tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14913688090811588362024-03-12T18:08:54.734-07:00She May Be Naked But She's Not StupidLizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.comBlogger917125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-12762155784276556362024-03-12T14:55:00.000-07:002024-03-12T15:38:25.417-07:00A total solar eclipse of the heart<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBvO3GUHVzBMH0mVFYny2jZulwfqi09uSo9s_jChs2HvSHTIw80Idw1NfYzl0WV_arMtyYnMpMWkLXGHjy5_fOMXAXAiUR-AyJ1CoCZmDNJme6PkPtQ_wJ01dPsbnFEA0Ew8esT5ufCxUA7IMsx-y4uG39jaxP6rI4VwIHr6GZjXNJmeniVV1oJ-x2j3D/s1080/20989200_10101920385735324_3886333719960917311_o.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBvO3GUHVzBMH0mVFYny2jZulwfqi09uSo9s_jChs2HvSHTIw80Idw1NfYzl0WV_arMtyYnMpMWkLXGHjy5_fOMXAXAiUR-AyJ1CoCZmDNJme6PkPtQ_wJ01dPsbnFEA0Ew8esT5ufCxUA7IMsx-y4uG39jaxP6rI4VwIHr6GZjXNJmeniVV1oJ-x2j3D/w320-h320/20989200_10101920385735324_3886333719960917311_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The solar eclipse in Montana, 2017</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>I do not understand how anyone is planning on doing anything between April 7th and April 9th. </p><p>Because a total solar eclipse will be visible throughout much of the United States on April 8th, and witnessing totality is one of the most extraordinary experiences I have ever had during my one wild and precious time on earth. And we won’t get to see another one in this part of the world until 2044! </p><p>I saw the 2017 solar eclipse in Montana, and it was so strange and beautiful that I’m half convinced I dreamed it. It doesn’t seem like it could have been real. I witnessed it with Mom and Ray and Mikah, and we’re heading to Texas to witness this one in one month. </p><p>Even the existence of solar eclipses is mind-blowing…the moon is way closer to us than the sun, but the sun is way bigger than the moon, and based on both of those things, they just HAPPEN TO LOOK THE SAME SIZE TO US ON EARTH. Like, mathematically, that’s insane. If the sun was just a little closer, or the moon was just a little smaller, we wouldn’t get to see eclipses like this at all. So many planets don’t get eclipses at all! We are so incredibly lucky. </p><p>And it’s not just that the moon blocks the sun—an eclipse like this is also accompanied by all of this incredible phenomena that feel completely otherworldly. </p><p>At “first contact,” the moon seems to take the first little “bite” out of the sun. Not much else is noticeable during this phase—if you didn’t have eclipse glasses*, you might not notice anything is even going on. But as the moon covers more and more of the sun, you’ll be able to see thousands of crescent shadows on the ground near trees and plants. The shrubbery creates natural “pinhole cameras” that project the shape of the crescent sun onto the ground. </p><p>After an hour or so, the light grows strange and eerie. I will never be able to properly describe the quality of the light in the minutes before totality. It’s like twilight, but brighter. It’s like the light before a thunderstorm, but sharper. It’s somehow dim and bright at the same time, and shadows are razor sharp. Sometimes, wildlife that usually come out at dusk make an appearance, thinking it’s already later in the day. </p><p>As totality approaches, the temperature drops by a few degrees—it’s noticeably cooler, and the light continues to dim. If you’re in a very flat area, geographically, you may be able to see the moon’s shadow barreling over the ground at 1600 mph toward you. </p><p>In the few minutes before totality, sometimes you can see “shadow bands” moving along flat surfaces. They look like the dancing light at the bottom of a swimming pool. We actually don’t know for sure what causes them, but the most likely explanation is that the sun’s rays are being distorted by earth’s atmosphere. </p><p>In the very last second before totality, if you’re watching closely, you’ll see the last sliver of the sun suddenly break into a thin string of “Bailey’s Beads.” This is the last of the sun’s light peeking through the VALLEYS OF THE MOON, creating these glittering beads of light that are only visible for a moment. </p><p>And then totality. </p><p>When we experienced this in 2017, on a random hillside in Montana with a few hundred other people, the entire crowd erupted into emotional cheers. I burst into tears, and my mom also burst into tears, and at one point she had to be told to sit down so that she didn’t pass out. It was just so beautiful. It felt like we were on an alien planet, or in a dream, or somehow thrown into a science fiction novel. </p><p>During totality, there’s a 360-degree “sunset”—colored gradients of light in every direction. Stars and planets are visible throughout the sky, even though it’s not quite dark enough to be night. You’re able to see the corona…the sun is a black hole with a white cloudy halo of light surrounding it. If you’re lucky, you’ll catch a solar “prominence,” a flare of solar plasma erupting from the sun’s surface, visible with the naked eye only during an eclipse. </p><p>Totality only lasts a few minutes. (Although this time in Texas, we’ll get four and a half minutes! That’s twice as long as the 2017 eclipse!) And then the whole thing happens in reverse—Bailey’s Beads, shadow bands, temperature changes, crescent shadows. </p><p>And then it’s done. A three-ish hour long wonder complete. </p><p>Then we get back into our cars and slog our way through eclipse traffic** to get back to our Airbnb and wonder if it all really happened. Sometimes we only have to wait a few years for the next one, like in 2017. And sometimes, like now, we have to wait a few decades. </p><p>There are times when I’m absolutely astounded at the beauty of living on this planet. There is so much cause for heartache, but the sun and the moon appear to be the same size in the sky above us and every now and then, we get to see them make magic. </p><p>See you in 26 days, Texas. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">*IMPORTANT NOTE: DO NOT LOOK AT THE SUN WITHOUT ECLIPSE GLASSES. You can buy eclipse glasses online—make sure they’re actually safe and not counterfeit. They should have “ISO 12312-2” printed on them and have an authentic ISO certification label.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">**I have never in my life experienced traffic like we did after the eclipse. It took us 11 hours to drive like 200 miles. At several points, we would each get tired of sitting in the car and just get out and walk beside it for a while. We tried to stop for food at a Wendy’s and they were sold out of almost everything, and there was still a mob waiting in line. This time we’ll be prepared! </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-57251943950528998802023-10-15T17:10:00.000-07:002023-10-15T17:10:03.206-07:00Our Flag Means Stuff<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xMYIuWn5coJ09JPaykuJaXqRgYJU_LnWXTHwhlzYwl4LinRfAtz7dDYRfTYZsbjpGu9-cwcyd_pa7yCSMJ82lblsSHe2qmK7k6yRlu6quO0nhkRqxefBDCLqTnRDxOi-BvZhPikySf2dlhk-py6gcJ2FgcddnQdQdUgueqYZpcPsj2YTx0XRXtv8m6F8/s1000/photo_2022-04-10_20-57-16.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-xMYIuWn5coJ09JPaykuJaXqRgYJU_LnWXTHwhlzYwl4LinRfAtz7dDYRfTYZsbjpGu9-cwcyd_pa7yCSMJ82lblsSHe2qmK7k6yRlu6quO0nhkRqxefBDCLqTnRDxOi-BvZhPikySf2dlhk-py6gcJ2FgcddnQdQdUgueqYZpcPsj2YTx0XRXtv8m6F8/w377-h212/photo_2022-04-10_20-57-16.webp" width="377" /></a></div><p>In celebration of Our Flag Means Death season 2 coming out, here is a blog entry about why this show is completely brilliant. </p><p>Let the record show that this blog entry is edited down from a SIX PAGE single spaced essay that I wrote for literally no reason other than loving to write about art that I love. And also probably because I miss school? But I’ll keep things casual for the blog. </p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Am I autistic? Yes.)</span></p><p>First of all, I fucking love that David Jenkins took all of the tropes of a romantic comedy and populated it with actual historical pirates (a convention carried into season 2!). But the actual brilliance of this show goes so much deeper. So as a big ole nerd with one degree in theatre and another in writing, I’m gonna break down why this show is so smart and lovely. </p><p>If you haven’t watched season 1 yet, go do that and then come back, because </p><p>***SPOILERS BELOW***</p><p>I’m gonna talk about flags and rom-com characters and feelings and lighthouses and touch and transformation. (I could continue talking about these things in season 2 but I’ll save that for another essay.)</p><p><u>FLAGS</u></p><p>There isn’t a verified historical record of the flag that the real Blackbeard flew, but the most commonly cited one is this one: a skeleton holding a spear that’s pointed at a red heart. In the show, when we first “meet” Blackbeard, his flag is just the skeleton. At the end of season one, after Blackbeard’s perceived abandonment by Stede, the flag has had a new section sewn on—the part with the red heart. (The DIY nature of sewing this addition echoes the first episode, when Stede has his crew sew flags for The Revenge.)</p><p><u>ROM COM CHARACTER 1: STEDE </u></p><p>Classic romance trope: The Sunshine to Ed’s Grump. </p><p>Stede is blindingly, adorably optimistic. He prefers gentler things, and we know that he always has, from the time of his childhood. (He is, after all, the man who got rid of gunpowder to make room for marmalade.) I think there’s also some interesting gender play at work here. Stede embraces who he is without pretense. He’s a bit of a clotheshorse, he loves books and flowers, and he’s horrified by violence most of the time. These are things that society often codes as feminine. But Stede is just Stede. </p><p>But even though Stede comes from a world of finery—wealth, fine fabrics, books—he longs for something more adventurous. It’s notable that the story Stede reads aloud to the crew is one of transformation. Pinocchio is a story of a wooden doll turning into a real boy. It’s the same transformation that Stede longs for. He’s been a bit of a puppet throughout his life so far…inheriting his wealth, an arranged marriage. Selling land and becoming a pirate is one of the first times that Stede is a “real boy.” </p><p>And he DOES have moments of strength, action, and courage. Taking the hostages back from Izzy and the crew. Banishing the ghost of Captain Badminton. Bringing down the boatful of high society folks with his “passive aggression.” </p><p><br /></p><p><u>ROM COM CHARACTER 2: ED/BLACKBEARD</u></p><p>Blackbeard, by contrast, seems to be MOSTLY a man of strength, action. (He’s also the romcom “grump” in this couple.) When we first meet him, he drips with what society has coded as masculine. He’s wearing leather. He’s got a gun and a knife on him at all times. He’s all fire and action and swinging from ropes. And he’s got that BEARD.</p><p>But there’s also a softer man beneath all of that. An “Edward” who longed for fine things as a boy, even though he was told that he doesn’t deserve them. His mother told him that they simply weren’t “those kind of people.” Even his childhood act of violence—killing his father—was born out of a desire to protect those he cared about. After that moment, Ed sees himself as the Kracken, as the monster Blackbeard. His reputation is that of an other-worldly, inhuman villain. And although he truly believes that he doesn’t deserve the finer things, Blackbeard longs for them anyway.</p><p>And I think he recognizes the absurdity of the character he’s created. When Stede shows him an illustration of Blackbeard, Ed calls him a “fucking Viking vampire clown.” </p><p><br /></p><p><u>ROM COM CHARACTER 3: IZZY HANDS</u></p><p>Whether Izzy Hands’ love for Blackbeard is romantic or sexual or strictly platonic, he takes on the role of a scorned lover/jealous ex. I think Izzy is in love with Blackbeard…but NOT with Edward Teach. His jealousy is not just about Stede taking a new place of prominence in Blackbeard’s life, it’s about the way that Stede is destroying the man that Izzy loves, the imaginary character of Blackbeard. He tells Spanish Jackie and the British that Stede has “done something to my boss’s brain.” </p><p>Izzy is the only other person who calls Blackbeard “Ed” or “Edward.” When Stede uses that name, Izzy violently corrects him. Even Calico Jack’s nickname for Blackbeard isn’t “Ed”—he calls him “Blackie.” Izzy thinks of himself as the most important person in Blackbeard’s life, which gives him permission to use this intimate name. But the irony is that Izzy’s loyalty falls apart when Blackbeard is being Ed. Izzy only loves the idea of Blackbeard, not the man beneath the costume whose name Izzy uses.</p><p>I also have a theory that Izzy was once a “Stede” himself in some ways. A man who worked desperately to kill any softness within himself, even though it still surfaces now and then. When Lucius asks him if he’s ever been sketched, there’s a split second when Izzy looks like he wants to connect, to be desired, to be a part of something. But he kills that impulse immediately and tells Lucius to fuck off. </p><p>Still, his ineffectiveness as a man of action parallels Stede’s. The crew is generally unafraid of him, and they mutiny almost immediately when he becomes their captain. Izzy is performing all of the trappings of violent masculinity, but it’s so obviously a performance that everyone else sees it as harmless. </p><p><br /></p><p><u>CALICO JACK</u></p><p>Calico Jack is another ex, and he almost fills the role of “the one who got away.” If not quite that, he definitely serves as a reminder that Blackbeard has a past that Stede has no part in, and a path forward that Ed could take. Stede has been falling in love with Ed, but the character of Blackbeard looms large when Calico Jack shows up. Everything is a performance of masculinity with Jack. Stede can’t compete with it, but he also doesn’t seem to want to. Calico Jack and Stede LITERALLY have a pissing contest, which is fairly one-sided, and later Stede spends hours comparing himself to Jack while watching him and Ed on the beach through a telescope. </p><p><br /></p><p><u>FEELINGS</u></p><p>I don’t think Edward realizes the depth of his feelings for Stede until the night of the fancy party on the ship. I think before that, he’s intrigued. He loves that Stede is doing something “original.” Stede is the break in Blackbeard’s monotony. I think Blackbeard sees Stede as his escape…literally. He makes a plan with Izzy to kill Stede and take his place as an aristocrat. (This plan is the exact one that Stede carries out with Mary later—a corpse showing up, horribly disfigured, but still identifiable.)