Pretty great life, actually.

Math has always been a bitch to me. For years my mom encouraged me to follow in her nursing footsteps, or to at least get a degree that had some sort of profession attached to the end of it. Teacher. Engineer. What have you. So, like any Marshall, I started off in theatre, thinking actress, then added Journalism thinking celeb journalist, then I dropped theatre and added English thinking professional writer, but of important things -- and shit.

The "and shit" part was very important. The "and shit" part meant that I learned to draw from anything. That I could see something and say something, and it wouldn't have to be to the train conductor about a bag that I found unattended. It meant I could essentially take any sort of class and accurately write about it, reflect on it and become a better human. It sounds retarded. And yeah, my Big Ten education couldn't nix from my lexicon the word "retarded." The thing is, I've become this life long learner. And yes, life is long, so by the time I'm 30 I could be in a different boat, or by 40, 50, 60, really any number, but I think I will always have this thirst for knowledge. I know myself well enough to know this reflective interior won't be going anywhere.

It's made me a better performer. It's enlarged my worldview. Sure, I'm not reporting on murders in Homs. And maybe I'm not reporting nightly for E! news. But I really like my life. I'm glad I didn't pursue a degree that had an end of the rainbow. Mine keeps going with every show, with every class, with every job I've ever had. Pretty great life, actually.

The Perks of Being a Flower.

Well, if you're anything like the flower I brutally massacred in my kitchen, then there aren't many perks. Unfortunately, my begonia is dead. A slow murder from the moment I claimed it as my own.

Begonias. Cruel flowers. But yeah, it's official. I slowly murdered that orange begonia Dexter-style, one soggy root at a time. I thought about taking it back to the shop, withered and dead, but then questioned whether it was really worth the effort. I guess that's how I started out feeling with it as well, so it serves me right that now it's toast, and not delicious covered in jam. But that  gross hardened toast, then soaked damp with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. What a mess.

a new york slate of mine.

Friend vacations are the best kind of vacations. This year I've had the pleasure of traveling to New York three times, and always with good friends, creating great moments on and off stage. Improvising and comedy has literally opened up my life experience ten-fold. Without sounding too much like a sentimental sally, I can't imagine my life without it at this point. How do other people fill their time?

One of my life friends truth bombed me yesterday over gchat. He fills his time by traveling to other countries for extended periods of time with the notion that the worst thing that could happen is he learns another language.

7:36 PM William: life is dumb, brigid

  it shouldn't be taken so seriously

  everyone should treat it as a grand experiment to see what can be got out of it

7:37 PM when you're playing goldeneye, what's the point of having a rocket launcher if you never use it

 me: i love golden eye

 William: why wait to use it on the boss

  use it now before you get shot by some chump around the corner

7:38 PM me: i like to hide in this secret chamber

 William: haha

  are you building upon my analogy

 me: unintentionally, but yes, i suppose.

7:39 PM i do peep out every now and again to snipe

7:40 PM William: haha

  cool

  sniping is cowardly, though

7:41 PM you gotta run directly into the cross fire and just do the thing, you know

 me: haha

7:42 PM William: and if there's still an explosion from a grenade, go ahead and run into it. you'll just respawn anyway

7:45 PM me: you are a ridiculous man

 You know that song, "I've had the time of my life, la la la la...etc. la la la." New York is that. Every time I go there, I always think why do I not live here? Once I'm there, I feel like I live there. Things are familiar in a way that's exciting. Like I know what I'm doing. Of course, I'm always in the middle of not living in Chicago anymore, but for the last four months I've been seriously considering Los Angeles, in so far as my sister (an LA transplant herself) is under the impression that I am moving in April. While that's still up in the air, it's not out of my mind by any means. But there's something about how New York operates that's particularly intriguing. For me, moving is the equivalent of using a rocket launcher. The worst thing that could happen is I respawn and learn another language.

Riding in cars with myself.

There's something unlike the warmth of getting into a car right after it's been sitting in the sun. You know the moment, that moment right before you open the windows to let the car breathe. It's been holding it's breath all afternoon long, letting the sun soak through it's inviting exterior. Opening the door to get in is this quiet tease, but cracking the windows, letting the sweating cushions inhale and exhale, that's the sweet spot. For a minute I imagine myself sitting by a fire, wrapped up in a plush blanket, starring out of the windows of my parents Michigan cottage, and watching the snow fall.

Yesterday I spent an inordinate amount of time in the car. Driving back to the city from the suburbs, wearing what felt like a full incubation suit (i.e., a sweater, coat, jacket and scarf combo). It's fall, and that scene with the snow, and the fire, and the blanket, it's coming. But for now it's that one day hot, one day cold weather. No one knows which is the what until you've already dressed, you're walking down the street and your butt's sweating or your fingers are seemingly breaking off from the chill.

And while cars are immune to this weather right now -- with the sun and the normal daylight hours, and the heat inviting itself in -- I'm not. I can't decide if I'm ready for the chill yet. Wearing too many layers yesterday, I was ready, too ready, but today's a new day. Like every day. Who knows how ready any of us will be.

missing the mark

If you have a treasure map you go to the X. You don't walk around it a few times, maybe see it from a distance, and then decide that this isn't the treasure for you. Quite on the contrary, you see it, and claim it for your own as soon as you possibly can, lest someone else does. For some that X marks success. Success in friendships, in your job, in your relationships, in finances, in goals and in dreams. For others success is such a far reaching concept that to feel solid in one, simply means another is on shaky ground.

Sometimes maybe you're just looking at the wrong map. Sometimes you might have the right map, but it's upside down and you're too stupid to turn it around. Sometimes.

