I Need... A Break

So, I did that thing where you type in your name plus "needs" into a search engine just to see what pops up.

Boy, am I glad my name is Claire.

The first one was "Claire needs a visit to the bunny planet," which is, I believe, the title of a story by Peter Balestrieri.

"Claire needs private support"... "Claire needs Facebook"... "Claire needs a boyfriend"... "Claire needs help"... and, my favorite, "Claire needs booze to kiss."

All these things, which, to be fair, are fairly universal things to need... and none of them are really what I need right now, I think.

I need some good, anti-thesis, worship music. I need downtown time.

Incidentally, I went to sleep joyfully praising God... and then I dreamed that I had a birthday party that was really horrible, one of my secret minor crushes was there, looking very suavely grungy and vaguely European, and he was flirting with a high school student ("Don't you know that's illegal?") Mrs. Bell moved to Atlanta (without Mr. Bell and all the children) ("Don't you know you're not cut out to be a heartless, Atlanta-living career woman? Whatever happened to Bellhaven?") and nobody would swing dance with me except my dad. Fortunately, he was remarkably spry in my subconscious. And at least I spoke my mind.

hunger

Cravings are the weirdest thing:

Right now, I have a sinking feeling that I will never possibly be satiated except with a pecan waffle from Waffle House, of all places.

I am my grandfather's progeny, that is for sure. Minus the trucker cap and safety pin-and-duct-tape wardrobe. (He's the original punk. Yes, I'm proud.)

And he loves Waffle House. In fact, you can't imagine the family drama that has taken place at Waffle House, and I'm not going to tell you.

I went to Waffle House on prom night with one of the nicest, most personable writers to hit the planet. It was deliciously sketch and the pecan waffle was incredible.

Going to the Waffle House is sometimes like flirting with death, but in the best way possible. It's like speeding on the Blue Ridge Parkway or eating M&Ms that drop on the floor.

And I will never be happy unless I eat a pecan waffle. Right now.

the american college theatre festival: a critique

1) Too much writing reviews; too little theme parties. What kind of theatre kid am I?

2) Fell mildly in love with boys for their punctuation. Bad idea, Claire. Usually, if their punctuation is that good, they've never heard of Chuck Taylors, the Beatles... or they like boys.

3) You write plays? You need a dramaturg. Here's my facebook. You're a dramaturg? You need a dramaturg. Here's my facebook. You're a random professor from a school I've never heard of? Hi, I'm Claire, and I'm a dramaturg.

4) Apparently, at other schools, Alpha Psi Omega members come to a consensus and agree on t-shirts. I know, weird.

(This said, I may never agree to a long-sleeved t-shirt. Suckas.)

5) My own personal paradise will include a Tate Street Coffee. That accepts debit cards. It will have forty-seven paintings on the wall and a barista with impeccable eyebrows.

6) So a professor here was trying to defend someone else's script because she knew him or whatever. I said that it had potential but was undeveloped. "Well, that's the point." Um, no. Ambiguity can sometimes be the goal but some scripts just seem sloppy and unfinished. I know this because every single play I've ever written has been both ambiguous AND sloppy/unfinished and they are different entities.

7) My professional, ambitious heart was broken when someone who is not me mislaid my dramaturgy packet. Arguably, this needed to happen. I didn't like my professional, ambitious heart and wanted to return to my apathetic one.

Still, it left me emotionally drained and exhausted on many levels. I will consume comfort food for an entire week, gaining about nineteen pounds of fat: Brach's gummi bears, cheap-o gas station cappuccinos, Pillsbury crescent rolls--and I will look for Vaughn every day, because I need a long-arm hug. I also bought eyeshadow.

8) I realized that I write criticism like a dramaturg: basically, "OohprettylightsIguessIlikedititwasgood... but the script needs ______." This is why I never win Critics and will never compete as one again. I just do it because I like to see plays and critique my own writing.