</p><p>After Stede avenges Ed by passively aggressively destroying everyone on the fancy party ship, we get the lovely “you wear fine things well” scene. It’s in the MOONLIGHT, for godsake. Ed has decided that the rich are truly not his kind of people. But he still clings to the bit of red fabric from his mother from all those years ago. Without even knowing its significance, Stede tells Ed that he deserves it. That he’s very sophisticated. That he wears it well. </p><p>The fabric is red, and that Stede puts it in Ed’s breast pocket…almost like Ed’s very heart is “this tatty old thing,” and Stede puts it back into his chest for him. </p><p>(And it’s at the beginning of the next episode that we get a brief “falling in love” montage.)</p><p>As far as Stede goes, he doesn’t have a clear understanding of what love is for most of his time with Ed. He knows that he cares about him, but it’s not until Mary describes the feelings of being in love that Stede understands what he feels.</p><p><br /></p><p><u>LIGHTHOUSES</u></p><p>There’s the scene when Stede says that he should have been a lighthouse to his family, a guiding light. Ed points out that people are supposed to avoid lighthouses, so that they don’t crack up on the rocks. But the reality is that lighthouses are both guiding lights and warnings. It’s a lighthouse that saves the whole crew from the Spanish in episode four. </p><p>I think Ed has created the character of Blackbeard to serve as a sort of shadow version of a lighthouse…the fire in his beard serving as a light, warning to stay away. Because he’s a monster—the Kracken who killed his father, who doesn’t deserve fine things because he and his family are “just not those kind of people.” </p><p>The tragedy is that when Ed goes towards the light of Stede, he breaks up on the rocks. </p><p><br /></p><p><u>TOUCH</u></p><p>In episode five, when Ed and Stede attend the fancy party, there’s a moment at the dinner table when Antoinette reaches over to pick something out of Blackbeard’s beard. He startles so much that it’s violent. In episode seven, Stede and Blackbeard have a similar moment, but this time it’s relaxed and Ed is open and calm. When Calico Jack shows up, the use of touch returns to violence, even just casually. Blackbeard and Calico Jack initiate things like “whippies” and “yardies” and “coconut wars.” At one point, Blackbeard laughingly tells Jack to whip his balls, all as part of the maniacal, unhinged “fun.” All of the touch between Jack and Blackbeard is a heightened performance of masculinity. By contrast, Stede stands on the beach with a parasol while everyone else drinks plays with knives, not participating in the violence. </p><p><br /></p><p><u>TRANSFORMATION</u></p><p>This theme is at the absolute heart of this show for me. </p><p>Blackbeard’s gender expression softens the more time he spends with Stede, eventually leading to him shaving off his beard, completing his transformation from Blackbeard to Ed. Right before he shaves is the only time we ever hear him refer to himself by his full name. “Edward Teach, born on a beach.” The next time we see him, he really is just Edward Teach. No longer Blackbeard. He’s ditched his Mad Max leather and his black beard, and is in soft, flowing fabrics. A billowy shirt for the kiss on the beach (where he says he just wants to “be Ed”). He wears Stede’s old floral robe during his time on the Revenge afterwards (the same one Stede wore while jealously watching Blackbeard and Jack on the beach). </p><p>Which makes his re-transformation at the end of the season all the more heartbreaking. He tries to “hold on by a thread” to this softer version of masculinity, sometimes by literally holding on to the threads of Stede’s old clothes. But in the end, the harsh Blackbeard version of masculinity takes over again. </p><p>He lets go of the fine fabric that Stede told him he wears well. He lost the finest thing he’s ever had—Stede—so he must not deserve the fine things after all. He lets go of his own heart. And in the next moment, he pushes Lucius overboard…the first time he’s actually killed a man since killing his father. Then he cuts off Izzy’s toe and force feeds it to him. </p><p>The transformation ends with Ed drawing the beard back on, with the addition of dark makeup around his eyes. (This look felt to me like a masculine echo of the “mascara streaming down her face” image, and we see this parallel even more strongly in the shot of Ed sobbing in Stede’s now empty quarters.) Masculinity is a costume he must put on. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>And y’all there’s so much more. Ed and Stede’s musical theme—the little melody that plays in their moments of connection. The fact that so much of the fancy dress party scene is shot from lower angles, as if Ed has to look up towards them. The fact that the first time we see Mary, her dress style is from the 1850s even though it’s the 1700s, because she’s a woman ahead of her time. And the way that it normalizes queerness and anti-racism and women in positions of power. </p><p>DO YOU SEE WHY WE ALL LOVE THIS SHOW? </p><p>The way the fandom has embraced and celebrated and fan-fictioned and cosplayed and taken this show on as their own is just so beautiful. So consider this blog a part of all of that. </p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">(And then someone tell me how to get into a writer’s room for a show like this.) </span></p><div><br /></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-74329189888758083062023-09-15T13:16:00.000-07:002023-09-15T13:16:08.811-07:00Skydiving on my birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7G2Rl93LZPqUfNyaXYaEjz64_U4DdrN0u2M-i1nk8qdOGpMpy8yxjKu87K-WL8jKq_CBt_y8KNSFxr8bKZds4GR5EbcMjnoLAz4EHim_1G9csenVVp-1vcJFuAMlTC6_4Wb6c4st-KH_X7C2Mhq-jEKpSCT_3HEclT9BO-4r86-5mtyh9o6_QV2k6G8Dv/s1440/Untitled%20design%20(2).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7G2Rl93LZPqUfNyaXYaEjz64_U4DdrN0u2M-i1nk8qdOGpMpy8yxjKu87K-WL8jKq_CBt_y8KNSFxr8bKZds4GR5EbcMjnoLAz4EHim_1G9csenVVp-1vcJFuAMlTC6_4Wb6c4st-KH_X7C2Mhq-jEKpSCT_3HEclT9BO-4r86-5mtyh9o6_QV2k6G8Dv/w408-h306/Untitled%20design%20(2).png" width="408" /></a></div><br /><p>Imagine for a moment that you hate the idea of skydiving. That you can’t think of anything you want to do LESS. Imagine that the thought of jumping out of an airplane fills you with so much anxiety that you’re paralyzed. Almost literally—your entire nervous system is just in a freeze response. You might not even be able to talk. But you’re in the airplane anyway, and the door is open. </p><p>Now imagine that a bunch of people you love are on the ground. Somehow you can hear their voices calling up to you from the ground. (Ignore the laws of physics for the sake of the metaphor.) They’re saying they love you and they appreciate you, and it means a lot to hear it. </p><p>But what you really actually want is for them to be in the airplane with you. Or for you to be on the ground with them. You want to sit around and talk and maybe have a campfire and sing songs or share poetry. You want connection. But in this scenario, the only way to get that connection is to jump out of the airplane. </p><p>That’s how I feel every year on my birthday. </p><p>I turned 38 last week. For the first time, I felt a tinge of existential dread about getting older. In general, I think aging is beautiful and embracing each phase of life is beautiful. But I did have a vague sense of not being where I thought I would be at this age. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with where I am, it’s just so different from visions I had when I was younger, and I think I’m still grieving that a little bit. </p><p>But the stronger feeling I had, and have had every year for the past several years, is one of just…loneliness. </p><p>I don’t know how to write about this without feeling profoundly sorry for myself, and worrying about sounding profoundly pitiful. I’m sharing it all anyway because one, writing about things helps me untangle them, and two, maybe someone can relate, or has words of advice or affirmation, or…something. </p><p>I’ve had fairly significant social anxiety throughout my entire life. I have had phases where I’ve jumped fearlessly into social situations. And doing so demanded a lot of me, but it was doable. I now understand that what it demanded was masking, because I’m autistic, and it was doable because I had a lot more resources. And nowadays, I have far fewer spoons* with which to mask. There are a lot of things causing that lack of spoons—it’s age, it’s trauma, it’s capitalism, it’s living physically far away from so many of the people I’m closest to. </p><p>For much of my life, I’ve been a part of social structures that automatically gave me connection on my birthday. I lived with or close to family, or I had a spouse, or I was part of a close-knit and active social group because I was in college and that’s what my college experience was like. </p><p>But nowadays, my family is spread far and wide, and I don’t have a spouse, and while I have friends, many of them live far away now, and I don’t have one “friend group.” And we’re mostly “real grownups” now, with jobs and kids and not as much free time in our social calendars. </p><p>So it means that every year on my birthday, when all I want is time with loved ones, it feels…out of reach. And because of my social anxiety and my autism and my abandonment trauma, reaching out and asking for connection feels to me like jumping out of an airplane. </p><p>For my allistic (non-autistic) friends, or those who don’t experience anxiety or “rejection dysphoria,” this may sound absurd. It may sound like I’m describing something very simple as extremely difficult. But that’s just where my nervous system and psyche is right now. I’m working on it in therapy, and we’re making progress, but I may never be “over” my social anxiety just because of the way my brain is permanently wired. </p><p>Here’s another metaphor. If your arm is working fine, lifting a gallon of milk is no problem. You do it without even thinking about it. But if your arm is broken, lifting a gallon of milk takes a lot more care. You may even need help to do it or you’ll make your injury worse. </p><p>Because of my autism, my arm is never going to be at 100% when it comes to lifting gallons of milk. And my arm isn’t fully BROKEN, but there are some old wounds that haven’t quite healed. So lifting a gallon of milk by myself (e.g. putting together a birthday party for myself with friends) feels challenging at best and dangerous at worst. </p><p>So for the past few years, while I’ve been stuck in the airplane with the door open, hearing loved ones far below, I’ve done the best I could to make the airplane as enjoyable as possible. I get a massage, and/or a new tattoo, and/or go to a play or do an improv show. I read the texts and social media messages and feel grateful for them. I take myself out to eat. </p><p>But this year, it feels worth acknowledging that it’s not quite what I ACTUALLY WANT. The best birthday I’ve had in recent years was one where I had brunch with a significant other, got a massage, went to a play, and then sat and talked with old close friends in a car for hours and hours. That perfect birthday included the things I can do myself and usually do (massage, a play), but it also includes things that nowadays would demand jumping out of an airplane, or lifting a gallon of milk with my weak-ass arms. </p><p>I don’t know why my birthday is when this comes up for me. Maybe I have a strong sense of “should” because of all of the cultural things associated with birthdays. I spent a lot of this last birthday “shoulding” all over myself. I should be married with children by now. I should be more established in my career. I should host a birthday party. I should have a significant other. I should have an established friend group. I should ask for what I want. I should be strong enough to lift this gallon of milk. I should be brave enough to jump out of this plane. </p><p>I heard recently that when you are using the word “should” with yourself, you can try replacing it with “want” or “need” to see if it’s still true. If you’re saying “It’s a nice day, I should sit outside” you can try saying “I need to sit outside” or “I want to sit outside.” And if you don’t actually want or need to sit outside, then don’t do it. I think the majority of the tension I feel around my “shoulds” are because some of them are things I actually WANT, but the things I NEED to do in order to get what I want have some significant barriers for me right now. </p><p>I’m not sure how to conclude this. I want to clarify again that with therapy, I’m learning how to lift gallons of milk and jump out of airplanes. And part of me is worried that this blog will make me sound like I’m not grateful for the expressions of love I do receive. Maybe I’m just asking for a little compassion? For each other. For ourselves. Maybe this is just a reminder that yes, be kind, everyone is fighting some battle or other. Or maybe I just needed to untangle this, and have it be witnessed. </p><p>Anyway. </p><p>Here’s to learning to sky dive, and being gentle with yourself when you’re not able to jump yet. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>* Spoons refers to the “spoonie” metaphor, where those with chronic illnesses or nervous system diagnoses or neurodivergence have a limited number of spoons per day, and each task takes a certain number of spoons. </p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-29917931653265014012023-03-22T15:22:00.000-07:002023-03-22T15:22:04.574-07:00"When I go to sleep, I can't count sheep for the white lines in my head" --Bruce Springsteen<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let’s imagine, for a moment, that I prioritize travel. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-f90682f7-7fff-f260-8c04-323c4df3dcef"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m actively silencing the voices that say “it’s too expensive” or “that’s not for you.