Eleven drafts. I have ELEVEN DRAFTS saved right now, all incomplete, just a few with any chance of seeing the light of internet-day. Some ceased being relevant months ago, others are just waiting for me to make up my mind about if they are too personal/not personal enough/uninteresting/worth sharing/contain enough decent prose to publish. It’s harder than it looks, this blogging thing.
But today I am sitting down, at ten am in the Eastern Time morning, with two pieces of toast, coffee, a hard-boiled egg, and every intention to finish, edit, and share this little listy bit of writing that is the first in a series of what I am calling SUMMER IN THE HILLS, aka, the riveting chronicles of my daily life as a professional salad maker (stay tuned) and amateur everything else in the North Hills of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, as I try to make some art and rest a little bit before returning to Wheaton to do a play and also my last year of college. Sounds like an exciting time for blogging!! Right? OF COURSE RIGHT.
(I really hope you read that in your best Fiddler on the Roof Yente impression.)
Today is the twenty-fifth of March, and it is cloudy and rainy and cold, and it is a day I didn’t know was a holy day until this year, but I am welcoming it with open arms.
Driving around in Erie, Pennsylvania it is impossible not to see the lake.
This summer has been a summer of driving. I was an oddly reluctant teenage driver and didn’t get my license until about a month before I left for college, and so driving for me was until now really more of an occasional thing. It reminds me of nights that I would borrow my mom’s minivan for summer-after-graduation bonfires and of that disconcerting sensation you get during your first college breaks, the feeling of coming “home” but not really. Driving reminds me of sunsets over Lake Erie and the strawberry milkshake that a stranger bought for me at Sara’s the night before I left for Wheaton when I realized I had left my wallet at home. It brings back the wonderful clarity of a hot July evening last summer when I drove home from coffee with friends and realized the road I was on didn’t remind me of anything that hurt.
Driving reminds me of transitions, of the spaces between here and there and letting go and moving on, of (to name-drop myself) the life between breaths. And so it has never really been ordinary. Continue reading
Today was a little bit hard. Continue reading
It’s been just about 24 hours since the 70th annual Tony Awards aired and I am still thinking about them!!! Still tossing around the acceptance speeches and performances in my thoughts. Still thrilled by some really wonderful and well-deserved (and in some cases history-making!!!) wins. Still asking some questions about the way certain elements of the evening were handled. But overall still full of the special kind of pride and excitement that comes from watching a celebration of art that you know something about, of knowing that the theater that I love and create and crave is in a lot of ways the same theater that is honored on national television each June.
Writing about theater makes me nervous. I think that’s because both writing and theater are precious to me, and using one to speak about the other is doubly vulnerable. Extra heart-unzipping and thought-exposing. Continue reading