Quint-jess-ence

Post-Fringe

2010-04-25T14:16:00.001-07:00

Fringe is over. After two months of planning, managing, scheduling, re-scheduling, writing, directing, acting, rehearsing, designing, and changing. Great response, I am proud of my actors and my work. Thanks to all who came and supported me, or who supported me long distance.

I've been trying to identify how I feel right now. Sometimes I look at pictures to help figure things like that out.

The first thing I googled was "Empty Bowl" without knowing exactly why.

So I guess this is how I feel.

Ghost Writer

2010-03-11T15:55:00.001-08:00

Of course, my first play, working title Ghost Writer, would have to be about writer's block. But how delightful that I broke through right in step with my main character. Six pages of the first draft completed, and ready for auditions tonight. Will be performed at the Westmont Fringe Festival April 20-24.

Insider's trivia: the two characters, Sophie and Cleo, are named after my first two cats.

On the Infinite Superiority of Cats to Dogs

2009-12-28T15:04:00.000-08:00

My mother's dog is hyperventilating. Has been for about 30 minutes now, ever since I stepped into the shower to enjoy what I had hoped would be a luxurious 15 minutes of muscle-melting bliss, just me and the Ella Fitzgerald song I've had in my head all day. I'd barely gotten to step one of the shampoo instructions, lather, when I heard over my own self-serenade: "Black coffee, love's a hand me down brew..." Knock, knock, thud! Strange, very strange. A panicked mental checklist: empty house, parents and sister not due back for hours, doors locked, windows locked, shit--the chimney! wait, no chimney... Oh. The dog. My mother's exceptionally needy Schnoodle (Schnauzer/Poodle) and my primary rival for attention and affection when I return home. Hadn't mom mentioned last night that Abbey (the mutt's deceptively demure name) had been acting a bit anxious whenever someone got in the shower? I condescended to the animal's needy nature and interrupted my Ella impersonation with a monotone "Abbey, its fine, you crazy dog." This only provoked more frantic scratching at the door. How many times had I told my mother that dogs only respond to tone and repeated commands, not full sentences, thus rendering her scoldings of "Abbey, dear, it is really very rude to dig through Jessie's suitcase and shred her favorite pair of panties to pieces." completely ineffective. Perhaps the dog had mistaken my soulful croonings for the tonal equivalent of a cry for help. I adjusted my voice to the absurd cooing women seem to instinctually take on when talking to babies--human or animal. "Don't worry Abbs, it is just a shower, stop running your head into the door, take a breath, that's a good girl!" The attack on the door stopped. For about thirty seconds. Then she continued with renewed panic--whining, thumping, and scratching so frantically I was sure the door would have a hole in the middle soon if I didn't do something.

Reluctantly, I grabbed a towel from the rack (in retrospect, I have no idea why I did this. Perhaps I was subconsciously afraid to further scar Abbey's delicate psychology with my nudity) and opened the door. Again, I don't know how I thought this would help--my track history of calming Abbey down is pathetic, if not downright shameful. But there we were: me dripping suds and Abbey practically foaming at the mouth, in a brief showdown before she bolted between my legs to the tub. With her tail between her trembling little legs, she growled and snarled at the viscous jets of water still hitting the porcelain bath. For a moment, I was touched--maybe the mutt thought she was protecting me. But I still had a shower to finish, and this scruffy ball of nerves was making it damn near impossible. So I left the door open and climbed back in the shower, thinking she would be calm if she could supervise. Again, I was mistaken. Abbey tore down half the shower curtain in the frantic attempt to join me in the shower. Panic was in her eyes and she dove paws first into the basin of her fear. This would not do. After much pleading and cooing, I lured her out of the bathroom and halfway down the stairs with the tonal promise of lovely safe things before bolting back up and slamming the door before she could figure out how to turn her body around on the narrow stairs. By then, I was freezing, my hair was slimy with conditioner residue, and I had dog hair stuck to my wet legs and feet. Abbey was back at the door full force, so I had no choice but to rinse off in record time to relieve her stress and mine. Since then, she has not been further than ten inches from my ankles and whines every time I walk into the bathroom to grab the hairdryer or hang up my towel.

The cat, Mercy, meanwhile, has been curled up on the couch, guarding my now cold cup of tea and new book of poetry until my return, at which point she will doing one of several indeterminable things. First, she will show slight annoyance at my intrusion of her resting place, stretch out every link of her long back, and relocate herself on another cushion nearby. From that distance I can observe her graceful contortions while I write, and perhaps catch her gaze as she grooms herself and share a moment of self-satisfied indifference. Or, she may choose to accept my company, reach out a tiny paw and bat the ball of yarn I am knitting onto the floor, where we will watch it slowly unravel until she pounces on it with playful precision. I might crumple a piece of paper and play a lazy, low matainence game of fetch with her for several minutes, until she decides she has had enough and leaves the paper behind in favor of the window sill where she watches birds and invisible things in raptured silhouette. Watching her inspires me to write poetry, or to have an affair with a manic-depressive poet. But for now, she is my only poet-lover. Abbey, on the other hand, is like an infomercial with the volume turned way up, yelling at me about things I don't need. Right now, she needs to be walked.

Post rehearsal musings

2009-11-09T22:14:00.000-08:00

Tonight I held my first rehearsal for my final directing project. I am adapting Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tale The Swineherd with some heavy Commedia Dell'arte influences. Or at least, that's the idea now. John told us in class today to hold on tightly and let go loosely. That really resonated with me because I think I might live by that principle outside of the theatre too, and I'm not sure if that is the secret to life or a source of major issues. It could apply to people, places, ideas, dreams...Whatever is present is real and we should dwell completely in that moment with energized commitment. If we get caught up in regrets about past moments or anxieties about future uncertainties, then we fail to focus any attention on the only time we can actually influence, the present. To live presently is to be fully engaged with the potential of every moment, to be intoxicated with the dynamics of reality. And in that place of presence, there is nothing else to do but hold on tightly, because everything that is is, and you are immersed in it. Tomorrow cannot be held; Yesterday is the vapor of memory.

And once we have grasped what it is to cling to the present, then we must be ready to unclench our fist and let it go again at any moment.

Nobel Peace "Prize?"

2009-10-11T17:05:00.000-07:00

It's my four day weekend, so I have real time to write again, but don't get your hopes too high devoted readers--there likely won't be another entry until November 1, when rehearsals and performances for Bald Soprano end and free time returns. Until then, I'll share my thoughts on the buzz about the Nobel Peace Prize before the media finds something else to bash on.