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why the hell not? Why not take the extra $1,000 that sometimes comes in from a well-paid gig and go explore some part of the world? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Granted, right now I’m prioritizing raising funds for my <a href="https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-liz-get-certified-in-intimacy-direction" target="_blank">intimacy direction certification program</a>, and I will always have bills to pay. But I’m daring myself to ask “What would it look like if I prioritized exploring the world?” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m also actively silencing any voices that come from outside of myself, about the dangers of traveling alone. I’m not really worried. Our world looks less like that dumb dumb movie “Taken” than people think, and I’m confident in my ability to navigate potentially dangerous situations safely. (Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am. *shrug*) </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also have no qualms about navigating a new city or transportation system by myself, figuring out where to eat, or getting lonely. I’m an introvert and homebody at heart, and most of the things I’d want to do in a foreign place are things that can be done alone–read, wander, eat, write. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(That said, if anyone I love wants to join me, let’s make plans! We’ll go out dancing!) </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve had wanderlust for a few weeks now. Maybe even months. But I picked up a copy of National Geographic labeled “100 Unforgettable Destinations” and now I’m revisiting my globe-trotter Pinterest board and making lists. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Amsterdam. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ll bring my tattered copy of “Anne Frank” and my own journal when I visit the place that feels so familiar to me already, see the location of a story that has informed so much of my life. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Paris. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An airbnb will probably be cheaper by the month. I’ll find some little place and walk to marketplaces every few days to buy food, sit at cafes and write, visit museums. I’ll eat at an outdoor table with a book in my hands. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tahiti. Or Bora Bora? Someplace tropical. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because for some reason, I just assume that tropical locations are not for plebes like me? But I don’t need an all-inclusive White Lotus resort experience. Just sun and sand and sea. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Machu Picchu. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Apparently it’s a whole-ass PROCESS to get there. But I bet it would be worth it. I’ll stop by the salt flats in Bolivia while I’m nearby. Swing up to the pyramid of Chichen Itza. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Egypt. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The pyramids at Giza. Hapshetsut’s palace. Amarna. Karnak. They’ve held me in thrall for as long as I can remember. It seems absurd that I wouldn’t visit them in person at least once. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">England. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Plays at the West End, and a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon. A pilgrimage for the hopeless theatre kid I am. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But while I make all these plans, it’s been deeply fulfilling to think back to all of the magical traveling I </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">have</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> gotten to do. Through the generosity of family and friends and happy sets of circumstances, I’ve been able to explore more corners of the earth than some people get to do in their lifetimes. (And I've gotten to do it all with some incredible people!) </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjclZNGBabkVM8G70jXMukUTyAMm88xSnTMPP9e75Uohf1H9sXkA68dbXAmUr7_2XMaDnZVfrXWOGd2-Kek-3Ek4h_-Q5Mr3ALbrtEuN1m8bAw0xYY0dIpUNggtKSLwPrVfviEpfiubT6nQEdtA_qA_66kjV0v720RWeOKJN1lZnppNXlVJMHRvBZlVIA/s1739/IMG_1414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1164" data-original-width="1739" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjclZNGBabkVM8G70jXMukUTyAMm88xSnTMPP9e75Uohf1H9sXkA68dbXAmUr7_2XMaDnZVfrXWOGd2-Kek-3Ek4h_-Q5Mr3ALbrtEuN1m8bAw0xYY0dIpUNggtKSLwPrVfviEpfiubT6nQEdtA_qA_66kjV0v720RWeOKJN1lZnppNXlVJMHRvBZlVIA/s320/IMG_1414.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I’ve eaten Black Forest gateau in the actual Black Forest of Germany, and explored the fairytale castle of </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Neuschwanstein, wandered the cobbled streets of towns centuries old</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve strolled the National Mall and wandered past Ford’s theatre, walked through the museum of the home where Lincoln died. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I’ve snorkeled in Hawai’i and Mexico. </span> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve climbed ancient ruins in Belize and walked beaches in El Salvador. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve explored the ruins of ancient Greece, where I ran a footrace in Olympia, had a philosophical discussion in Athens, wandered the alleys of Pompeii, spoke the words of Sophocles’ “Oedipus Rex” at the ancient theatre Dionysus. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkSs5jYzSk7cd7E4-gieMLTayGUQ7CJqjJIuuHOeKVsXvn7ASSmho_w7dnByxsjIJqSxI7oIUEMWvhUeNyhAanK9v76ObMI_uSK7oL9sJ2z13HRZkAYneZxLZMuP9RIKww5jP36jCtBxN_TG-2MtfqmDIUuxjqk7qvc-Us1ifNwFvo2Uk-H0JJnncsA/s2294/DSC02700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2294" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkSs5jYzSk7cd7E4-gieMLTayGUQ7CJqjJIuuHOeKVsXvn7ASSmho_w7dnByxsjIJqSxI7oIUEMWvhUeNyhAanK9v76ObMI_uSK7oL9sJ2z13HRZkAYneZxLZMuP9RIKww5jP36jCtBxN_TG-2MtfqmDIUuxjqk7qvc-Us1ifNwFvo2Uk-H0JJnncsA/s320/DSC02700.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve wandered past Italian families playing soccer on Sunday afternoons to get to the Coliseum in Rome, and I’ve taken a train through Tuscany to stand before Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” in Florence. I’ve eaten pizza in Naples. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyLTIFASD4QwjfYAl05CHeItStSR0KJj3yZM_1tDXzaKfccj4O0yraKDbFwx5guEJgvZ9t0eiw87zmrTh_jqwf7EKCmAsqd2-tCG53GORx6wfUj9A4nxQywaCGHjZK6EFExt75ilrN9eR329vbPsyN5YY0nu4oED64eMM-ixJJrBzuqRaHqzuPqiYpxA" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyLTIFASD4QwjfYAl05CHeItStSR0KJj3yZM_1tDXzaKfccj4O0yraKDbFwx5guEJgvZ9t0eiw87zmrTh_jqwf7EKCmAsqd2-tCG53GORx6wfUj9A4nxQywaCGHjZK6EFExt75ilrN9eR329vbPsyN5YY0nu4oED64eMM-ixJJrBzuqRaHqzuPqiYpxA=w243-h324" width="243" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve walked through the maze of the Grand Bazaar and slipped my shoes off to enter the Hagia Sophia in Instanbul. </span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve wandered the French Quarter of New Orleans, jazz music pouring out from every open door, a new pack of tarot cards in my purse. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve looked up at the Redwoods and looked down into Crater Lake. I’ve hiked slot canyons and hoodoos in southern Utah, and looked up at the stars from the waters of Leigh Lake in Grand Teton National Park. I’ve spent entire summers in Yellowstone. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve taken a ferry across the San Francisco Bay and taken an elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I list it out like this, I feel astonishingly lucky. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, listening to some weird voice that says traveling isn’t for me. It clearly already is for me. I just have to ask myself what it looks like when I make it a priority, instead of something I do when others invite me. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I guess we’ll find out. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-84866197987004695112022-07-23T16:26:00.016-07:002023-09-15T13:02:26.979-07:00#ActuallyAutistic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qwUFwgBwNmiKkPkH8EwAWXnuApHA4EKB0EDb3i5iBMtoKVEDNxhuylZBJlCQhKDuQrVW-140XL3j0ky3z0KiP37rSA5LIHIs7Aw8uFWfkEnXJM-uGZXg1n2-sam3OT5wHRRdIHAit_EpObLbgk_dFACOlOqQrikqriKLz1ZE14MOzrLBKXx-pTxSbw/s1146/raads-r%20results.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="768" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qwUFwgBwNmiKkPkH8EwAWXnuApHA4EKB0EDb3i5iBMtoKVEDNxhuylZBJlCQhKDuQrVW-140XL3j0ky3z0KiP37rSA5LIHIs7Aw8uFWfkEnXJM-uGZXg1n2-sam3OT5wHRRdIHAit_EpObLbgk_dFACOlOqQrikqriKLz1ZE14MOzrLBKXx-pTxSbw/w249-h372/raads-r%20results.png" width="249" /></a></div><br /><div>Here’s what happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>Multiple people around me got diagnosed with ADHD, including one of my roommates. Watching their journeys, I saw a few things that I recognized. </div><div><br /></div><div>Object permanence problems. (If I can’t see a food item in the fridge, it does not exist. I have thrown away so many packages of cheese. And if I need to remember to bring something with me somewhere, I have to either leave myself a note or leave the item right by the door.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Bumping into things. All the time. My spatial awareness of my own body is shite. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hyperfixations. Having projects or TV shows or movies or hobbies that take up all of my mental time and energy for a significant period of time. Some could be considered specialized interests, since I’ve been obsessed with them for most of my life and have a considerable amount of knowledge about them. (Hey, ancient Egypt.) </div><div><br /></div><div>But as I learned more about ADHD, I kept bumping up against one particular idea: that people with ADHD often struggle with executive function. </div><div> </div><div>And I generally…don’t? When I’m in a bad depression dip, I struggle to function, but it’s not quite an executive function issue. It’s not that I have some block surrounding organization or task completion or even being overwhelmed. My block is surrounding energy. In fact, when people talk about how difficult it is to complete a task, I have a hard time understanding what they mean. You just…do it? </div><div><br /></div><div>So I was like, “Hey, internet, what has some of the symptoms of ADHD but you’re hella good at organizing things, breaking down a large task into smaller parts, and completing to do list items, and also were a weird kid who struggled with social cues?” </div><div> </div><div>Oh. </div><div> </div><div>Autism. The answer is autism, kids. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I had a crisis, because I couldn’t have autism. I hated math growing up, and I’m a deeply empathetic person who’s sensitive to the feelings of those around me, and I actually have lots of friends now, and I understand humor and metaphors. So there’s no way I could be autistic. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then I took the <a href="https://embrace-autism.com/raads-r/" target="_blank">RAADS-r test</a> and scored an 83. The minimum score for autism is 65. So I took <a href="https://autismcanada.org/autism-explained/screening-tools/adult-2/" target="_blank">another test from The Autism Research Centre in Canada</a>, and scored a 30, which is at the low end of high risk. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then, based on the RAADS-r questions, I started really looking at myself, and who I was as a kid, and who I am now. A fearless moral inventory, if you will. </div><div><br /></div><div>And the truth is that I really was a pretty weird kid. I never quite fit in…I always felt different from other people, and most of the time, that was fine with me. But here is a short list of the ways I was weird, which are all also autistic traits: </div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>I was very very anxious about food. I was a very picky eater, refused to try new foods, and had an enormous irrational meltdown if someone tried to get me to eat something I didn’t like or hadn’t tried before. </li><li>I often wore the exact same thing every day for days and days (and weeks?) on end. For like, a long time. For at least the first half of my freshman year of high school, I wore the same jeans, off-white textured top, and blue cardigan. Every day. </li><li>I played imagination games (dress up, Barbies, dolls/stuffed animals, etc) for longer than average. (I think.) Until I was 14 or so. </li><li>I refused to put my head underwater at the pool. I remember a swim teacher specifically giving me this note at the end of several weeks. She might have even bribed me with candy? I also remember having similar anxieties about having my hair washed. </li><li>Hygiene in general was difficult, because of what I now understand to be sensory issues. I often refused to brush my hair, and would get these awful, matted rat’s nests in my hair as a result. I struggled with brushing my teeth, especially spitting the toothpaste out. </li><li>In general, I struggled a lot socially. Some of that also probably had to do with the hygiene and outfit things I just listed, but even aside from that, I often just couldn’t connect to my peers. I had a hard time accessing what was “cool” or “popular.” It all seemed so arbitrary to me, and I couldn’t keep track of it, and couldn’t figure out what was important or why. I was teased and picked on, sometimes by people whom I had thought were my friends. I often had a sense of having missed something in social interactions…I could feel the temperature change in a conversation, but I wouldn’t know why or what had happened. I disappeared into books for much of my childhood, and preferred to spend recess in elementary school making daisy chains by myself to playing with my peers. Freshman year of high school, I often sat in the hallway above the auditorium and read books during lunch. Granted, I wasn’t a complete loner. I did have friends and meaningful connections, but for a long time, they were all just as weird (and probably as neurodivergent) as I was. </li></ul></div><div> </div><div>And you guys. Most