless, I can't help but feel grateful that people recognize me not as the dumbass I tend to be, but as someone eager to make just a sliver over minimum wage.
And yes, there is break room buzz over the fact that I am leaving next Monday. Some workers are, how shall I put it, piz-issed. Fo' shizzle.

My little brother graduates from high school tomorrow morning. I earnestly didn't know how that was going to come to fruition, but I'm glad it has. I am proud of him, be it in some remote corner of my brain, spreading rapidly through my heart, and presenting itself somewhere along the lines of my hand smacking the back of his head for being so lazy all along. Like I said, proud. Lovingly proud.

I want to take this summer to investigate a new side of myself. Not new by any conventional standards of the word, but more of a gentle tugging on the facets of my personality that I've utilized as needed without going too in-depth so as to risk exposing them as genuine traits.
I want to be funny once again. I feel like I've lost that part of me in the last two years, and something has to be said for my relative unawareness of its gradual disappearance. I don't know what to say about it, but I'll be damned if I don't try to come up with something radical in the next few months.
I want to write again. Not infrequently, like this, but write sustaining words that take me deeper into the realities I've yet to explore, invigorate my neurotic grammatical structure, fascinate the person inside me who used to cling to the written word as scripture in its own right, partisan or non, with wings on either side. I want metaphors to jump off the page and strangle thoughts out of me 'till I face nothing more frightening than the thought of saying everything I have ever wanted to say. I want to feel that shred of textual genius within me, whether thoroughly conceited or not.

For some reason, this evening has left me feeling far less hopeless than similar pitch-black skies would have otherwise dictated. It shouldn't surprise you that I am smiling. It feels familiar.

PERPETUAL TRAINING.

It is the oddest thing to find yourself as the working subordinate to someone a little less than your own age and maturity. I, myself, choose to blame it on a late distinction toward working, and I'm entirely alright with that. "Personal growth time," I'll call it. The job world thus far has been more entertaining in prospect than factually worthwhile, which makes this current endeavor all the more enticing. I am officially an employee with a large corporate organization, one who will learn the lackey ropes of initiation and gradually move myself along whatever ladder I choose until, ultimately, I reassert my efforts elsewhere. That will come sooner rather than later, mind you, but I'm down with it. I call it, "Experimentation in Pursuit of an Artistic Lifestyle."

However, I have an undeniably soothing and almost prophetic understanding that I will continue to survive as long as I look younger than my seventeen-year-old manager.

I am going to enjoy my month-long stint in grunt work. It is already gloriously visible.

THREE-THIRTY.

Insomnia is a powerful competitor for my focus this evening.
Sleep is simply not flashy enough to keep up.

Suck it up, Sleep. Your wimpy ass belongs elsewhere.

Actually, I'm going to try and crash. Into bed, that is. Not a wall, or other hard surface into which "crashing" might prove dangerous or, worse yet, inconvenient.

I didn't know I could ramble with my fingertips in the midst of such little amounts of energy. They are truly masters of their own accord, reciting with an eternal lack of grace or poise that I would have never fathomed. At least, not while sane. This, my dear [no one] is far from that of sanity or congealed thought. Instead, I divert myself along the path of intrepid nothingness, stopping to pass a lone memory or faint recollection of something that might have, at some point in time, proved significant or meaningful to some "one," "place," or "thing."

I have no idea where this is going. Better yet, I have even less of an idea of where it is ending. Which, for anyone dredging through my blabber, should be the more intense of focuses.

Lack of focus. That's what I'm grappling with this evening. Nothing feels monumental or powerful enough for me to fixate upon, discuss at length, bury myself in the warmth of its conversational value. Instead, I am merely a vessel for meaningless jargon, a disgruntled voyeur, gazing on the product of ten fingers eager to pound out thoughts and express syntax that have no foundation in realistic weight, value, significance, or importance.

Even as my brain is screaming for me to shut up, my fingers are gesturing rudely in their incessant movement, unceasing, yet completely non-committed to the outcome of such contradiction.

I'm going to shut them up for a few hours, I think. Mandatory silence never hurt anyone. Finger-wise, that is.

TWO-THIRTY.