I first found out Friday morning in class when I was sneaking peaks at the New York Times headlines on my iPhone while simultaneously participating in a discussion about the complete absence of agape love in our culture's love stories (maybe another blog). When the headline caught my eye, in surprise I accidentally inhaled my scalding Earl Grey tea. After recovering enough to breathe again, reading a few articles online, talking to some smart people, and reflecting on my own, I have this to say.

To be sure, the enraged conservative cries of "But he hasn't even done anything yet!" are not completely off the mark, but I really don't think the Norwegian committee has suddenly turned into brainless idealists or screaming star-struck fans. I think the word "Prize" is what is tripping people up. Prizes go to people who have crossed the finish line first and Obama has barely taken a first lap. But in the press release, words like effort, vision, hope, and future are key. So instead of picturing a big shiny medal or an A+ hanging on the White House refrigerator, I encourage you to reflect on the analogy my friend Ben Taylor offered. He said that the Nobel Prize for Obama is like infant baptism. In front of the whole world congregation, Obama has been marked as a man who will work for world peace. His identity has been set publicly, and everyone who witnessed it is called to assist him in "the way he should go, [so that] when he is old he will not turn from it."

My conception of American politics has a significant European influence. I was in Germany when Bush was in his second term and I came to detest my American accent because of the associations that went along with it then. My new German friends pulled me into tourist shops full of anti-Bush tee-shirts and mugs--some of the most startling depicted Bush's face next to Hitler's with German phrases I'm grateful I couldn't translate. I was in Scotland, Ireland, England, and France during the election season and encountered either ambivalence towards American politics or complete support and yes, hope, for Obama's election. French shop keepers teased (maybe?) that they would only sell me things if I swore on the American flag that I voted for Obama. In pubs and parks, I was able to have conversations with people about international politics, instead of feeling attacked. I returned to England after Obama was made President, and although there are valid frustrations with some of the policies, just as there are among Americans, the general attitude is still positive.

This Nobel Prize is the most significant proof of the shift in the world's perception of America from a place of selfish, ignorant, aggressive power-wielding to a country that is trying desperately to get our shit together so we can use our influence to make the world a more peaceful place. You don't have to put a bumper sticker on your car, but every American should be on the sidelines of the World Peace racetrack cheering Obama on and keeping him hydrated as he runs this very difficult race to the end.

Meditation While Sun-bathing in Northern Idaho

2009-09-09T16:53:00.001-07:00

It is inevitable,

as earth turns

as weather changes,

as time passes,

that the Great Sun

will be eclipsed by a cloud.

And for a time,

its warmth and light

grow cold and dim.

We, slaves to comfort and convenience,

scramble for blankets, fireplaces, and flashlights

to replace what we believe is gone

with cheap knock-offs

of our life source.

But it is inevitable, with

the turning of the earth,

the changing of the weather,

the passing of time,

that the clouds will drift on

to reveal again the Great Sun,

where it has been all along.

At this moment

2009-08-16T11:59:00.000-07:00

At this moment, I am thinking about the importance and the difficulty of being in the present. A good way to check yourself out of the past or the future or wherever you typically dwell is to finish the sentence "At this moment..." Repeat this as many times as it takes to be exactly where you are, because only when we are still are we still moving into another intensity (ref. Eliot).

At this moment, I am sitting at a small table in the wood lodge style restaurant bar The Korner Market, drinking stale coffee with a combo of Amaretto, French Vanilla, and Irish Cream Coffee-mates. This goes against all my coffee philosophies, but since I am in Priest Lake, Idaho, the paradise of my childhood summers that has likely never seen the polished steel of an espresso machine and hopefully never will, I am content.

At this moment, the book "Life of Pi" is sitting in my purse under my chair with an imaginary bookmark in the middle. I am eager to return to it.

At this moment, I am surrounded by four flat screen tvs mounted on the wood-paneled walls, surrounded by the array of hunting photographs, american flags, ancient logging gear, and animal body parts that make up the Idaho aesthetic. Clockwise, the tvs are playing the Nascar race, the Tampa Bay and Houston someones football game, Tiger Woods putting, and the weather channel. It is difficult for me to think of four subjects that I am less interested in. The drone of a Nascar race, however, is familiar background music to my Sunday afternoons, and if I thought hard enough I may be able to find some Taoist philosophy in the circular track. For that, though, I require better coffee.

At this moment, for all of my teasing, I am grateful for the rustic simplicity and beauty of life here in Northern Idaho. I feel parts of myself, long denied or buried, stirred to life with the taste of huckleberries, the smell of wet cedar, and a smile from my slow-speaking, flannel-wearing waiter.

2am obsessions

2009-08-03T01:52:00.000-07:00

It's 2am, I should be asleep, but instead I am window shopping online. You know how it is more fun to shop with a buddy? Well, given the circumstances, my buddy is Blogger. Here are a few of my favorite finds.

First, a gorgeous asymmetrical bookshelf from www.lavindo.com. In the past year or so, I've somehow transitioned from an aesthetic driven by color to one driven by line. Naturally, this leads me to the pieces that capture the calligraphic simplicity of asian art.

And there you have it, a Chinese serving tray with actual engraved calligraphy. Not so sure I'd like this as well in person, it would have to be really matte and I'd want a translation before I set it in front of my guests for tea.
This necklace from www.imooi.com also has lovely simple lines, and I love the contrast of the unfinished wood against the silver. Although there are other pieces on the site that I prefer to this, I do like birds, which represents another emerging motif in my style. I realized that, subconsciously, the last few things I have purchased for myself have been feather shaped earrings, a dress with a feather print, and a henna tattoo of a bird. Symbolic? C'est possible.
I found this remarkable piece on n-e-r-v-o-u-s.com, an experimental jewelry company. They use nontraditional materials, like this necklace of silicone rubber, and draw inspiration for designs from both nature and computation. This necklace reminds me of a picture in my high school Biology book that I should have been learning about but was drawing instead. Plant cells or art--you decide!

If you like "modern organic living" then you will love www.amenityhome.com. Again, with the simple lines, plus, I've always had a soft spot for soft things. Their pillows are especially pretty.