But, who cares? The X might still be there. It might not. Either way that treasure won't stay at the bottom of the ocean forever. Even though the ocean is a cold, dark place — treasures are always found. Nicholas Cage would be out of a job otherwise.

Beep Bo Bop Bo Beat Box

My playlist these days is less exciting than usual. But. I am rediscovering my love for, shall we say, emotional music (plus Mumford's out with a new album) — or not even emotional or sad music, but just music that provides that sense of connection. The, "Oh yeah, let me just...eh hem...look up, the ok, lyrics, here. OK. Yes, this song does apply to me." Ah, rock and roll. This is deep soul searching shit. Get ready. Ah. AH. AHH. And so it goes.

1. "I Gave You All," Mumford and Sons — Of course.
2. "Dreams," Fleetwood Mac — Thanks to Pandora on this one.
3. "Slow and Steady," Of Monsters and Men — New obsession.
4. "Two," Ryan Adams — After seeing him at the Filmore, whoa.
5. "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," Wilco — This song is more titled intensely than it actually is. Regardless of me personally, it's always in my top 5.

and it continues
6. "White Blank Page," Mumford and Sons — Yeah. Of course.

Thanks a lot, world. I'm now that girl. And yeah, it is retarded.

Fave Quotes

"You've never been out of college. You dont know what it's like out there. I've worked in the private sector. They expect results." - Dr. Raymond Stantz, Ghostbusters

"Between the idea/ And the reality/ Between the motion/ And the act/ Falls the Shadow"
-TS Eliot, The Hollow Men V

"There is no life I know to compare with pure imagination/ Living there you'll be free if you truly wish to be"
-Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory

Oh, the Places I Go Back to

There are two pieces of art that I find myself continually looking back to. The first is a poem I memorized in high school, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by TS Eliot. It comes up often enough in these postings to have its own section, but it doesn't, yet. It's always different and challenging and heartwrenching. Maybe that's just a place my soul lives and feels at home in. But tonight I'll talk about the other.

It's a song by The Weakerthans, a band I became familiar with toward the end of high school. My sister brought them home in CD format after a semester at Ohio University, and I could not get enough. The song, "Left and Leaving" has always been the song I identify with. Relationships are this continual merry-go-round, and the more I'm in and out of them, the more I've figured out what it takes to keep riding.

My city's still breathing (but barely it's true)
through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you,
sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know
Will never take me anywhere but here.

What is it about tough spots that make us turn to music and poetry, and movies and museums? Why is it that we must get lost in the souls of others to fully realize our own issues?

The stain in the carpet, this drink in my hand,
the strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say "I wanted it this way"
Wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.

And we all do this. This is not unique to me. Rarely is it that anything is completely unique to someone. And, sure that might make you feel a dime-a-dozen, but it shouldn't. It should make you feel at home in the humanity we're all part of.

All this time lingers, undefined.
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.

This is always the worst part. Because it's true. You can't hold on to the good parts without remembering the bad. It's in our nature. So, we go through and destroy all of it, because we know if we see one thing, it will all flood back. Hit you in the face. And it will be right at the moment when you think you've finished feeling those feelings. So we do it. We all do it. And eventually. It fades.

I wait in 4/4 time,
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.

the scene.

There she is. Standing in the middle of the street, her purse in her hands, clutching it safely to her chest. Natalie Pasker is twenty-four years old. She doesn't  own her own car, and she's never had to renew her license. Of course as a teenager having your license meant freedom, but after turning twenty-one she decided she didn't care for driving anymore, and moved to the city. The only one in the midwest that matters.

It's been three years since she left Urbandale, Iowa.

She's standing there. In the middle of Cullom and Damen. She lives in Chicago now. But it doesn't feel that different to her than anywhere else. The buildings are mostly only three stories, save for the scrapers in the Loop. But if you're facing North, you can barely tell the difference. Of course, she would think that. It's always comforting to convince yourself that what you did isn't that crazy. And, it isn't really. A lot of people, especially those twenty-somethings hit I-80 due East post commencement. She's no different.

She wears Converse, has some freckles and hasn't been burnt too many times in her life. "Sunscreen's important." The voice of her mother reminds her. It's 5:45, but it's summer so the sun's still out.

Tucking wisps of hair behind both ears, she starts to walk, turning around every few seconds hoping to catch the glance of a taxi. She's thirteen minutes late to meet up with friends for a midweek cocktail. She's in her twenties. It's allowed. She thinks it, then says it.

A taxi sidles up beside her, and without making eye contact she gets in. "Ashland. And." There's a long pause as the taxi driver decides to wait for her to keep speaking or to make an educated guess. "Um." She's looking at her phone. Answers a text. "Yes. Be there in — now." Clever. "Sorry, yeah, Ashland and Armitage."

There's something so amazing about calling for something and getting it moments later. You raise your hand in class, and a teacher lets you ask a question. You raise your hand on the street, and you get a taxi cruising. You raise your glass, and others join you.

"You're so late." That's Sam. She's a new friend. A coworker from Eastern Red Advertising. And, just like that, they're night starts, and it's one that won't be remembered at the end of the proverbial day. It's no different a scene than anything else. And, Natalie would think that. Because when you think that then you don't have to invest. And you're just coasting through. Not making real decisions. Standing in the middle of the street waiting for someone else to do the work to get you where you're going.

They grab two Millers because it's easy. Some guys come up, and they chat. And, that's it. Three hours later they leave, and wake up tomorrow. They'll do it all again until they turn thirty. Have a small conniption, then reset, only to do it again.