of these things were going on well into my teenage years. It took me finally getting into theatre my SOPHOMORE YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL to feel like I could finally start to fit in with my fellow humans. </div><div> </div><div>(I have a theory about why—I think it’s because theatre kids are VERY EXPRESSIVE and direct, and I could easily navigate conversations that were with people who were weirdos but also clearly expressing emotions in very dramatic ways. Like, weirdness was embraced among theatre kids. And everyone was so dramatic, which meant social interactions were less subtle. And scripts gave me parameters to interact within. I could make strong individual choices, but there was always a “right thing” I could say when following a script onstage. It was enough to give me confidence to develop those skills more as a person offstage.) </div><div> </div><div>But you grew out of all of it, right, Liz? </div><div> </div><div>Here is a short list of the ways I continue to be weird, most of them starting in childhood but continuing on today, all of which are really common traits among those with autism: </div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>I’m still a picky eater, tbh. Spicy foods make me feel like I’m dying, and new foods give me anxiety, and if a food has a texture I dislike, it makes me gag. </li><li>My most prevalent stim is twirling my hair, followed closely by picking at my nails and swaying while standing. I often use fidget toys during movies or plays to keep myself from stimming hard in other ways that are more damaging (like making my cuticles bloody with picking at them). </li><li>Little spoons only. I am picky about silverware and dishes in general. They must be the right shape, weight, material, etc. </li><li>Form follows function when it comes to clothing. If it’s not comfortable, I cannot stand to wear it. I often cut tags out of my shirts, and have occasionally cut collars on t-shirts to be lower so that they weren’t as close to my neck. I’ve been known to trim scratchy inner hems. I dislike wearing pants (as any of my previous roommates can attest), and I dislike wearing shoes (as anyone who knows me can attest). </li><li>Eye contact actually doesn’t come easily to me. It’s much easier onstage, but in real life, I have to remind myself to consciously do it during other interactions. I also have to consciously remind myself of the rules of casual conversations, especially if it’s with someone I don’t know super well. (If they ask you how your day was, ask them the same thing back. Conversation is reciprocal. And also, not everyone is interested in the random trivial fact you learned on a podcast today.) </li><li>In fact, I uh…I rehearse social interactions ahead of time. For a long time, one of my deepest secrets was that I’ve rehearsed jokes or stories or conversation bits before telling them for like, most of my life. I’m only comfortable sharing this now because I’ve learned that lots of other people do it. </li><li>I have a list in my phone of conversation starters and reminders to help me navigate social situations where I don’t know people as well. Topics to bring up, questions to ask, etc. </li><li>I’m easily overwhelmed in loud, crowded areas. When I’m sitting in a theatre before a show (as an audience member), I usually have to put in headphones and play white noise to keep me from like, freaking out. I’ve also used headphones and white noise in grocery stores, on public transportation, and in airports. </li><li>Repeated soft touch on one part of my skin sometimes feels actually and literally painful. One or two brushes of someone’s fingers over one part of my arm = lovely. Repeated touch of the same kind in the same place = torture. </li><li>Spontaneous social interactions are hard for me. 99% of the time, I need a day to sort of emotionally prepare. It’s not that I don’t love people, it’s just that 1, the disruption in my plan for the day is difficult, and 2, social interactions take a lot of work for me and it’s hard to jump in really quickly. </li><li>Walking on my tiptoes. I don’t do this one quite as much nowadays, but I often walk on just the balls of my feet. </li><li>Always using movie/YouTube/TV/TikTok/etc quotes in conversations. (Or, more often, thinking them and not saying them, because if people don’t know the reference, it often gets in the way of actually connecting with other people, which is the goal of conversation. And also because I don’t know how to explain that the thing I just said is a reference to the blooper reel from an early 2000s British sitcom that I’ve watched dozens of times with my sister.) </li></ul></div><div> </div><div>There are also a few things that could be classified as just kind of quirky personality traits, but I see them in a new autistic light nowadays. My deep love for forms, spreadsheets, taxes, and organizational documents of any kind. The meticulous tidiness of my room and/or desk. The game I play in my head when I’m buying something less than $20, when I try to think of a historical event that took place in the year of the total. ($14.92 = Columbus sailed the ocean blue.) </div><div> </div><div>I also have a few common morbidities with autism. I have an auditory processing disorder and misophonia. And hooo, boy, do I have a history of anxiety and depression. </div><div> </div><div>And each of these things on their own are kind of just quirky personality things, but put altogether, it looks a hell of a lot like autism. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Okay, quick note: Most of what I've described would have been classified in the past as Asperger's Syndrome, which is now recognized as just part of the autism spectrum. The autism spectrum doesn't mean every person is somewhere on a scale from "not austic at all" to "totally autistic." The autism spectrum means that either you're autistic or you're not, but if you are, there are a spectrum of experiences and supports needed. I have low to medium support needs, where someone else may have more support needs.)</div><div> </div><div>I’m a little uncomfortable calling myself autistic without an “official diagnosis.” But it’s not like I took one BuzzFeed quiz and decided I was autistic. I’ve spent months reading articles, visiting websites, using diagnostic tools like the RAADS-r test, listening to other adult women with autism, and speaking about it with other autistic folks. </div><div> </div><div>I’m currently in the process of seeking a formal diagnosis, which is…difficult. One of the clinics I called is booked until the year 2024. And women who can mask their symptoms and have lower support needs are often dismissed or overlooked, so I want to find someone who specializes in autism in adult women, which is not easy. I also understand that if I am not diagnosed as autistic, that could also be accurate. It just…it really seems like an accurate diagnosis to me. </div><div> </div><div>When I told my roommate some of these things that I did and still do, she looked at me incredulously and asked “How did you not know?!” And I replied that I didn’t know because I’ve never been in anyone else’s head! I’ve only been in mine! And also I was born in 1985 and getting an autism diagnosis as a girl in the 1990s was unheard of! </div><div> </div><div>So now, at age 36, I’m navigating the very high possibility that I’m a little bit autistic. My therapist pointed out that I managed to white-knuckle my way through a lot of distress in order to have connection with my fellow human beings, and that I was able to find some helpful coping mechanisms just on my own. That’s worth celebrating. </div><div> </div><div>Does this change anything about my life now? Not really. </div><div> </div><div>Just kidding, I’ve been going through ongoing loops of identity crises, research and self-education, and re-evaluating every single aspect of my life. This also means that all of the social confidence I’ve developed over the last 20 years has frayed at the edges a bit. By my senior year of high school, I’d become confident enough that I could enter into social interactions with very little anxiety. A lot of that anxiety came back after getting divorced in 2017, but nowadays it’s like…middle school level social anxiety, 60% of the time. I’m hyper aware of how I act in every interaction I have with other human beings, while it’s happening, which means that the interaction itself sometimes gets weird because I’m aware of how I act and it’s just a strange, endless loop. </div><div> </div><div>Shout out to anyone who has become friends with me over the past six months or so. </div><div> </div><div>“But Liz, you don’t seem autistic at all!” Maybe not on the outside, I don’t. And maybe not to you. That’s probably because I’ve spent the last 20 years learning and practicing normalcy really really hard. (Also, I thought the same thing but then I learned more about autism.) </div><div> </div><div>But here are a few of the good things that have come from this journey. </div><div> </div><div>I have enormous compassion for little Liz. That weird girl with un-brushed hair who was reading by herself throughout school was doing the best she could with what she had, and no one had the tools or knowledge to help her navigate a world that presented challenges for her. I see her isolation and confusion and pain in a different light, and now I can reach back through time and offer so much love and patience to that young girl. </div><div> </div><div>And some of that sense of isolation has been lifted as well. When I first began my journey with a possible autism diagnosis, I felt this strange sense that the diagnosis would erase my experiences growing up. Like if I was autistic, I was just like a bunch of other people, instead of an unusual, otherworldly creature who single-handedly figured out how to connect to others on her own terms and was more highly evolved than her peers in middle school. I had come to embrace my strangeness as something beautiful that I then grew out of. But nowadays, I see things differently. I can still be an unusual, otherworldly creature…it’s just that now I don’t have to be alone in it. I get to keep the strangeness, but let go of the isolation. (I also now understand that I’m no better or worse than my peers…we just had different tools and experiences.) </div><div> </div><div>And I’ve seen this as an opportunity to embrace my strangeness and my needs. I follow <a href="https://www.tiktok.com/@bugandalex/video/7103228079996161286?is_from_webapp=1&sender_device=pc&web_id=7075555311528232494" target="_blank">a couple on TikTok who both have autism, and they posted a video about how one day, they just decided to be themselves, in all their strangeness.</a> To not hide their wild, unusual quirks, and to live bravely as exactly who they are. Hearing this didn’t change a lot about my behavior, but it lifted a lot of the shame and embarrassment I had about my behavior. Okay, so I need some time to prep for social interactions! That’s a legitimate need and not a character flaw. So I’m a picky eater. So certain kinds of touch are painful to me. So I need headphones to help me not meltdown in large, noisy crowds. ALL OF THAT IS FINE. I’m allowed to have those needs and to speak them and to do what I can to meet them. </div><div> </div><div>And that’s actually true whether or not I get an official autism diagnosis from a licensed professional. That’s true of all of us. We’re allowed to give ourselves tools to navigate the things in the world that don’t work for us. We’re allowed to look back in time on our younger selves with compassion. We’re allowed to like what we like and dislike what we dislike and be our weirdest selves. </div><div> </div><div>Connection with our fellow human beings is still possible when we do those things. And the more we are our truest selves, the more authentic that connection will be.</div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-17558005621693128772021-11-07T13:25:00.004-08:002021-11-07T13:25:18.536-08:00Writing Elsewhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pC-2DM4ajMw/YYhEI7LIqLI/AAAAAAAABHo/SDHN3C3kiA8kpOaFTOz5M3oBLLvy0lEeACLcBGAsYHQ/s960/Plants-Succulent-A-Fleshy-Plant-Potted-Plant-3571731.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="960" height="278" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pC-2DM4ajMw/YYhEI7LIqLI/AAAAAAAABHo/SDHN3C3kiA8kpOaFTOz5M3oBLLvy0lEeACLcBGAsYHQ/w412-h278/Plants-Succulent-A-Fleshy-Plant-Potted-Plant-3571731.jpeg" width="412" /></a></div><p>Hello, my friends! </p><p>Things have been a bit quiet here on the blog lately, and I just wanted to post real quick to excuse and justify my absence. </p><p>RJ and I are continuing our <a href="https://butshesnotstupid.blogspot.com/2018/04/sisterblogchallenge.html">Sister Blog Challenge</a>, but we're on a brief hiatus while we focus on other projects. I'm doing <a href="https://nanowrimo.org/about-nano">NaNoWriMo</a> (again) this year, so for the month of November, I'll be focused on that. And during October, I spent a lot of time editing old works and submitting them for publication and applying for writer residencies and doing all kinds of other writerly things. </p><p>But if you're craving some Liz writing, never fear, because one of my essays got accepted for publication! You can read my creative non-fiction piece, "The Goddamn Miracles of Nature," on the Sad Girls Club Literary Blog by clicking <a href="https://www.sadgirlsclublit.com/post/the-goddamn-miracles-of-nature">here</a>. (While based on truth, names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike.) </p><p>Happy reading and writing, loves.</p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-87589367962456035672021-09-13T19:56:00.002-07:002021-09-13T19:56:16.165-07:00What I Learned from (Almost) Doing 50 Hours of Yoga in a Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s6e6sUnnxug/YUANTyZTd5I/AAAAAAAABFs/1Ey1eGgDh9cdZ0JTHpoPvbjSYzRWTP7sgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/50%2Bhours%2Bof%2Byoga.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s6e6sUnnxug/YUANTyZTd5I/AAAAAAAABFs/1Ey1eGgDh9cdZ0JTHpoPvbjSYzRWTP7sgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/50%2Bhours%2Bof%2Byoga.