9) I like college kids. I hope when I graduate, I'll find out that twentysomethings are cool, too.

They call this... fear?

I'm so excited!!!!!!!!!!

...I guess I'm scared.

Scared that what I wanted so intensely is too big, too smart, too religious for me and my attached mistakes.

Scared that it's not meant to be and that I'll get burned.

I don't need or want anyone to tell me I'm big enough, smart enough, or Christian enough for this. I need people to pray that God would change my heart to want what He wants. That every struggle would end with a limp--a permanent change in me thanks to a ridiculous encounter.

Occupational hazard of being a passionate person, I guess. I've fallen in over my head for a dream I know is the real thing. I just don't know what to do with it.

I keep seeing myself as so much bigger than I really am. I hate that.

I, I, I, I, I.

Grody.

95 Theses

I am hammering out my thesis... well, granted, not as we speak, but off and on throughout my day.

It is hard to come up with a lot of smart things to say. It is even harder to do so quickly and with originality. It makes me wonder for about half a second why on earth I didn't go into biology.

And then I remember that I loathe, loathe, loathe biology. And that it's good to finish what I start and knowledge and discipline are never worthless. And that I felt good about doing this thesis. Once upon a time, before I was beating myself up over the particulars.

And I am resisting doing that 25 Things About Me thing on Facebook because no one wants to read twenty-five things about me in a row. So I will give you two.

1. I fully intend to name any pets (probably cats, all female) I may have in my life after The Beatles. Maxwell Silverhammer I may be gone now, but I'm open to a second. Other possible names include Lucinda Sky (LSD for short), Father McKenzie, Rigby, Jude Refrain, Rocky Raccoon, The Walrus (Wally for short), Mr. Kite...

2. I really like dreads. (They don't have to be dirty and gross. If they're gross and dirty, you're doing them wrong.) If I had long hair, I would have dreads, but there is no way I will grow out my hair. Since I am committed to not growing out my hair... I'm contenting myself with looking for the one guy out there who has blond dreads but doesn't smoke pot and loves Jesus.

Back to the thesis grind....

Words Without Boundaries

I was sitting in grammar, minding my own business, taking notes on infinitives, when my professor said something along the lines of, "Put your pens down. I'm going to give you a question to think about for Tuesday." I finished my sentence, listening for the question while looking scrutinizingly into his sociolinguistics eyes for the answer.

"Is there a difference between 'infinity' and 'eternity?'"

My first thought was that he had gotten himself into a bet with the philosophy professor and had waded into deeper waters than he could handle alone. Fortunately, he's too cool for that and was merely having an in-class existential crisis, I'm pretty sure. I have a fairly brief attention span myself and have been known to ponder such questions while appearing to study infinitives.

But I did ask him why he asked us this.

"Well, if there's a difference, it's got to be a pretty important one, right?"

I've been thinking about it all day, whenever I get bored with writing the first draft of my thesis. I think I may have a hunch.

I think "eternity" can only mean "atemporal," while "infinity" can apply to time and space. And Merriam-Webster says quantity as well.

Hmm. "An infinite quantity...." Does that work? I don't know.

An Open Letter

... to the MLA Format and Style, Newly Updated:

You really have made my life so much easier easier when it comes to online databases, online periodicals, and no-pagination websites. Thank you, thank you, thank you. If I was going to graduate school immediately, I'd thank you even more.

There's just one thing. You got rid of underlining. Sure, underlining is "gauche." We have computers now instead of typewriters! We can italicize! Huzzah! Whoop-dee-freaking-doo.

I'm going to miss underlining. Underlining is retro and cute, emphatic without being offputting.So you messed up on your bibliography? You can last-minute underline it in pen. You can't hand-italicize.

I am so depressed about this. You do not even know. I'm going to have to listen to a lot of The Beatles before I feel remotely ok about this.

Love,
-------, Claire. "An Open Letter." Razhumikin Razzmatazz (2009): n. pag. Web. 27 January 2009.