I just placed a barely-significant eBay bid on a signed Original Cast Recording of my true and genuine loves, [title of show]. Earnestly, however, whether or not I win the monetary battle is of minuscule gravity to me; instead, the sheer magnitude of the fact that I placed the first bid on this item of grandeur sets my nerdiness aflutter.

Oh, my absent-minded musical theatre indulgence! How I have missed thee.

I hear a whole myriad of showtunes calling with a vengeance.
And this summer, they mean business.

BECAUSE I WANT TO...

I don't care if you see this or not, but:


I AM PROUD OF YOU.
INFINITELY.
LOVE.


Today, thus far, is making me smile.

DISTRACTIONS.

I have a wonderfully mediocre job to subside my building enthusiasm toward self-propelled cryogenics until May 28th finally arrives. Which, dare I say it, is a positive thing.
Positively positive.

My cat continues to type as my proxy, most likely because my hands are focused (minimally) on this and not her. Sorry, Alaneta.

GOAL FROM THIS POINT FORWARD:

-Accentuate my choices in diction.
-Endeavor to structure myself in a more enticing manner.
-Sentence colloquial grammar to its own metaphorical hell.

-Write the way I used to.
-Sound like a pretentious snot.
(Which is, lest I say it with glee, a manner more befitting my previous endeavors.)

When you got it, flaunt it.

HERE AND NOW.

I've got my cat nuzzled in next to me.
There's an eerie calm and peace about tonight.
Nothing superficial, nothing I can let myself take for granted.
I am back at rest, if only for a little while.
God, I hope it's not just for a little while.
We'll see.
Goodnight.

I almost wrote "goofnight."
I'd have been okay with that.
Goofnight.

THURSDAY, APRIL 17TH, 2007.

I forgot to put these up. Whoops.

Stage Makeup Final, Spring 2007.

I AM EXHAUSTED.

Being in a house where I am relatively unprotected by the boundaries of "room" takes a toll on my sensibilities as a rational human being.
I'm starting to get overwhelmed.
Not necessarily by the chaos going on around me, but by my lack of schedule, my inability to seek genuine solitude, and the creeping knowledge that my thoughts and actions in the most important parts of life are often worthless.

Loneliness exists in other capacities than just being alone.

I've grown up with loneliness. It may be a brand of my own, but it's one I know well enough to have a vast awareness of. I'm tired, I feel absurdly weak in comparison to this entire year so far, and it's not a matter of physicality.

I am mentally exhausted. I need a mental nap, but it's to no avail.
LIFE: GET STARTED ALREADY.

ACCEPTABLE.TV IS PRETTY NIFTY.

Yeah.
I've just been up for about three hours watching these ridiculous shows. It's kind of unbelievable how stupid and simultaneously compelling some of these ideas are, and they leave me with exactly enough to simmer over before cancelling themselves into oblivion. It's lovely.

Acceptable.TV

I like it. Almost as much as I liked "Operation Kitten Calendar."

IT'S BEEN A LONG WEEK.

Home for the summer.
It's only slightly disheartening, I assure you.
By May 28th, I'll be in Gainesville and starting work at the Hippodrome, which should be good fun and a plethora of experience, to say the very least.

For the moment, I'm going to continue to stop feeling sick, I'm going to cook good meals and enjoy the company of family, and that's pretty much all I can come up with.
Boring. I know.

Plenty has happened in the last few weeks, none of it that I honestly care to delve into at the moment. So, I won't.

The end.

THANK YOU, LINKSYS.

Hooray for teensy random wireless signals! Yay!

I'm probably going to lose this connection within a matter of minutes, but it's probably for my own benefit. I have LOTS of work to do in the next few days, most of which I care about only a tiny minuscule amount.
Fun!

Ugh. Portfolio time.

I AM NOT AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL. AND I'M DOWN WITH THAT.

Oh. I miss Internet. For the love of God Almighty, I miss Internet.
I'm typing from 31, watching the eternally-glorious ANTM, and it is the highlight of my television week (Read: The only show I watch. Ever. At all.)
I am entirely enthralled with Natasha, the "might-as-well-be-a-mail-order-bride." And, of course, only because she makes me cry with laughter.
I'm so distracted. Too distracted to type or write anything of consequence.