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Actually, I won’t be able to tell you what I learned doing 50 hours of yoga. Because I didn’t do 50 hours. I did do 30 hours and 36 minutes, though, and I learned plenty from that! </p><p>I set this as my birthday goal last year, but didn’t really post anything about it here like I usually do. It somehow felt more private, so I just quietly made my spreadsheet and paid for the premium version of my yoga app and set up a reminder in my phone to do yoga every other day, even if it was only for 10 minutes. I chose a goal of 50 hours because it worked out to be about an hour a week, or 20 minutes three times a week, or even 10 minutes six times a week. Not so much as to be overwhelming, but enough to make a difference. </p><p>I had visions of being so flexible and strong at the end of this journey. I was going to be able to do headstands. I was going to be able to lift my leg straight up into the air, knee by my ear, my eyes gazing out serenely. I was going to have clearly defined abs and no double chin and I was going to be Zen as f*ck. </p><p>Surprise: none of that happened. I am not really any stronger or more flexible than I was a year ago. And honestly, I don’t know if I would have been even if I <i>had</i> made it to 50 hours. But it was still worth doing. </p><p>Because it sustained me. It kept me grounded through an ongoing pandemic, through a breakup, through cancelled shows and new jobs and stressful days and lonely nights. </p><p>Most of the time, it was me and my app, my iPad propped in front of me in my room, my yoga mat unrolled in the space between my bed and desk. A few times, I joined a virtual yoga class, including one instance where I was the only student. I was always a little wary at the beginning of a formal class—did I really have an hour to give to this? And I always did. </p><p>There were times when I dreaded, absolutely DREADED, doing yoga. When the task felt so heavy that it seemed to pull the rest of my to do list down, a ball and chain to my day. Sometimes I just crossed it off the list without doing it. I just couldn’t bring myself to “show up at the mat” or whatever. But sometimes I showed up anyway, teeth gritted, until they weren’t gritted anymore. </p><p>There were times when it was a desperately needed respite. When my mind was going 10 million miles a minute, when my whole body felt twitchy with the frantic need to ACCOMPLISH ACCOMPLISH ACCOMPLISH. When it took putting everything else aside and just breathing for one goddamn minute to help me get to sleep. </p><p>There were times when I felt luxuriously glad to be doing yoga. When I moved into wide child’s pose with the kind of sigh that’s usually reserved for slipping into a hot bath. When that “Zen as f*ck” feeling settled into my spine with ease and I felt at home in my body. </p><p>And there were times when I sobbed my way through poses. It happened a lot after my breakup in November. I would be going through my day with a background note of sadness, and then I’d move into some pose and it would all come rushing out. Like all the sorrow I was carrying was waiting for some kind of release. I don’t know what I would have done with all of that ache if I didn’t have yoga. </p><p>I had weeks when I was unrolling the mat every single day. And then weeks where it lay completely untouched. It’s still that way--inconsistent. But even if the habit hasn’t taken hold exactly, I still feel the place that yoga has taken up in my life. Now, I can sense when I’m feeling a little tangled—emotionally or physically. I can feel when I need the slow untangling that yoga brings me. I’ve come to accept that I don’t need the leggings, I don’t need the classes (although I do like them!), I don’t need to do this for an hour every day, or even for an hour at a time. 25-minute increments still settle and untangle and strengthen me. </p><p>There’s often a sort of self-righteous evangelism that comes with yoga. At least that’s how I interpreted it from most of social media. A lot of promises of it changing my life. It takes a certain level of privilege to be able to make yoga practice a part of your life. I used to get the impression that most yoga classes were filled with skinny white women who can afford $70 leggings. Which is sometimes true. But I have discovered spaces where all are welcome, and found a home on my mat that I didn't know was waiting for me. </p><p>And now here’s the thing: I’m becoming a bit of a yoga evangelist myself. I hope I’m not coming across as self-righteous about it, but I've learned that yoga really is for everyone. Rich, poor, fat, skinny, cisgender, transgender, any and all races and abilities. Is your stomach getting in the way of doing child’s pose? Just modify it to wide child’s pose. Can’t afford classes or a studio membership? Find a free guided class on YouTube (there are hundreds). Don’t have an hour to give to your practice? Just do 10 minutes. Can’t touch your toes? Touch your knees. </p><p>It sounds cheesy and evangelical and unrealistic, but I've come to believe that yoga really doesn't ask anything of you except showing up. And I'm grateful for what I found as I showed up this past year. I don't think I'll stop. </p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-10049667937541651012021-08-19T11:35:00.002-07:002021-08-19T11:35:15.632-07:00Breaking point<p> I'M NOT BLOGGING THIS WEEK I AM TOO BUSY. </p><p><br /></p><p>I'll be back with more writing later, on the regular schedule, when I'm not Door Dashing, Etsy-ing (x2), doing other side hustles, memorizing 2 different scripts, doing improv shows, house managing and rehearsing in Provo, and attempting to make food at home so that I don't spend a billion dollars on eating out. </p><p><br /></p><p>Love you all. </p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-52420268492139050102021-08-02T17:33:00.004-07:002021-08-02T17:33:53.409-07:00Loving Our (Imperfect) Bodies<p><i>DISCLAIMER: I am not a health professional, for mental or physical health. I have done research and am providing relevant links, and I'm also experienced in advocacy and non-violent communication, which is really the focus of this blog. </i></p><p>CONTENT WARNING: This blog contains frank discussions of body image and disordered eating, including examples of harmful things that are sometimes said about bodies and examples of negative inner monologues. I invite readers to practice self-care and discretion in reading, and offer the option of skipping the examples written in <span style="color: #ffa400;">orange text</span>. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wWKQmB3UURk/YQiLKG3sVgI/AAAAAAAABDs/s79DK-66UGIdVaHM7w0gijyhPldh1gkMwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/2806395960_a57d8ffe4e_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="349" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wWKQmB3UURk/YQiLKG3sVgI/AAAAAAAABDs/s79DK-66UGIdVaHM7w0gijyhPldh1gkMwCLcBGAsYHQ/w465-h349/2806395960_a57d8ffe4e_o.jpg" width="465" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Image: A dim picture of an empty dressing room, with lighted mirrors. <br />(via <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/travelsalem/" target="_blank">Travel Salem on Flickr</a>) </i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Hello my friends! Before I start this blog, I want to be transparent about the fact that for most of my life, I've been thin. My body has grown somewhat in the last several years, and nowadays I've got a bigger and softer tummy and a proper double chin. But I haven't personally experienced a lot of fatphobia or disordered eating or body image issues. This makes it easy for me to stand up and say "Hey, let's all love our bodies!" with very little baggage. But the amount of baggage I have or don't have doesn't have anything to do with my willpower or character. I just got lucky. I won a genetic lottery and got a body type that happens to be valued in my society and a family that doesn't have too many issues around body image. All of us humans have grown up in this culture, and all of us have internalized messages about fat, about age, about appearance. No one should be shamed for how much those messages affect them. For all my positive body talk, I also still have plenty of moments when those messages get to me, too. This blog entry is about why I do my best to consciously undermine those messages, and some practical ideas about how to do it. It's a skill that has to be learned and practiced. </p><p>So! </p><p>Now that more people are vaccinated (for the love of Osiris, if you can get vaccinated but haven't yet, PLEASE GET VACCINATED), we have more opportunities to do live theatre safely! And with that comes something I had literally completely forgotten about: the negative body talk that gets thrown around in women’s dressing rooms. </p><p>I don’t know what happens in men’s dressing rooms, and it’s been a while since I’ve been in a universal dressing room. But I’d like to invite everyone, regardless of the dressing rooms you’re in, to move away from this kind of talk. The last year and a half has further radicalized me into working for all kinds of equity and compassion, and the dressing room is one place where I can do that work. Come join me! </p><p style="text-align: center;">WHAT IT IS</p><p>Negative body talk is any negative comment about your own body, someone else’s body, or bodies in general. It may include comments about weight, shape, age, or appearance. Sometimes negative body talk comes in sneaky forms, like praising people for weight loss, or assigning moral value to certain foods. </p><p>Here are a few examples: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Ugh, this costume makes my butt look huge.” </span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“These crow’s feet around my eyes are driving me crazy.” </span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“I was so bad today. I ate like five cookies.” </span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Okay, time to put on makeup. Because no one wants to see this face without makeup.” </span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“I’m gonna have to go to the gym for an extra hour to work off that lunch.” </span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“I hate having such tiny boobs!” </span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“I felt so bad for him, trying to do that lift with her.” </span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“You’ve lost so much weight! You look amazing!” </span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Time to put on my Spanx. Gotta tuck all of these saggy bits in.”</span></li><li><span style="color: #ffa400;">“These gray hairs look just awful.” </span></li></ul><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">WHY IT’S IMPORTANT TO SHIFT AWAY FROM IT</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>(My radicalization is gonna show here…) </i></p><p><b>Negative body talk upholds the patriarchy</b></p><p>It’s the patriarchy that says “women are valuable because of their looks.” It’s the patriarchy that says “Men should look a certain way to get women to date them, because that’s where men get their value from.” It’s the patriarchy that says that women’s jobs are to be ornamental, decorative, and make others comfortable. It’s the patriarchy that makes no room for queerness or anything outside of the gender binary. It’s the patriarchy that says only pretty people can be romantic leads. It's the patriarchy that says women's value goes down as they get older. And there’s no inherent truth to any of it. It’s what society teaches us, but we can decide to disregard it. And as more of us disregard it, the less power it has. </p><p><b>Negative body talk perpetuates the toxic aspects of capitalism</b></p><p>Think about how much money we spend trying to change how we look. I’m all for cool haircuts and tattoos and piercings and sunscreen and yoga studios—those things help us express and care for ourselves. But the only reason women shave their legs is because some guy in the 1920s wanted to <a href="https://www.vox.com/2015/5/22/8640457/leg-shaving-history" target="_blank">sell us razors</a>. The only reason we have so many diet programs is because people want to make money off diet programs. Even though none of them demonstrably work long-term and restrictive eating is always harmful. (Check out <a href="https://thefuckitdiet.com/" target="_blank">The F*ck It Diet</a> for one resource on this.) The diet industry makes an estimated $60 billion a year. Imagine how much good that money could do if we spent it elsewhere. On small businesses. On bail funds. Or hell, on our f*cking bills. And don’t even get me started on the “<a href="http://pink.tax/" target="_blank">pink tax</a>.”