East Meets West (the back story)

2009-07-27T23:23:00.000-07:00

Today I scheduled myself to write about Buddah and Jesus, or more broadly, Buddhism and Christianity. It's not an entirely recent collision in my life. Although I have been raised Christian in America, the East just seems to keep crossing the borders. It started with Mrs. Martin, my sixth grade English teacher at Kellogg Middle School in Idaho, who introduced me to both Shakespearean theatre and Zen poetry. Imagine instructing a group of 11 year olds to listen to the silence for ten minutes and then write about it; a remarkable woman to say the least. During that entire year, I would spend most lunch breaks sitting on the carpeted corner in her room writing haikus about the sound of the radiator and the buzzing of a fly. It wasn't the most popular year of my life, to say the least, but I learned to treasure stillness, a quality I found seriously lacking almost everywhere else. After Mrs. Martin, there was Alex Ruff, the first boy I fell in love with. I was fourteen, he was a self-professed Buddhist-Atheist-Anarchist. We would sit backstage during rehearsal for the spring play and he would describe in great philosophical detail his mix-tape ideology. As a three-month anniversary present, he gave me the book "Buddhism for Beginners" and a yin-yang necklace; I gave him a Bible.

After the particularly gnarly teenage heartbreak that was my breakup with Alex, I subconsciously broke up with Buddhism as well. Or so I thought. I discovered after months of near obsession with the Beat writers of the 1960s that they were heavily influenced by Eastern thought and practice; they were the Dharma-bums, as Kerouac put it. Turns out that most writers or artists who I am fascinated and inspired by have Eastern influence: Leonard Cohen spent almost 10 years in a Zen Buddhist centre, T.S. Eliot studied Hinduism and other eastern philosophies at great length, and Thomas Merton fully incorporated a study of eastern mysticism, especially Zen, into his Christian faith and prayer life.

Last fall, Elizabeth Hess introduced me to the Tao Te Ching, or Book of the Way. It a collection of short chapters, or poems, that are central to Taoist thought. I used the book to explicate an Eliot poem, but as I studied it for my essay, the bits of Eastern wisdom that seemed so paradoxical at first read began to churn in my head at all times of the day. Ask anyone on England Semester: for about a month I was Taoist Girl. Every conversation, every class discussion, every church service, every walk outside--all I could do was find connections with Taoist thought and life. After returning from England Semester, I bought my own book of the Tao Te Ching as well as several other books on the subject to begin fleshing out my uneducated interest. I'll also be taking a class in the fall on Buddhism, but since it a Westmont Religious Studies class, it is about where Christianity and Buddhism meet and where they depart.

I've thought quite a bit on that point, both theoretically and personally. Personally, I'm hyper aware of the balance between my Christian faith and my Buddhist "studies." To clarify- whenever I pick up the i Ching to learn about Chinese divination and leave my Bible sitting on the shelf (or in my suitcase, rather), I feel somewhat conflicted. But on the other hand, I feel my own faith being strengthened and clarified by studying another. Buddhism, from what I have learned so far, does not contradict Christianity. Suzuki once said, "Zen teaches nothing; it merely enables us to wake up and become aware. It does not teach, it points." What is true in Buddhism is also true in Christianity, if not as central for most Christian's faith practices. Buddhism is about compassion, peace, surrendering ego and finding emptiness to be filled with God. What I have found most appealing is the Eastern embrace of paradox and "unknowing." Faith is not just a "right" doctrine and regular church attendance, it is a direct experience of God in our deepest self, whether found in a teaching, a walk outside, or a piece of art. In studying Buddhism, I also realize what is so profoundly different about Christianity. A knowable Savior, grace, and forgiveness. Words that get tossed around so often in sermons that we forget what they really mean. Without encountering other faiths, how do we know what we have?

Bishop Ambrose said in the fourth century that "all that is true, by whomever it has been said, is from the Holy Spirit". I've heard the same gist said by several Westmont professors: "All truth is God's truth." I encourage everyone to take a trip to the spirituality section at your local bookstore, step on to someone else's prayer mat, and empty yourself to find what is true.

To drive or not to drive; that is the question.

2009-07-26T22:53:00.000-07:00

Hello, my name is Jessica Drake, and I do not have a drivers license. Upon hearing this news, if you did not already know it, you are likely experiencing one of several reactions. In the past four years that I have been eligible to have a license and have chosen not to get one, I've heard about every possible response. Most commonly, the reaction follows this pattern:

1. Raised eyebrows, indicating surprise and possible disbelief.

2. A question, choked out like a laugh that got stuck, "Are you serious?"

3. A quick social check, a straightening of posture, and a holding of breath in fear that they have offended me by not knowing about the disability I surely have to prevent me from this rite of passage.

4. Once assured that I am indeed fully functioning, the questions follow: "Don't you want to drive?" "Are you afraid?" "How do you get ANYWHERE?"

5. Then the declarative statement: "Driving is the best thing in the world once you get used to it."

6. The persuasive techniques: "Driving aimlessly really clears my head, it would be good for you." "Shouldn't you just get it, in case of an emergency?" "You should start practicing now, so you aren't a hazard when you do have to drive."

7. Finally, a look of either pity, frustration, or endearment that ends the conversation.

In response to that reoccurring encounter, I have a stockpile of explanations and excuses that I pull from depending on my conversation partner's socio-economic status, geographical location, age, politics, and hairstyle. The weather and my mood are also highly influential factors. Several of my favorite go-to reasons are as follows:

1. I've never really needed a car. Friends drove me where I needed to be in high school and no cars allowed the first two years on campus at Westmont.

2. A fit of anxiety overtakes me every time I enter a car from the left side.

3. I've saved a ton of money not paying for gas, insurance or car payments the last four years.

4. Save the earth, man, pollution is gross.

5. I'm planning on living in Europe anyway, no need for cars there.

6. Public transportation RULES!

7. The thought of being that crazy old lady in the corner house who has never driven a day in her life really appeals to me.

8. Being chauffeured makes me feel famous.

These have all surely factored in to my decision in some way or another, or at least I have realized them as benefits along the way. Honestly, I think I just missed that gene in every red-blooded American teenager that compels them to beg their parents to drive them to the DMV as a sixteenth birthday present. Really, it's not a gene at all, it's the craving for independence, and for most teenagers, that's a set of car keys. But while all my sophomore peers were climbing into the driver's seat of their mom's mini-van, I was boarding a plane to Germany for a month. I lived in a small Bavarian town where cars where not allowed in the city center and everyone was free to walk and bike along cobbled streets. Walking down a busy street, stopping to people watch or window-shop, or even strolling alone on a forest trail, that's what clears my head. It's an immediate sensory experience: the smells, the sounds of life happening, the cracks in the pavement. Following speed limit signs in an air-conditioned metal box on wheels is not as appealing to me.