I miss Michael so very much.
I need to find a way for him to be in my life.
Here's to finding out how to do that.

PINCH ME.

He appeared at midnight in the courtyard with a bouquet of flowers.
I didn't believe it.
He brought me to my window.
He's here.
I am so happy.

EASTER IS COMING.

I don't know why this got me so very excited.
I can't wait to see my Michael.

TOP TEN THINGS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD RIGHT NOW.

(In no particular order...)

1. Far too much homework.
2. Conservatories.
3. Moving into my first apartment.
4. Michael coming into town.
5. The first time I will have seen him in three months.
6. End of Spring semester.
7. Preparation for Summer internship.
8. Finding a job that can keep me (relatively) financially sound.
9. Migraines that never go away.
10. Love that keeps me up at night.

BECAUSE I WANT TO.

At some point in my life, I will vow to take a normal picture.
But, not yet.

EXTRAS.

This is why I have faith in mankind (Read: British Television).
No other reason.
Just this.
Yep.

THE SUPER SECRET SUPRISE CASSEROLE.

"Wanda, we are witches. We have to make something that is tasty and distinctive to our heritage."

STUFF THAT IS CUTE.

Eggplant Penguins and Tomato Hippos.
Love.

FACE.

Although thoroughly nerve-wracked, I still can't fathom the cause of this week's almost immediate insanity. I've probably had more free time to myself than any other week this semester, which might point to a direction of solitude and loneliness, but not necessarily an indication for why I feel exactly the way I feel.
Something is looming. I have no desire to speculate or configure my life in such a way that would leave me open to find out what it is, but I can simply feel the enormous weight that is falling down around me. For right now, the most productive thing I can do is to keep my head to the ground and my thoughts elsewhere.
I am ready for "new" and "change" and "different."
I refuse to make a real and genuine sentence out of those words.

THIS IS NOT ENTIRELY INTERESTING.

Something about tonight is urging me to sob uncontrollably.
I don't know what it is, nor do I have any inclination toward sadness, but I can't deny how overwhelming this feeling is.
I'm still not sure if I'm going to take the time to see it through.

THE PORCH.

Ahh.
The sheer relief that comes along with being home and around family is something that I have finally found myself fortunate enough to bask in.

Yes, that was alliteration. So what?

I missed them, and I needed a little bit of time away from everything, if only to prepare me for how real and intimidating life is soon to become.

And now, I sleep.

Goodnight.

[Editor's Note: I continue to jump back and forth, editing this entry, adding more to it, subtracting insignificant details. I am a perpetual blog whore, yet I am unsure of exactly what discourse is trying to exit from my body and onto this keyboard. I am infinitely oblivious to whatever my system is seeking to emote, and therefore, will leave with as generalised a post as when I first allowed myself to click "PUBLISH."
I am a stupid, stupid brainless Kelley.]

TEA PARTY.

I love my girls.

I KNOW...

...he loves me.

LOVE AND ROOMING.

So excited. So ready. So tired of everything else.

RESOLVE.

There are moments this year when I've not known what life expects from me. I feel frantic to put together some semblance of what my life will be, should be, is supposed to be.
In one sense, my restlessness is all in vain. I need not worry about the particulars, just that my progress is evident. In what exact direction, however, I'm not exactly sure.

I started a conversation with a relative stranger last night. Perhaps it is of no significance for someone bold enough to talk their way through life, but I should have felt relatively petrified.
I did not.

This semester has taught me, if nothing else, that I will make it on my own. If every ship goes down around me, I will remain above water until my timeless metaphor weighs me down below the surface.
Even then, I think I will be fine.

Financially.
Emotionally.
Physically.
Educationally.
Mentally.
Professionally.

I will survive.

WELL...ALRIGHT.

So, my kitty went blind last night.
I'm relatively devastated.
This made me smile.
Okay.

"A COMEDIAN AT THE OSCARS."

Best part of the Academy Awards Ceremony. Ever.

I SERVE TO WIN APPLAUSE.

Pictures. Yep.