</p><p><b>Negative body talk is often deeply rooted in racism</b></p><p>This is way complex, and I’m not the best person to speak on this, and many others have spoken about this more eloquently than I have. (Check out <a href="https://www.npr.org/transcripts/893006538" target="_blank">this interview with Sabrina Strings on NPR</a> for one example.) But the idea that “thin is the only and best way to be beautiful” is an extraordinarily Western idea, based on white ideals that attempt to separate “superior” bodies from “inferior” bodies. The beauty ideals of other cultures are all so radically different…if we say “Well, being thin and young are the ONLY ways to be beautiful” we’re saying “White colonial ideals of beauty are the only valuable ones.” (Also, your value as a human being doesn’t have anything to do with how you look ANYWAY.) </p><p><b>Negative body talk perpetuates the fatphobia that plagues the entertainment industry</b></p><p>There is literally no reason for actors to be thin. Because we use our bodies to tell stories, it’s helpful if our bodies are strong and healthy. But the lie that we’ve been fed for so many decades and from so many sources is that fat = unhealthy. And it’s just not…true. (Check out <a href="https://haescommunity.com/" target="_blank">Health At Every Size</a> to learn more). Health can be measured in a few different ways, but generally speaking, the actual science says that weight is not an accurate predictor of health. Lizzo can do cardio while singing and playing the flute for hours at a time in heels, night after night, for months on end. And have you seen <a href="https://www.popsci.com/strongest-athletes-body-fat/" target="_blank">Olympic weight-lifters</a>? And also, <a href="https://elemental.medium.com/the-bizarre-and-racist-history-of-the-bmi-7d8dc2aa33bb" target="_blank">the BMI is racist and completely useless</a> and was never intended to measure health. So if you’re ACTUALLY worried about health, you don’t need to worry about weight. And as far as storytelling goes, there’s no reason we can’t have a fat Juliet on stage. A fat Elle Woods. A fat Hedda Gabler. LITERALLY NO REASON. If being thin doesn’t mean being healthy, and if you don’t have to be thin to play certain roles, then there’s literally no reason to push ourselves (or each other) to be thin. </p><p><b>Negative body talk harms those with body image issues and disordered eating</b></p><p>It's difficult to get really accurate statistics, but eating disorders <a href="https://anad.org/get-informed/about-eating-disorders/eating-disorders-statistics/" target="_blank">affect AT LEAST 9% of the population</a>. So if you're in a room with 10 people, it's highly likely that at least one of them has experienced some kind of eating disorder, and even likelier that more people in the room have a difficult relationship with food or body image (if not all of them/us). <span style="color: #ffa400;">When we make comments about our own weight, or the weight of others, we're adding our voices to the chorus of <i>already</i> loud voices saying "you're not thin enough" or "you'll only be loved if you're thin" or "you're not worthy of love unless you're thin." </span>This is also why it's powerful to not compliment people about weight loss. I personally have multiple friends who have shared that compliments on their weight loss caused their eating disorder to deepen. Or perhaps their weight loss was because of another health issue, and the compliment made their pain feel invisible. In both cases, they were being rewarded with love and acceptance in times when they were very ill. I want to live in a world where we give people love and acceptance regardless of their weight. </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">HOW TO UNDERMINE NEGATIVE BODY TALK IN THEATRE DRESSING ROOMS </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>(and any other rooms, really)</i></p><p>Okay, so if you're on board with moving away from the negative body talk that perpetuates the patriarchy, toxic capitalism, racism, and myths about health, here are a few ideas of how to do it. </p><p></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>Aggressively compliment yourself. Look at yourself in the full-length mirror and smile at what you see. Exclaim with ecstasy. “Are you seeing this?! Look at these thighs! Look at these curves! Man, I love this gorgeous tummy.” Grab handfuls of your body and jiggle it with joy.</li><li>Abstain from the “script” when someone says something disparaging about their own appearance. When one person says “Ugh, I hate how this makes my butt look!” the expected response is either “No, it looks great!” or “Well, MY costume makes my tummy look huge.” Both of those responses reinforce the idea that appearance = worth. Which is completely false. Speak up, or change the subject, or abstain. </li><li>Give specific compliments that don’t have to do with size. These compliments can have to do with appearance, but think of it as praising the way you’d praise a painting. (“You have such great eyebrows.” “You have such lovely hands.” “Look at your beautiful elegant feet!”) You can also compliment things that don’t have to do with appearance at all, like talent or smarts or interpersonal skills. </li><li>Respond to negative body talk with “That’s the patriarchy talking!” or another quippy one-liner of your choice. </li><li>Post body positivity quotes/images by the mirror/on the walls. A few of my favorites include "Love Your Tree" from <a href="http://www.idelette.com/love-your-tree-wisdom-from-eve-ensler-a-74-yr-old-masai-woman/" target="_blank">Eve Ensler's The Good Body</a>, some variation of <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/711355730/reflections-in-this-mirror-may-be?gpla=1&gao=1&" target="_blank">this popular sticker</a>, or <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/844126627/you-are-so-much-more-than-a-body" target="_blank">this one</a>, and <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/1043482519/ive-got-a-perfect-body-subversive" target="_blank">this cross-stitch from my own Etsy shop</a> (shameless plug).</li><li>Respond with a simple “Hey, this kind of negative body talk isn’t okay with me. Could we please keep it out of this space?” </li><li>If the costumes/time period of the show allows, refuse to wear Spanx or other shape wear. </li><li>Invite people to explore the ideas behind the fatphobic comment. “Hey, have you ever thought about where those ideas come from?” (This can also be done more pointedly, in the form of “Explain what you mean by that?”)</li><li>Speak frankly and matter-of-factly about your own body to the costume team (“These jeans are too small for my belly.” “If I wear this skirt, can I also get something to wear underneath so that my thighs don’t get irritated from rubbing together?”)</li><li>Respond with “Hey, friends. Someone recently pointed out to me that this kind of negative body talk can be rough for folks with eating disorders. So because we never know what the people in the dressing room are going through, I’ve been trying to just refrain from any kind of negative body talk in every dressing room I’m in. Would it be cool if we did that in here?” </li><li>Sometimes negative body talk is an attempt to bond with those around us. The desire to connect to our fellow humans is deep and primal! (This is often what's going on when people are following the "script" mentioned earlier in #2.) So work on finding other ways to connect. Tell a funny story about your day, ask people what their favorite part of their day was, bring up an interesting article or YouTube video you recently read, or ask any of <a href="https://www.themuse.com/advice/48-questions-thatll-make-awkward-small-talk-so-much-easier" target="_blank">these conversation starters</a>. (I always love hearing about people's journeys, so I like to ask "How did you get into theatre?") </li></ol><div>If you have other ideas, feel free to share them in the comments! Now go forth, and practice showing love to your beautiful, imperfect body and help others love theirs! </div><p></p><div><br /></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-15514625229050458682021-07-19T15:42:00.001-07:002021-07-19T15:42:16.337-07:00Am Writing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5UlM5TKXLFc/YPX_ovME3iI/AAAAAAAABDE/JOVrEfamyW4WiCMyM9OEqYRJ4PDQZHd6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1080/Untitled%2Bdesign%2B%25282%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5UlM5TKXLFc/YPX_ovME3iI/AAAAAAAABDE/JOVrEfamyW4WiCMyM9OEqYRJ4PDQZHd6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Untitled%2Bdesign%2B%25282%2529.png" /></a></div><br /><p>No blog today. But it's because I'm working on two essays, four poems, and one script (at least). The entire point of the <a href="https://butshesnotstupid.blogspot.com/2018/04/sisterblogchallenge.html" target="_blank">Sister Blog Challenge</a> is to stay writing. And I am writing. It's just not ready to be seen yet. </p><p>Maybe in two weeks it will be. See you then. </p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-2516973141633795692021-07-05T14:30:00.004-07:002021-07-05T14:31:57.611-07:00Kick off your Sunday shoes<p><i>“If Walt Whitman were alive today, what song would he hear America singing? When I turn on television, all I hear is the music of easy sexuality and relaxed morals. I hear rock and roll and the endless chant of pornography.” – Reverend Moore, “Footloose,” Act One </i></p><p><i>“You wish to change the law because you want to throw a dance; that is your right. It is my duty to challenge any enterprise which, in my experience, fosters the use of liquor, the abuse of drugs, and most importantly, celebrates spiritual corruption.” –Reverend Moore, “Footloose,” Act Two</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rDfw7PDZkUo/YON3_YtYehI/AAAAAAAABCA/OniPMso_jpYLvPfuL1KJMrEM2V442y_eACLcBGAsYHQ/s612/istockphoto-538238795-612x612.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="612" height="301" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rDfw7PDZkUo/YON3_YtYehI/AAAAAAAABCA/OniPMso_jpYLvPfuL1KJMrEM2V442y_eACLcBGAsYHQ/w454-h301/istockphoto-538238795-612x612.jpeg" width="454" /></a></div><p>Listen. I'm in a <a href="https://www.wvcarts.org/footloose.html" target="_blank">production of "Footloose" that opens this week</a>, and it's kind of all I can think about nowadays. (You know how tech week is.) The premise of the show always struck me as so ridiculous as to be unbelievable. A ban on dancing seems absurd for any time period after the early 1600s. </p><p>But the more I learn about American history in the 1980s, the less ridiculous a religious ban on dancing seems. First of all, the show is based on a true story (you can read about it <a href="https://tulsaworld.com/entertainment/movies/oklahoma-town-inspired-original-footloose/article_d9d85613-f5eb-57ac-8bfa-f1f2c5ea1351.html" target="_blank">here</a>), but also there were a lot of things going on in American culture during the 1970s and 1980s that could easily lead a Christian preacher to believe that dancing is dangerous. </p><p>I’ve been researching this for weeks, like the nerd I am, so get ready for a dramaturgy dump, my friends. </p><p>THE RISE OF THE CHRISTIAN RIGHT</p><p>In the late 70s and early 80s, evangelical Christians were like "You know what we need MORE of? Combining Church and State." For them, the separation was clearly leading to the "decay of the nation's morality." Groups like The Moral Majority, Christian Coalition, Focus on the Family, and the Family Research Council urged evangelicals to get involved in politics and got them pumped up about "traditional family values." Before this, things like abortion, divorce, feminism, LGBTQ rights were all separate issues. It's a great PR move, really, and it carries through to this day. </p><p>SATAN WANTS YOUR CHILDREN </p><p>For members of the Christian right, Satan wasn’t metaphorical. And know who he was after? THE CHILDREN. In 1972, Evangelical Christian Mike Warnke published “<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Warnke" target="_blank">The Satan Seller</a>,” a memoir of a childhood allegedly spent in Satan worship, detailing everything from summoning demons to ritualistic sex orgies, and his subsequent salvation and conversion to Christianity. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-epEM-yc4vMI/YON4RbhJT7I/AAAAAAAABCI/1rMkLN9NIR8kV9CVseNzHZZnu-QyuAokACLcBGAsYHQ/s474/51CN4TN9TQL._SX286_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="288" height="417" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-epEM-yc4vMI/YON4RbhJT7I/AAAAAAAABCI/1rMkLN9NIR8kV9CVseNzHZZnu-QyuAokACLcBGAsYHQ/w253-h417/51CN4TN9TQL._SX286_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="253" /></a></div><br />In 1980, another even more explosive “memoir” was published called “<a href="https://nationalpost.com/news/canada/the-canadian-book-that-tricked-the-world-into-believing-they-were-overrun-with-satanist-murder-cults" target="_blank">Michelle Remembers</a>.” Co-written by Michelle Smith and her therapist Lawrence Pazder (who eventually became her husband), the book is based on hundreds of hours of interviews with Michelle while she was under hypnosis. During these interviews, Michelle recounted terrifying childhood experiences after her mother sent her to live with a Satanic cult at age five. She described everything from being forced to consume urine and feces, bathing in the blood of dismembered babies, and being locked in a cage filled with snakes and spiders. She also recalled being sexually assaulted as part of Satanic rituals. The entire experience allegedly culminated in meeting Satan himself, before Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and the Archangel Michael intervened. These beings removed all physical scars, and hid the memories from Michelle until “the time was right.” <p></p><p>The best-selling book, along with one or two accusations of sexual assault made against preschool teachers (particularly the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/31/us/satanic-panic.html" target="_blank">McMartin preschool</a> in 1983), launched what we now call “The Satanic Panic.” There was a widespread fear throughout North America that Satanists were secretly running preschools in order to use the children in rituals. Under dubious interview practices, children made statements about being taken to "devil churches," being sexually abused, performing Satanic spells, and being tortured. Worried parents campaigned vehemently for authorities to do something with the slogan “We believe the children.” Federal law enforcement made training videos to help officers recognize the signs of “Satanic Ritual Abuse.” </p><p>SATAN IN POP CULTURE</p><p>In 1973, the horror film “The Exorcist” was released, and the fear of Satan’s power ramped up among those who believed in him literally. Not only was the movie legitimately terrifying to audiences, but the making of it was also terrifying. (At one point, the entire set burned down in an accidental fire, except for the possessed character Regan’s bedroom???) The film was based on a real life exorcism on a 14-year-old boy known only as Roland Doe. Or rather, it's based on the attempted exorcism, because Roland somehow managed to break out of his restraints, pull a metal bedspring out of his mattress, and slash one of the priests with it, and they declared him beyond their help. When the film was played in theatres, there were multiple reports of audience members fainting and vomiting, and at least four cases of people requiring psychiatric care afterwards. Televangelist <a href="http://www.the13thfloor.tv/2015/12/02/is-the-exorcist-movie-cursed/" target="_blank">Billy Graham said</a> “There is a power of evil in the film, in the fabric of the film itself.” </p><p>And when 17-year-old <a href="https://www.tabula-rasa.info/Horror/ExorcistFiles.html" target="_blank">Nicholas Bell</a> killed a 9-year-old girl in his UK neighborhood in 1975, his statement to the police read, in part: "It was not really me that did it, you know. There was something inside me. I want to see a priest. It is ever since I saw that film The Exorcist. I felt something take possession of me. It has been in me ever since." Turning to the attack on the girl he had said: "I don't know why I killed her. It was this spirit inside me." In a later alleged statement he continued: "One night I was alone at home playing with the [ouija] board and while doing so felt something bad was happening."