So okay, I'm being idealistic and romantic here. Of course cars serve an important purpose, and of course we can not all live in walkable cities. I don't actually have a serious aversion to cars, in fact I've spent uncountable hours traveling in them, just always in the passenger side or backseat. I've seen most of this country fast-forward through a window thanks to touring with the Continentals and my family's crush on road trips (try Idaho to Kansas, through the Dakotas, that'll take the glamour out of driving). I've probably stopped at every rest stop between Seattle and San Diego. I really don't feel as if I've sacrificed any of my independence so far in life because I haven't spent more than 30 minutes of it behind the wheel of a car. In fact, if anything, I've had more freedom to experience more of the world. If you have never been on an Amtrak bus before, you are really missing out on some interesting people.

Now we come to the present. The kicker is, I want, no, I need to live off campus my senior year at Westmont. I'd like to stick around Santa Barbara in the summer too. Do I need to get my license to do this? The conflicting thing is, I've spent so long convincing people that I am a woman who does not need or want a license that it's like I'd be betraying myself to get one now. I'd be giving in. I've made it this far, how far can I go? Is it possible to live an independent life in America without a car? Am I revolutionary or just stubborn and afraid? Is one year of some inconvenience and shuttle-shame worth it? Worth what? What am I holding on to? What am I resisting? That is the question.

A Pledge

2009-07-25T20:17:00.000-07:00

I, Jessica Drake, pledge to write one blog entry every day this week to compensate for my recent inactivity and to clarify my own thoughts on several major topics I've been chewing on all summer. To give my (few, but cherished) readers something to expect and to discipline myself, here are my chosen topics for each day of the week:

Sunday: To drive, or not to drive: that is the question.

Monday: Can Buddha and Jesus be friends?

Tuesday: He made the heavens and the earth: Creator God and the Zodiac.

Wednesday: The Beauty of Decay

Thursday: "Quod me nutrit me destruit"--my love-hate relationship with theatre.

Friday: Monastic Life and Me

Saturday: Enlightenment or Elitism?

Scribbles from Barcelona

2009-06-27T23:10:00.000-07:00

After mayterm and before returning to the good ole US of A, I spent four days of surreal transition in Barcelona with Mr. John Jefferson. We drank a lot of bad cappucinos and a lot of great wine; we spent hours and hours with Picasso, Dali, and Van Dongen; we weaved through gothic streets in a constant state of lost; we stewed over Hopkins and the Beatniks; we ended the trip in complete poverty and spent our last pence on kebab. We also carried around paper--me, a journal; John, three carefully folded pages. My little scribbles ended up scattered through my journal, on napkins buried in the bottom of my backpack, or on torn scraps that were tucked into pages of my book. I've attempted to collect them and piece them together to shape into something worth posting soon while the trip is still recent, but most of them require a significant amount of editing or expounding. However, there is one small haiku that I am satisfied with. It was the first thing I wrote, on the train that we assumed would take us from the airport to the city center of Barcelona (lots of assuming in countries where you don't speak the language).

Charred-purple skies spread,

lit by low glowing lamp-stars.

Air: humid cigars.

Atlantis by W. H. Auden

2009-06-13T15:43:00.001-07:00

Being set on the idea
Of getting to Atlantis,
You have discovered of course
Only the Ship of Fools is
Making the voyage this year,
As gales of abnormal force
Are predicted, and that you
Must therefore be ready to
Behave absurdly enough
To pass for one of The Boys,
At least appearing to love
Hard liquor, horseplay and noise.

Should storms, as may well happen,
Drive you to anchor a week
In some old harbour-city
Of Ionia, then speak
With her witty sholars, men
Who have proved there cannot be
Such a place as Atlantis:
Learn their logic, but notice
How its subtlety betrays
Their enormous simple grief;
Thus they shall teach you the ways
To doubt that you may believe.

If, later, you run aground
Among the headlands of Thrace,
Where with torches all night long
A naked barbaric race
Leaps frenziedly to the sound
Of conch and dissonant gong:
On that stony savage shore
Strip off your clothes and dance, for
Unless you are capable
Of forgetting completely
About Atlantis, you will
Never finish your journey.

Again, should you come to gay
Carthage or Corinth, take part
In their endless gaiety;
And if in some bar a tart,
As she strokes your hair, should say
"This is Atlantis, dearie,"
Listen with attentiveness
To her life-story: unless
You become acquainted now
With each refuge that tries to
Counterfeit Atlantis, how
Will you recognise the true?

Assuming you beach at last
Near Atlantis, and begin
That terrible trek inland
Through squalid woods and frozen
Thundras where all are soon lost;
If, forsaken then, you stand,
Dismissal everywhere,
Stone and now, silence and air,
O remember the great dead
And honour the fate you are,
Travelling and tormented,
Dialectic and bizarre.

Stagger onward rejoicing;
And even then if, perhaps
Having actually got
To the last col, you collapse
With all Atlantis shining
Below you yet you cannot
Descend, you should still be proud
Even to have been allowed
Just to peep at Atlantis
In a poetic vision:
Give thanks and lie down in peace,
Having seen your salvation.

All the little household gods
Have started crying, but say
Good-bye now, and put to sea.
Farewell, my dear, farewell: may
Hermes, master of the roads,
And the four dwarf Kabiri,
Protect and serve you always;
And may the Ancient of Days
Provide for all you must do
His invisible guidance,
Lifting up, dear, upon you
The light of His countenance.

Book Binge

2009-06-11T06:48:00.000-07:00

We had a class at Trinity College this morning with Nick Johnson, an American who took off for Europe after college in the states to research German ensemble theatres in Berlin on a grant. From there, he got his PhD at Trinity, specializing in Samuel Beckett's prose work. Now he is teaching classes at Trinity and meanwhile is the artistic director of the up and coming Painted Filly Theatre (http://www.paintedfilly.com/). He also acts and directs. Yes, I was inspired and maybe fell a little bit in love. Nothing funny, it was just reassuring to hear someone describing my dreams as their reality.

Afterwards, I was feeling particularly hungry for some new art. As if the 20 plays I've seen in the last few weeks aren't enough, right? But art is paradoxical like that, the more you eat the hungrier you get. And each new flavor and texture is so delicious that you want to gorge yourself on it forever, until you are reminded that there are hundreds of others still to try.

So I stomped down the cobblestone streets of Dublin without a destination or a map or any real idea of where I was, which is always the best way to find what you want. For an appetizer, I found a little market with tables full of silver jewelry (I resisted buying another ring only because I have run out of fingers) and hand-bound leather journals (which I resisted only because of the two small crumpled bills in my wallet). There was a great vintage shop with pink walls and teal floors and beaded hangers with tempting frocks and jackets. Somehow I pried myself out of that store without a purchase as well. My thriftiness broke down at the sight of bookshelves with sale signs. For only four euro I bought a used copy of The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis and the 50th issue of the Poetry Ireland Review from 1996.