</p><p>Satan was everywhere. Movies. Books. Music. Television shows. Advertisements. Magazines. </p><p>By 1988, Satanism had so permeated popular culture that TV Talk Show star Gerardo Rivera aired a special called “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qocBf3_mmic" target="_blank">Devil Worship: Exposing Satan’s Underground</a>.” </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r_r9X3X2IAM/YON5D7LH8uI/AAAAAAAABCQ/2xZvUHDFJN0YADJ_eMybg2V5BXLUTYRggCLcBGAsYHQ/s397/220px-Hell%2527s_Bells_The_Dangers_of_Rock_%2527N%2527_Roll.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r_r9X3X2IAM/YON5D7LH8uI/AAAAAAAABCQ/2xZvUHDFJN0YADJ_eMybg2V5BXLUTYRggCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/220px-Hell%2527s_Bells_The_Dangers_of_Rock_%2527N%2527_Roll.jpeg" /></a></div><p>Music and dancing were especially dangerous. The 1989 Christian documentary “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vylqX6sevqo&t=470s" target="_blank">Hell’s Bells: The Dangers of Rock ‘N’ Roll</a>” linked rock music to sex, violence, suicide, drug use, rebellion, and the occult, and ended with a dramatic call to be saved. In 1989, Mormon church leader Gene R. Cook recounted a story about meeting Mick Jagger on a plane, and asking him what he thinks the influence of his music is on young people. Jagger reportedly replied, “Our music is calculated to drive the kids to sex.”</p><p>Here are a few excerpts from the LDS Church’s “For the Strength of Youth” pamphlets—a free publication to help Mormon teenagers live righteous standards. </p><p>From For the Strength of Youth, 1972 edition: </p><p><i>“Church standards prohibit dancing that is suggestive or sensual in any way…If one concentrates on good posture, many dances can be danced in a manner which will meet LDS standards. Some examples of these dances are the waltz, fox trot, tango, rhumba, cha-cha, samba, swing, and most of the folk dances. When dancing, young people should avoid crouching, slumping over, trying to do a backbend, or having too close a body contact…Members of the Church should be good dancers and not contortionists. Extreme body movements—such as hip and shoulder shaking, body jerking, etc.—should be avoided, and emphasis should be placed more on smooth styling and clever footwork…The kind of music that is played has a definite effect upon the actions of those participating in dance. Moderate and modest music should always be played. When electronic bands or instruments are used, an extremely loud beat is discouraged because it is inconsistent with church standards. Musical lyrics should always be in good taste and sung in a dignified way.” </i></p><p>From For the Strength of Youth, 1990 edition: </p><p><i>“Music can help you draw closer to your Heavenly Father. It can be used to educate, edify, inspire, and unite. However, music can be used for wicked purposes. Music can, by its tempo, beat, intensity, and lyrics, dull your spiritual sensitivity. You cannot afford to fill your minds with unworthy music. Music is an important and powerful part of life. You must consider your listening habits thoughtfully and prayerfully. You should be willing to control your listening habits and shun music that is spiritually harmful. Don’t listen to music that contains ideas that contradict the principles of the gospel. Don’t listen to music that promotes Satanism or other evil practices, encourages immorality, uses foul and offensive language, or drives away the Spirit. Use careful judgment and maturity to choose the music you listen to and the level of its volume. Dancing can be enjoyable and provide an opportunity to meet new people and strengthen friendships. However, it too can be misused. When you are dancing, avoid full body contact or intimate positions with your partner. Plan and attend dances where dress, grooming, lighting, dancing styles, lyrics, and music contribute to an atmosphere in which the Spirit of the Lord may be present.” </i></p><p>RISE OF SERIAL MURDER</p><p>There was an enormous surge in <a href="https://www.stltoday.com/news/national/a-look-at-some-of-the-most-notorious-serial-killers-in-the-us-since-1970/collection_4466c7c1-47cd-5622-b5f6-15826195e203.html#9" target="_blank">serial murders during the 1970s</a>. Why? Who the hell knows. Unresolved PTSD? Intergenerational trauma? Misogynist backlash against second wave feminism? All of the above? Maybe better forensic methods, stronger police communication, and deeper research into psychology just made us more aware of the murders. Maybe the nation was paying more attention because more victims were white women. Whatever the reason, the majority of the most well-known serial killers in American history were committing their crimes during this time period. </p><p>Charles Manson and "Helter Skelter." "Son of Sam" killer David Berkowitz. Edmund Kemper. John Wayne Gacy. "BTK Killer" Dennis Rader. The "Golden State Killer" and "Easy Area Rapist" Joseph James DeAngelo. The "Hillside Stranglers" Angelo Buono Jr and Kenneth A Bianchi. Ted Bundy. Jeffrey Dahmer. Wayne B Williams and the Atlanta child murders. Richard Ramirez. </p><p>Dennis Rader wasn't apprehended until 2005, and Joseph James DeAngelo was at large until 2018. Berkowitz and Ramirez both cited Satanism as the reasons for their crimes. Bundy was a law student who had converted to Mormonism. (Incidentally, he was arrested a few blocks west of the Harman Theatre, where "Footloose" is being produced.) </p><p>From these cases alone, that means there were AT LEAST 150 seemingly senseless murders/sex crimes during the 15-year period from 1969 to 1985. If you were to average it out, that’s around 1 per month. For 15 years straight. Murders that didn’t have to do with gang violence or drugs, or even robberies much of the time. It was happening in Brooklyn, New York and Witchita, Kansas and Provo, Utah. Nowhere was safe. Kids were warned about "stranger danger" through PSAs and children's books. </p><p>SEX IS MAINSTREAM</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JQ7s7Z_hwF8/YON5UnmFtqI/AAAAAAAABCY/4FFJtHPa-qsO-z_xeQMb-ZJ4IsotAiKdQCLcBGAsYHQ/s372/417d8eb586c3c50a20bfe26d3e740c58.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="200" height="346" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JQ7s7Z_hwF8/YON5UnmFtqI/AAAAAAAABCY/4FFJtHPa-qsO-z_xeQMb-ZJ4IsotAiKdQCLcBGAsYHQ/w186-h346/417d8eb586c3c50a20bfe26d3e740c58.jpeg" width="186" /></a></div><br />Also to the dismay of Christians, sex was going mainstream during the 70s and 80s. Chippendale’s opened in Los Angeles, then in New York, and then went on tour, performing mostly for middle-aged white women (who apparently were into sex? What?). Pornography films like Blue Movie, Deep Throat, and Mona were being reviewed positively by everyone from Johnny Carson to Roger Ebert. Madonna and Prince and dozens of other singers were writing lyrics that weren’t even thinly veiled references to sex. <p></p><p>Thousands of gay men were dying of a mysterious new illness that would later be diagnosed as AIDS, an immunodeficiency disease caused by the HIV virus, and spread through bodily fluids. Ronald Reagan and the United States government intentionally ignored the crisis, and by 1995, over 800,000 people had been lost to AIDS. Conservative Christians viewed the crisis as a “gay plague” and that God was punishing homosexuality. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>So yeah. You take the rise of Christianity in politics and a literal belief in Satan, the occult showing up in everything from blockbuster films to rock music, hundreds of people being senselessly murdered and some of the murderers blaming it on Satanism, children saying they’re being ritualistically abused by their preschool teachers, and sex seeping into every facet of American society? You’re damn right I’m going to do everything I can to protect my kids. And if I have to ban dancing to do it, that’s a price I’m willing to pay for their eternal salvation. </p><p>With hindsight, it’s easy to see how this kind of thinking is misguided. How the impact is miles away from the intent. But it still continues today. Fox News spent weeks clutching their pearls over Lil Nas X’s song and music video “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6swmTBVI83k" target="_blank">Montero (Call Me By Your Name)</a>” and did the same thing again with Cardi B/Megan Thee Stallion’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UnBZLFB7kLo" target="_blank">Grammy performance of Up/WAP</a>. (It's worth mentioning that a lot of the criticisms of popular music always have been and still are deeply rooted in white supremacy, but that's a whole 'nother conversation.) Evangelical Christians still dominate conversations about conservative politics. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ri3SdT6NGAY/YON5ygHIoHI/AAAAAAAABCg/h3tIPFPU7qw2-g0lJXqldlH_dQsQuVilQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/cl3c162813171053593_t400_h49837db3e07147f1e77598e0b0168f12f75c51c3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ri3SdT6NGAY/YON5ygHIoHI/AAAAAAAABCg/h3tIPFPU7qw2-g0lJXqldlH_dQsQuVilQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/cl3c162813171053593_t400_h49837db3e07147f1e77598e0b0168f12f75c51c3.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>And we still are determined to “protect our children.” Instead of putting signs in our windows that say "We Believe the Children," we share things with the hashtag #SaveOurChildren. In 2016, a 28-year-old man walked into a <a href="https://www.rollingstone.com/feature/anatomy-of-a-fake-news-scandal-125877/" target="_blank">New York pizza parlor</a> and fired 3 shots from an assault rifle, in an effort to rescue the children from a child sex-trafficking ring allegedly run by Democratic elites. Despite there not being a child sex-trafficking ring in the pizza parlor, the belief that powerful people were using children as sex slaves persists through QAnon and InfoWars and Trumpism. <p></p><p>Here in Utah, Tim Ballard’s non-profit “<a href="https://slate.com/human-interest/2021/05/sex-trafficking-raid-operation-underground-railroad.html" target="_blank">Operation Underground Railroad</a>” allows investors to join Liam Neeson/Taken-esque “rescue missions” in other countries. Despite a lack of any relevant training, problematic sting operations that create demand for underage sex workers, and a lack of recovery resources for victims, Ballard continues to frame his work as guided by God. </p><p>Mike Warnke’s memoir “The Satan Seller” was completely debunked and revealed as fraud. The same goes for “Michelle Remembers.” The Satanic Panic surrounding daycare centers had more to do with anxiety about mothers entering the workplace than the devil torturing children. Child sex trafficking is absolutely an issue worth solving, but the problem has less to do with innocent white girls being kidnapped from suburbia and more to do with foreign policy and economics and racism and resource equity and drug policies. </p><p>It’s difficult to face the real traumas. Poverty and grief and fear are all so messy. And the solutions are equally complicated and overwhelming. It’s so much easier to blame a metaphorical being whose only motivation is evil. If you're a parent, it feels both impossible and vital that you protect your children from sexual harm and violence and substance abuse. And if you're Christian, the stakes are even higher--those things lead to literal damnation. </p><p>So it's easy to see how the parents who proclaimed “We Believe the Children” during the Daycare Satanic Panic had good intentions. They were trying to care for and protect the innocent young people they were responsible for. But the heartbreaking thing is that they didn’t actually believe the children. In interview after interview after interview about the satanic ritual abuse that supposedly happened in daycare centers, the children said that nothing really happened. Transcripts and recordings of the initial interviews show that the children were coerced into confessions and stories of things that weren’t even possible. </p><p>But parents were so afraid of failing their children that they didn’t listen to them. </p><p>Just like Reverend Moore. </p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-84483547599222302042021-06-14T13:13:00.003-07:002021-06-14T13:13:38.759-07:00In Bloom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yVgyRsQaAT8/YMe06G1YziI/AAAAAAAABA8/ve_4vpSFkUQjbsOOnXe6N_RA4grqXTRDACLcBGAsYHQ/s1440/193315743_10103747458252354_8160310309646771721_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="404" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yVgyRsQaAT8/YMe06G1YziI/AAAAAAAABA8/ve_4vpSFkUQjbsOOnXe6N_RA4grqXTRDACLcBGAsYHQ/w404-h404/193315743_10103747458252354_8160310309646771721_n.jpg" width="404" /></a></div><p>I’ve had the sense, lately, that the last year and a half was like a long winter. But as vaccinations go up and COVID numbers go down in my home state, it feels like a kind of spring. Like things that were buried and waiting in the soil are now reaching upwards towards the light. </p><p>Or maybe it feels like summer. Like things have been awake and blooming for a while now. </p><p>I’ve thought about this on warm evenings as I watered the yard. When A and K planted bulbs in the flower beds, A didn’t think they’d show up until next year. But there they are, growing taller every day, their green leaves standing strong in the dirt. The desert grasses are growing new stalks (well, except for that one by the mailbox). And while the lawn is struggling in this goddamn drought, there are patches of green that keep returning under our obstinate watering. </p><p>It feels like things are blooming. And I want to embrace the blooming. </p><p>First of all, I have declared summer of 2021 to be “Hobbit Girl Summer.” </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IN6_mlK3uNk/YMe0keG6qhI/AAAAAAAABA0/so_5QHUhckAD6XCmfXF3OE8rWIdxgksaACLcBGAsYHQ/s1348/hobbit%2Bgirl%2Bsummer.