At this point, I needed some real food if I was to continue aesthetically fasting, so I crashed at a table outside Metro Cafe. I expected good things based on the many smiling faces filling the tables (note: always pick restaurants based on the diners, rather than the menu) and was not disappointed. It was more like a community than a restaurant, almost everyone at the tables around me knew the staff and caught up about their hangovers and their families in between ordering. The guy who waited on me practically ordered for me, and jovially begged me to trust him that the penne pasta salad with pesto was the best thing I could possibly order that day in all of Dublin, besides a Guinness, of course. He was right. While eating, I people-watched and flipped through my new book of Irish poetry. One of my favorite finds so far is Peter McDonald. I'll share a little exerpt from his poem "Day-trip to Iceland" that I found particularly striking after the conversation this morning about the difference between America and Europe's cultural scenes.

Although we started in Belfast,

my people in the recent past

took their part in the general flight

to a fresh suburban satellite

where homes increase a hundredfold,

and few are more than ten years old,

where culture is a shopping mall

and there's no history at all

To sum up the rest of the day, I hit two more bookstores: Books Upstairs and Dubray Books. Dubray was first, a little more commercial but with a great poetry and drama selection. I bought Marina Carr's play "Woman and Scarecrow" because we had talked about her in class and if the Irish love her, I will probably love her too. Also, a collection of poetry by Leonard Cohen, "Book of Longing" because my Dad sent me his Live in London cd's and I've been crazy for his lyrics for the last two weeks. His writings, like his drawings that accompany his words on many of the pages, are rough and sensual with simple lines and smudged edges that touch something very human and very deep. When I read it, my chest tightens in that way when you try to hold back an excess of emotion in a public place.

Books Upstairs is dark and musty with lots of little neon orange sale stickers on covers. Basically, heaven. For cheap, cheap I bought "...She Also Wrote Plays: An International Guide to Women Playwrights from the 10th to the 21st Century" because, well, duh. And "The Beat Book: Writings from the Beat Generation" which is the best beat anthology I've found, with 18 authors. I leave you with one of my favorite excerpts from Kerouac's "On the Road":

"We seek to find new phrases; we try hard, we writhe and twist and blow; every now and then a clear harmonic cry gives new suggestions of a tune, a thought, that will someday be the only tune and thought in the world and which will raise men's souls to joy. We find it, we lose, we wrestle for it, we find it again, we laugh, we moan. Go moan for man. It's the pathos of people that gets us down, all the lovers in this dream."

Ireland Soundtrack

2009-06-08T13:12:00.000-07:00

Dublin

2009-06-08T11:41:00.000-07:00

Softs are hard here.

Weightless clouds shake the bowels of metal birds

and the unfortunate occupants--

a new generation of Jonahs,

who have thrown themselves willingly into

the belly of a beast

to be carried to a new shore.

What gods have we ignored?

My body anticipated its return here,

and raises my temperature as a purging fire.

Heightened awareness, my super-self burns,

iron eyelids crash to meet and then are hoisted apart again,

each vertebrae hammers nails into its neighbor's fence,

lungs suck oxygen out of fog,

each breathe thick like the history of this place,

grey like the streets and the buildings and the sky.

To compensate, true Irishmen learn to count the shades of green,

more than forty, they say (with their beautiful r's).

Each shade is a seed,

it gets planted in the spirit

until blood flows green and veins are vines.

I must learn to count the greens.

Camden Town

2009-06-07T13:41:00.001-07:00

Today I met you in the day, in life--

not lit by stage lights and scripted,

or through grimy windows on the double deck of a bus

on my way to a park on a hill at night with stranger-friends

[spontaneity and wine overcame nightmare nerves for a view and a memory that was worth it]

I dressed for the occasion in my stompin' red Dr. Martens,

not aware that you originated them.

I ate American food on your street:

milkshake in glass and tin, fries (not chips),

didn't think you'd mind,

something tells me you understand nostalgia.

Thanks to you, I don't have to brave needles or offend my elders

to carry my symbol, my roots with me.

You really took it out of me though.

Never thought I could tire of this hippie Disneyland:

silks and scarves,

rings for fingers and bells for toes,

buddahs and bongs,

superheroes and punks,

mullets and mohawks,

florals next to spikes,

incense, leather, tea, and kung pow chicken.

KUNG POW---that's how you hit me.

A solid aesthetic knock to my senses.

I need a nap, a latte, an inheritance.

I miss you already.

Peace in Stratford

2009-06-03T01:57:00.000-07:00

In Stratford,

where the city is two streets that I have known before,

and the bed is a cloud of feathers and white,

there is permission to rest.

It is good to release,

as if collapsing into an embrace,

to offer tension and weight

as both proof of need and thanks for arms.

And so I practice laying like a child

or a cat.

From the window, a breeze strokes my skin

purr purr purr.

Dumbwaiter spirit

2009-05-28T06:00:00.000-07:00

In the rush, dishes pile up.

A smiling woman who may be missing a tooth furrows her brow in the eagerness to please as I am jammed full of dirty porcelain and slobbery table scraps.

The world is hungry

and my poor mechanisms cannot keep up with its gluttony.

I am as full and as heavy as the room where intelligence could not mask anger--

heaping plates of history and names my palate has not adjusted to

taste like salt and slime and rust--

I cannot swallow it all.

Pakistan Afghanistan India America Britain

Blame Blame Blame

Hate Hate Hate

Money.

A small voice goes unanswered:

"WHat can we do? Is there hope?"

The silent response is the heaviest dish of all.

It is getting hotter in here,

someone has turned on the sun.

I peel off hazy flakes of skin,

the guilt for taking a dirty dish and polishing it with pretty words.

Dramatic Pose: "I haven't suffered enough!"

Even success weighs on me.

And so I wait.

"What for?" Gogo asks.

But I am dumb.

I have no name to speak and console his anxious, hungry, tired self.

I wait

for an invisible hand to pull my straining ropes,

and lower me to a depth I have not been before

that I may be relieved

and the dishes cleaned

So both are fit to serve again.

Wisdom from Chekhov

2009-05-28T04:42:00.000-07:00

"Always remember that the writers whom we call eternal, or even just the good ones who intoxicate us, they all have one highly important trait in common: they are moving toward something, and they beckon you to follow, and you feel--not only with you mind, but with your entire being--that they have some purpose, like the ghost of Hamlet's father, who did not come to disturb the imagination without reason...The best of them are real and write of life just as it is, but because each line is filled with the awareness of this purpose, you feel more than life as it is--you also feel life as it should be, and this captivates you."

May 7, 2009

2009-05-28T04:34:00.001-07:00

It is right to water gardens while forests burn.

What more appropriate response is there

but to shake hands with strangers

and puff puff puff to join the growing cloud overhead

until friends.

Strange to see people stop.

Lawn chairs on sidewalks,

camera phones at intersections--

This is not Icarus falling unnoticed in the corner of a painting,

this is sublime.

It calls for stuffed backpacks, like disguised treasure chests,

ten minutes to realize everything that you could live without,

two-dollar strawberries on frozen yogurt,

futons and friends

who raise with thankful hands

the pizza crust,

the wine in the plastic cup.

"This is celebrating." we agree,

while behind us ash falls

and flowers suck up supergrow.

And my very life lived in my voice.

2009-04-15T19:36:00.000-07:00

My very wise sister sometimes speaks with the voice of God.

She/He told me where I am and where I must go.

I am in a dark room sitting at a desk,

trying to write--

of course of course I am trying to write.

But my paper is crumpled and refuses to be smoothed

and my ink invisible;

my pen has a feather, but I can't fly with it.

I am worse than Icarus.

Then, into the darkness, a man, an angel, a being

breaks in and throws a javelin (a javelin!) at the wall,

bringing in a beam that illuminates my desk with what I imagine is inspiration

(thank god, a lightbulb above my head!)

But still no words from my quill.

whywonttheycomeoutiknowtheyareinthereifeelthemexpandingandyellingandhowdoiknowwhatithinkunlessiwriteitdown

"Use your voice."

Not just Nancy or Nina or Roxy--Jessie.

"You are known. Speak and you will know it."

My song will not be silenced; I will not be Jonah; my life-voice will live outside the belly of a whale.

Meditation at the Duck Pond

2009-04-15T19:31:00.000-07:00

Lily pads catch light like oil spills on stagnant water.

In the center, a rock,

and a jar, balanced precariously,

but still.

So still it takes stillness to tell where center rock ends and jar begins.

From the jar's emptiness

reversed is nature:

rain falls up

and branches drink before roots.

Through still emptiness of jar

murky water meets light and air:

Clarity

After touching another living thing

it falls back to its beginning.

Gravity is persistent.

Each briefly sparkling drop goes full circle

and is absorbed

back into its sludgy starting place,

but not without

a sound

a reflection

a ripple

that rips the surface and changes everything.

On surviving the return to normality

2009-01-05T21:26:00.000-08:00

After four month living and studying in the UK, I've been back in America for one month. The readjustment has not been easy, and I'm sad to realize how quickly I've fallen back into the monotonous patterns of day-to-day existence. I was spoiled with almost constant stimulation: literature, theatre, conversation, and an ever-shifting environment acted like a giant poking stick tapping me on the head saying, "Hey you! Wake up! There's a hell of a world out here, let's go!" It's terribly dangerous (and expensive) to rely on poking sticks like a trip to Europe, or even to the theatre, for that spark of joie de vivre. But once you've experienced the reality of a Thoreau-ian mentality by living deliberately, and have sucked the marrow of every moment, it's pretty impossible to go back to a life that feels uneventful and unchallenging. In the four months I spent in the UK, I glutted myself on every poem, every play, every person, and every place I encountered. Now I've come home mentally fat and sleepy, like after a big Thanksgiving dinner when all you want to do is nap in the warm haze of a full belly. I'm left with the leftovers, memories whose flavors develop with age to be different, but still delicious.

Yesterday, I was craving a nice poetry-sandwich, so I pulled my book of T.S. Eliot off the shelf: one of the poets who truly came to life for me last semester as I visited the places that inspired his work. As I read his Four Quartets, crowded on the page by my enthusiastic underlinging and marginalia, I was back in that drafty church in the English countryside, reading the poem out loud with the dear friends who walked the road with me. We laughed at the new irony of the line "If you came this way taking the route you would be likely to take" after we'd gotten terribly lost on the way to Little Gidding. That was one of the days I almost took for granted. It was another long ride on a coach with clashing rainbow colored seats to another literary landmark that meant getting out in the cold; we were tired and grumpy for some reason or another, maybe lack of sleep from one of those dawn deadlines for an essay. But in that church, for me at least, the union of the poetry and the place and the people cut so deep I could feel it heavy in my gut and light in my head.

Parts of the poem rang out like a vague narration of our trip; one line specifically hung in the air like the memory of the last notes of a trumpet call: "You are not here to verify, instruct yourself, or inform curiosity, or carry report. You are here to kneel where prayers has been valid...Here the intersection of the timeless moment is England and nowhere. Never and always." It felt like our anthem. Yes, we were students on a college semester abroad learning about literature and theatre, so of course we were verifying, instructing, informing, and reporting like crazy. But that was not why we were there. It was for the timeless moments like that one in Little Gidding, which will never happen again but that we will always carry and that we will return to just by opening up an old book.

After we finished reading the poem, the group filtered out to explore the grounds, while a few of us stayed in the tiny church, touching the stained glass and kneeling at the alter, where Eliot promised that prayers had been valid. That was one of the rare and beautiful times in my life where I prayed with every ounce of my self, but not words. And I knew it was valid.

We came together again to eat lunch in the main house. It was a simple meal in a simple room: soup made from vegetables grown in the garden out back, homeade bread with butter so rich and creamy I was looking outside for the cow, fresh fruit, and a variety of cheeses. It was all spread out on long tables where we sat on short wooden chairs, with pictures of flowers on the wall and lots of country light streaming in through the windows. We had eaten together every day for almost three months at that point, and were far past the friendly small talk of our first jet-lagged group meal in Edinburgh. And yet there was something different at that Little Gidding lunch. If I had to pin down a moment, I'd say that's when I knew we were family. It was the easy happiness of watching Ben ask sheepishly for a third helping of soup and Carrie delight in the discovery of improving her meal with crumbled crackers while Elizabeth brooded over the cheese plate; it was the fullness of looking around the room at the bright eyes and smiling faces of people who knew each other in the real way, people who learned and laughed and cried together; and it was the heavy lightness of knowing that, like all beautiful things, that this too would pass. That lunch was more than sharing a meal; it was a time of breaking bread.

The addictive element of travel is the sensation that not a moment must be wasted because there is so much to see and do and think and be, and so little time to do it. The challenge is applying this same mentality to the normal days. Then the real challenge is realizing that there is no such thing as a normal day. Every moment is precious and bursting with potential, even the empty-house Mondays in Redding and the middle-of-the-week stressful days when the temptation to shift into auto-pilot is so strong and so habitual that you hardly realize you are doing it. But stop, look around, breathe. Thank God that there is more to see and more to learn and more to be, and that he has given us the time to do it.

Love is not wasted on children.

2008-08-09T00:24:00.000-07:00

I've spent the majority of my days the last week chasing, controlling, coaching, correcting, challenging, and cheering about 30 kids between the ages of 5 and 13. For five days I've worked as a counselor and vocal director for the Christian Youth Theatre (CYT) Redding Summer Camp, and I'll admit, I went into the program feeling apprehensive and more than a little unprepared. For some reason, I've never exactly considered myself a "kid-person." But the opportunity for this job fell into my lap and the timing couldn't have been better--it's my last week in Redding before I take off for southern California this tuesday for a week to then board a plane to the UK. If I hadn't had this to occupy my time and thoughts...well, it's just good I had it.

Going into the week, I knew I would have to release most of my perfectionist tendencies. The kids were coming to the camp to play silly acting games, sing some songs, learn some dances and make new friends, not to get trained to become the next great Broadway star. One of the things I took away from directing Spring Sing last year was that I sometimes let my impossibly high standards and ideals take away from the spirit and life of the experience. And if I couldn't organize a group of college students to materialize my vision in three months of hard work, I'd really have to relax for five days with a group of easily distracted ten year olds. Directing is about translating vision into hard work that becomes a great production, sure, but this camp brought me back to what drew me to theatre in the first place--the community of eccentric individuals coming together for a common purpose, to create. The chance for even the most underestimated, shy little girl to step into the spotlight for a short solo that draws applause mid-song. The drama-queens mentoring the wallflowers, the techies eating with the lead. The cracking of shells and building of confidences.

As the week went on, the kids became more than bundles of energy to control and name-tags to memorize. And I watched as I become more to them than a tall person in a grey STAFF shirt. By the end of the week I knew all their names, but I also knew most of them as people. Yes, children are people. Why did this feel like such a revelation? Hard to harness but easy to love. Exhausting and exhilarating. Full of curiosity and innocence and accidental humor. And killer intuition. I swear, every moment I felt a bit of stress or frustration creeping up, one of them would be wrapping their arms around me with their nose to my bellybutton--a hug for no reason, just a spontaneous expression of love--and the every negativity would melt away. Their world lights up with a high five, with a secret extra piece of candy, an endless game of tag where I am always It because they don't like to be caught. I hope they remember me, Wall-E, the singing teacher with funny warm ups and enough love for all of them.

"Libra in abeyance"

2008-07-30T00:09:00.000-07:00

Here, now, I will be as real as Maighread's Wings.

Fellow lonely Libra,

drowning in anticipation,

suffocated by expectations,

seeking comfort in words and balance,

always balance,

in the concrete reassurance of written emotion, murky-thick.

Like me.

I ask you, what could be worse than tipped scales?

Empty ones, perhaps.

But no.

On the left are heavy realities--

dense, gray and ugly; shifty and unnerving.

Compensating on the right are bubble dreams and paper plans;

snowflake memories of complex, fleeting beauty;

whispers of conversations almost had and perfect words almost spoken;

mirages of strange and busy streets and the echoes of exploding energy;

the aftertaste of self-expression--

subtle, lingering, unidentifiable yet impossible to ignore,

and in the only way that matters, a final impression.

What is it in the aligning specks of light that cranks my wheels so predictably?

When God punched out the holes in the black construction paper sky,

His great cosmic Light Brite,

his design must have been so intricate so refined,

far surpassing my neon trees and electric clouds,

to have included all of us in the plan.

He anticipated me.

And now I anticipate me.

The undiscovered me.

There are no guarantees and only foggy predictions,

but it will be beautiful.

I am a Libra after all--

I wouldn't couldn't have it any other way.

When the words go away

2008-07-25T23:55:00.000-07:00

Where do the words go when they leave?

How can I convince them to return?

Don't they know how much I need them?

It's all the anticipation for inspiration keeping them away--

they must be hibernating, storing up to burst loose in a million tiny explosions of color and sound and life.

The words must have their own makeshift bedroom with a mattress on the floor

in an unfamiliar house in a stranger-filled city

that still manages to feel like home,

at least enough to re-charge before the next great adventure.

But I want them now!

I will force them out however I can:

into neatly divided lists and reminders on post-its--

they really hate it when I confine them so, but it's their own fault for being so useful--

I will torture them with ABABC rhyme schemes of love I haven't felt,

and then I will copy down lyrics to the beautiful old songs my mother sang--

those songs have been everywhere lately, but it's my own fault for being so nostalgic--

I will cover my journal pages with doodles to make the words jealous,

to make them return to reclaim their territory.

And now what do you know,

the only way to make the words come back is to write about them in the quiet of a sleeping house,

such self-satisfied, nocturnal little creatures--

no wonder we get along so well.

Thank You

2008-07-04T02:00:00.000-07:00

Are you still wearing flowers in your hair

in your invisible home?

Do you still teach Shakespeare to sixth graders

and cast the outcast as the lead?

How long has it been since you have closed your eyes

to listen to the hum hum thud of the heater

and then written about it?

Invisible homes must have invisible heaters--

hopefully they still make noise for you.

Are you still fighting juvenile vandalism

with Sherlock Holmes skills

and a little healthy intimidation?

It worked so well.

Are you still changing lives and directing paths,

fanning sparks and inspiring young minds?

Have you run out of the tube of ruby red lipstick

you wore on the first snow of each year?

You colored the cold world with your smile.

Did you know that I loved him with my whole 11 year old heart

when you arranged the seating chart

to give me a perfect view of the back of his perfect curly head,

the only thing that could distract me from those magical words.

Do you know that I think about you every time I use a semi-colon;

do you know that I use them a lot?

What you should know, without a doubt,

is that there is a letter for you waiting in my memory box

until the day I find the address to your invisible house

when it will be promptly mailed to your invisible mailbox,

and you will open it and read it and clearly remember me,

Jessica Drake, your student.

And then you will know, without a doubt,

that you have made a difference in at least one life

and no matter how much (or how little) they pay you,

it will not be enough.

Thank you.

Clipped wings

2008-06-02T01:06:00.000-07:00

As I write,

I capture winged bits of me

like birds in cages.

Feathered confessions to be heard

and lessons to be learned--

not easily captured, or created to be,

but so captivating up close.

They sing back my song, my story

whistle whistle chirp chirp

an imperfect mimic to my true melody.

This Soul is more free than these flying things,

but humanity has clipped my wings.

Witness my desperate, fluttering attempt to soar

as I know in my birdie bones I was born to!

Please don't fill my cage with cheap plastic toys

and ladders that lead nowhere

and bells that can only make heartless noise.

Don't antagonize me, you bird brain.

From my corner cage, I can hear the rain on the window pane

and smell the wild air that leaks through door cracks.

I catch glimpses of the horizon

and sense the changing of the wind.

On clipped wings I will fly,

there is no stopping me.

Clap ON, Clap OFF

2008-05-21T23:28:00.001-07:00

OFF:

Stubed toes, dropped dishes, too much sleep, not enough sleep, lack of purpose, silent phones, empty mailboxes, slowly growing apart, monotony, forgetting names, rude waiters, hot weather, paper cuts, bicycles and those who ride them recklessly, ignorant expectations, narrow minded opinions and those who have them, shoes I can't afford, chemistry and those who understand and enjoy it, writer's block, canvas anxiety, fruity teas, off-beat clapping, out-of-key singing, big dogs and small children who slobber, small dogs and small children who make too much noise, walking barefoot in wet grass, conflict, twisted sock seams, complacency, the expected.

ON:

New haircuts, curtain calls, the last page of a great book, captivating first sentences, old bookstore smell, working under pressure, the perfect cappucino, colorful art on white gallery walls, scarves, boots, friendships that never change despite distance and time, ordering without a menu, self-expressive fashion, wit, exchanging eyes with handsome strangers, cleaning and organizing to my favorite soundtrack, arguing a point I don't really care about because I'm bored, winning those arguments, foreign accents, crosswalk kisses, seeming impossibilities, scandalous insinuations, original metaphors, truth, obvious exaggeration, spontaneous literary references.

Midnight, April 23, 2008

2008-05-09T01:27:00.000-07:00

Life just shifted.

I felt it in my deepest deep.

I know it in my fingers and bones and throat and chest.

What was life before Stoppard?

One day I will direct Arcadia.

I was born to play Hannah.

I was made for theater.

Reading, acting, directing, analyzing, critiquing...

Also, junior year RA???

Maybe.

Goodnight

Ode to Insomnia

2008-05-09T01:19:00.000-07:00

To be the only open-eyed creature

in a world of heavy-breathers

is a new kind of dreaming.

Silence thick lays itself heavy-warm on my

chest,

breathing stale air.

I am forced to seek inanimate companionship

in the love letters

of dead or distant poets

who were once too alone to be alone too.

Muscle-twitching,

eyelid-fluttering,

nasal-breathing

silence.

No good reason,

just another manifestation of a restless heart.

Oak

2008-05-04T15:24:00.000-07:00

If I ever chose to permanently mark this, my fleshly temple, my most personal canvas, with a permanent piece of art, it would have to be relevant and important for all my time from the Great Now until the Great Next. But how do I squeeze, condense my life, being dreams and hopes; all the lessons I have learned and am learning and have yet to learn; all 138 pounds of substance and essence into a pocket sized picture frame? Am I so simply captured? This is no Polaroid Soul.

No, I am complex, shifting, moving, never settling, never stagnant. Bending but not breaking, my many branches withstand the stormy winds of change. Moreso, delight! Riding the great gusts with greatest gusto--hear me shriek and laugh and moan and call in harmony with that which moves me. Free to dance on curling currents without fear or hesitation only because my roots run deep. Only because my trunk, my core, is steady and immovable--grounded in the only way that matters.

My rings are not many, but I bear fruit.

I am not the giant of the woods, but I grow a little every day.

I am not always strong, but I am supple.

I am the tree you lose the forest for.

Roadtrip

2008-05-04T15:14:00.000-07:00

This search for self-enlightenment is giving me some sort of zen-headache.

So I deal by morphing--

can't keep up with me (.)(?)

can't keep up with you.

Who am I, me, me in reference to we?

Who is we? Have we met?

I'm sure it was a pleasure.

And what are we, me, I doing here?

Drowning in debt to pay our bills?

to have some thrills while we are still young enough to forget regret?

to meet the one? no, not that one. or that one. or that one.

one day.

Paying 120K to learn that we/I don't know sh--

Shhhh.

Stop talking, please. Please stop doing.

Running around like the decapitated chickens they feed us every night.

What's with all the meetings just to prove our hearts are beating

Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum--can you hear the love?

Yessir, loud and clear!

No sir, those aren't tears, just sweat,

Aren't I a hard little worker?

I should join this club and that club,

a fit club and a fat club,

I would too....

if they had a club for people who have no idea what club to join.

Where's the club for the emotionally conservative academic liberal?

The forgetful environmentalist and the carnivorous animal-rights activist?

Point me to the biased-even-though-I-really-try-not-to-but-just-can't-help-it-so-good-thing-I-can-fake-it club.

Where do the universal Christians, moral rebels, truthful liars, and single lovers meet?

And the pro-life choosers and the pro-death livers--is there a place for us?

For the we's with all the ambition and no clear direction,

all fuel and no car,

all road and no map.

Here we go.

Remember Me as a Time of Day

2008-05-04T14:57:00.000-07:00

A friend once told me, after prompted, that he will remember me as 4:30pm. Tea time. I didn't ask him to defend his answer because I feared the explanation would be either dreadfully shallow or simply that he knows I like tea. Besides, I would rather brood over possible, romanticized explanations myself.

It is true that I have a strong affection for tea, especially in the early evening. I also used to frequent his room each night around that time. In that way, tea time and I are both monotonously predictable. My life is mostly dictated by routine, as is tea's. Perhaps I sometimes brought him comfort and a sense of warmth. And when free associating with tea time Britain often comes to mind, we will be traveling there together next fall.

Yet for all of tea's virtues it is not everyone's (please pardon this painfully obvious pun) cup of tea. Or perhaps they tolerate tea, but prefer coffee. Is tea time so expected it lacks the intrigue of more spontaneous dining experiences? Tea requires some patience, like any good relationship, as nothing is more unpleasant than a scalded tongue from a too-hastily sipped cup. After burning your mouth, nothing quite tastes the same. Be careful not to leave the tea alone for too long as it grows bitter and sharp with over-seeping, over-exposure, over-trying. And must we always tone it down with biscuits, milk and sugar? Such distractions, one lump or two?

You must grant kudos for its ability to make the best of a bad situation though. No one handles being thrown into hot water quite as resourcefully as a tea bag, except for maybe me.