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="1348" height="192" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IN6_mlK3uNk/YMe0keG6qhI/AAAAAAAABA0/so_5QHUhckAD6XCmfXF3OE8rWIdxgksaACLcBGAsYHQ/w435-h192/hobbit%2Bgirl%2Bsummer.jpeg" width="435" /></a></div><p>Inspired by this tweet, I’ve chosen to make this summer a time of taking pleasure in simple things and guarding my comfort fiercely. </p><p>When I made this plan, I quickly discovered that I’m at least 75% Hobbit already. Often barefoot. 7+ meals per day, usually consisting of simple fare—fresh fruit, baked goods, pasta. Taking pleasure in homey, domestic past-times like cross stitching and gardening. Going to bed late and getting up late. </p><p>So there may not actually be many radical changes. But rather, Hobbit Girl Summer will be about embracing those things more fully, and being more deliberate about them. I’m planning to throw in a few other Hobbit-y things. Reading books and taking naps under trees. Writing poetry by rivers. Smoking the occasional pipe-weed. Maybe there can be a garden party or two. (Sans Gandalf’s fireworks because Utah is in the worst drought since the 1970s.) (I will also not be donning any ornamental waistcoats, because it’s bloody hot outside.) I may seek a handful of adventures, Baggins-style. But a friend recently described hobbits as “hippie dippie hedonists,” and if that’s not what I want for my life this summer, I don’t know what is. </p><p>Second of all, after a year and a half of Zoom theatre and streamed performances and radio plays, my fully vaccinated self is re-entering good old-fashioned rehearsal rooms and theatres all over the valley and it’s my favorite thing. I’m rehearsing “Footloose!” at West Valley Arts, and sort of also became the de facto intimacy and fight choreographer as well. I’m halfway through choreographing intimacy for a production of Much Ado About Nothing, and have another intimacy/fight choreo gig lined up for the fall. In a few weeks, I’ll teach an intimacy direction workshop at the Utah Advisory Council for Theatre Teachers Conference. I’ve been submitting resumes and self-tapes a few times a week. I felt rusty as hell for a while there—I spent a week doing vocal warmups for 15 minutes a day because any time I tried to sing, my diaphragm felt non-existent. But it’s like riding a bike…when you’ve been doing it long enough, it comes back to you pretty quickly. An Other Theater Co had our first in-person company call a week ago, where we made plans to clean up the space and get ready for our upcoming season. I feel like there’s a forward momentum in my theatre career that had been on hold for a while. </p><p>Third of all, a handful of writing projects have been percolating in my brain, and some are ready for…consumption? Creation? Clearly, metaphors aren’t my strong suit today, but the point is that I’m moving out of the brainstorming phase and into the “actually writing” phase on a few things. I’ve been fighting myself on the idea of tropes and clichés, and was just being an insufferable, snobby hipster about it all. Like “tropes are too simple and therefore beneath me because I’m an original artist and only art that is challenging is worthwhile.” I’m calling myself on my own bullshit. I’ve started leaning hard into tropes and have found it makes writing much easier, and that there’s still room for “originality” within tropes anyway. </p><p>I sometimes worry that I sound a little too “hippie dippie” in my observations about how “it feels like this is a season of blooming.” This feeling is 100% completely subjective and also deeply personal. But as I grow more into my witchy, intuitive, whole self, it’s empowering to speak these things, to name the chapters of the book I’m in. Friendships are beginning and deepening and shifting. Careers are gaining momentum. Things are just…blooming. So I’ll keep metaphorically watering them, and embrace the blooming. </p><p><br /></p><p><i>(I know I just had this like, great meaningful "button" for this blog, but as I initiate Hobbit Girl Summer, it feels necessary to share these pictures from 2008, when cell phone cameras were blurry as hell, and when some friends and I put on a sketch called "Middle Earth's First Christmas" and I played Legolas with my Nigel Lithgoe hair and RJ was a perfect hobbit and C was "Gandalf the Red" even though he was dressed in white.)</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-huO5FgTfzi4/YMe4KzqfGRI/AAAAAAAABBU/_zFSaAXH6P8RP-rHtKoopWzle91peK8nACLcBGAsYHQ/s604/1929521_516515104364_7531_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="453" height="399" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-huO5FgTfzi4/YMe4KzqfGRI/AAAAAAAABBU/_zFSaAXH6P8RP-rHtKoopWzle91peK8nACLcBGAsYHQ/w299-h399/1929521_516515104364_7531_n.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-20cdP4u4VVg/YMe4PBy1JFI/AAAAAAAABBY/3BHCPbbb7Z0XP9olQFW8r5bGo3W9gfoCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s604/1929521_516515099374_7253_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="299" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-20cdP4u4VVg/YMe4PBy1JFI/AAAAAAAABBY/3BHCPbbb7Z0XP9olQFW8r5bGo3W9gfoCQCLcBGAsYHQ/w398-h299/1929521_516515099374_7253_n.jpg" width="398" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-68294747995813036222021-05-31T12:13:00.002-07:002021-05-31T12:13:43.166-07:00Tableaus of the American West, spring 2021<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-omAx1Fw8FyE/YLU0W34dmuI/AAAAAAAAA_8/XNsvc70IHJIcH947bwb-Ro68SQaJiDWNACLcBGAsYHQ/s1440/190508581_10103736377418434_7027421621028973890_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="409" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-omAx1Fw8FyE/YLU0W34dmuI/AAAAAAAAA_8/XNsvc70IHJIcH947bwb-Ro68SQaJiDWNACLcBGAsYHQ/w409-h409/190508581_10103736377418434_7027421621028973890_n.jpg" width="409" /></a></div><p>There are stretches of Utah that are, frankly, boring. Pastures, shrub-covered hills, sage and tumbleweeds. But down near the southern border, it becomes almost other-wordly. The sandy red cliffs rising against a backdrop of cotton candy clouds. I feel my stomach unclenching the farther south I go. </p><p>At Zion that afternoon, it’s too hot to sleep in the tent. So I lay my sleeping pad out on the ground in the shade of my car and nap there. When I wake, it’s still hours before sundown, but I make a fire and roast hot dogs for dinner anyway. I read. I look at the fire. I move my chair in a steady orbit to avoid the smoke. I am discovering that more than half of what I enjoy about camping is spending time with other people. Maybe if I had a good place to hang my hammock, I’d feel differently. I make two unsatisfactory s’mores and go to bed. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I unzip my tent to look at the stars. It’s only a moment, but it’s beautiful anyway. </p><p>The Grand Canyon is truly and actually GRAND. It’s also fucking enormous. I feel like I pass signs for hundreds of miles that tell me I’m at the Grand Canyon. I pull over after crossing the bridge at Glen Canyon, then walk back over it. It’s so far down to the water it doesn’t even feel real. Later, I take a small detour and hike ½ mile in the desert sun to see Horseshoe Bend. Maybe one day I’ll kayak around it. For now, I lean over gaze down, the metal of the railing scalding my forearms. I hold my breath as I glance over at a man close to my age, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge, hundreds of feet above the Colorado River. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vYXJlv7yFsw/YLU0ziSv1pI/AAAAAAAABAE/5s58pYcce-EFTyH1PaTc6kNqLqgh-SQGACLcBGAsYHQ/s1440/186484349_10103728839704074_5375743960344318284_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vYXJlv7yFsw/YLU0ziSv1pI/AAAAAAAABAE/5s58pYcce-EFTyH1PaTc6kNqLqgh-SQGACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/186484349_10103728839704074_5375743960344318284_n.jpg" /></a></div><p>I’ve decided I hate camping by myself, so I cancel all of my camping reservations and book cheap motels. It’s probably just the fact that motels have internet access, but it feels much less lonely. In Williams, Arizona, I eat a meal by sitting down in a restaurant for the first time in 14 months. It’s surreal and a little nerve-wracking. I sit at the bar in a 50’s-themed diner and devour a burger and sweet potato fries with my book propped up behind my plate. At one point, I glance up in time to see one of the dishwashers in the back drop a cup onto the ground and put it right back onto the shelf. </p><p>I listen to books on tape while I drive, or BTS, or podcasts, or my “Wandering Tunes” playlist. I’ve learned that I do best when I take a break every hour and a half or so. I pull over into rest stops and stretch, I wander the aisles of Maverick gas stations and side-of-the-road gift shops. I see a sign advertising the ancient site of Montezuma’s Castle and drive a few miles past two casinos to see it. I feel like John Steinbeck, “traveling with Charley.” But instead of a poodle and an RV, I have a journal and a Prius.</p><p>At a gift shop on Navajo land, things feel like April 2020. Masks are required, spacing is enforced, entrances and exits are calculated so that only a limited number of people are in the building at a time. After I spent so much time in areas that probably never really took the pandemic seriously, and as someone who’s been fully vaccinated for a while, it feels like a time capsule. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8azxWX-6pbc/YLU1SXZwynI/AAAAAAAABAM/mbvxt180EgcxqSAy7JbGBJgh_qW9173qQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1440/190559096_10103733493712404_1175300997150615373_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8azxWX-6pbc/YLU1SXZwynI/AAAAAAAABAM/mbvxt180EgcxqSAy7JbGBJgh_qW9173qQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/190559096_10103733493712404_1175300997150615373_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />There are whole stretches of the American southwest that look so much like the quintessential idea of “The American Southwest” that it almost feels fake. If I lived in a different country and had never been to America, and you asked me to describe Arizona, I’d say, “Big open areas with tall saguaro cactuses, flat-roofed adobe houses with dogs sleeping in the dusty driveways, the occasional tumbleweed, metal sculptures in the yards of the more wealthy.” It sounds like a movie set, or Disneyland’s Cars ride. But it’s 100% accurate. <p></p><p>There’s something sort of surreal about the moment when your drive home turns from unfamiliar to familiar. I don’t know my way around Spanish Fork, but once I hit Provo, it feels like I’m “home.” Even if I still have an hour left to drive. </p><p>I’m not entirely sure how to end this piece. I can’t tell if it’s a love letter to the American west or reminders for my next solo road trip. </p><p>I suppose I’ll end abruptly, in that crisp way that you pull your car into your own driveway after a week away. </p><div><br /></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-69476608346276030012021-05-17T11:08:00.000-07:002021-05-17T11:08:06.371-07:00EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jYSekyhpef8/YKKwaMPBmpI/AAAAAAAAA_s/JTvJ5gv3BLQ5VvKvsFgbfzGwe2ZdUqsXACLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/6276688407_12900948a2_b.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="1024" height="256" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jYSekyhpef8/YKKwaMPBmpI/AAAAAAAAA_s/JTvJ5gv3BLQ5VvKvsFgbfzGwe2ZdUqsXACLcBGAsYHQ/w415-h256/6276688407_12900948a2_b.jpeg" width="415" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b>HOUSEHOLD DOG IS CERTAIN THAT OWNER WILL NEVER COME BACK, EVER</b></p><p>Late yesterday afternoon, a 1-year-old coon hound mix lost his sanity when his owner walked into the bathroom and closed the door. Despite the fact that this is a frequent occurrence and that the owner always returns, the adolescent pup stood at the door and whined for the entire three-and-a-half minutes that the owner was gone. Other household members attempted to offer reassurances and comfort, but these had little effect on the worried doggo. It was only when the owner opened the door with exclamations of “Can you chill?” and “Why are you like this?” that the dog calmed down. Currently, all is calm in the house. (The dog declined to provide a statement for this story.)</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>WEATHER </b></p><p>It is that time of year where it’s hot during the day and cold at night. We recommend wearing shorts but bringing a jacket. Pollen count is very high, with winds expected to exacerbate any allergies. This report is only included to help meet the word count requirement. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>EYE ON SCIENCE: GROWING WEEDS AND DYING LAWNS IN A YEAR OF DROUGHT</b></p><p>It’s that time of year—perennials are coming back, trees are blossoming, and the lawn mower is getting pulled out of the shed. But this year, Utahans are facing a conundrum. Their yards need water, but there isn’t a lot to spare. The state of Utah is currently in one of the worst droughts since the 1970s. With watering restrictions in place, residents have a more pressing question: Why doesn’t the drought prevent the millions of weeds sprouting up? Freelance scientist Rebeth Whitner has been studying the question for years. “The truth is…we don’t know,” Whitner says. “It could have to do with how much water each different plant needs to grow, but so far, our research indicates that there’s no real pattern. It seems like they do this just to spite us.” Whitner and her colleagues at the Center for Plant Science have been conducting experiments since 2014, but their findings have been inconclusive. When can we expect answers? Whitner laughs sardonically. “When hell freezes over,” she says. So in the meantime, wait to water, and just keep spraying those weeds. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>SECRET LIP SYNCING: WHAT MASKS HAVE BEEN HIDING ALL ALONG</b></p><p>With the CDC recently lifting mask guidelines for vaccinated individuals, many are finding this new world has a few challenges to navigate. There’s the obvious uncertainty that comes with the fact that going mask-less is based on the “honor system.” There’s no way to know whether someone is vaccinated or not just by looking at them, sending some into anxiety spirals that can be difficult to come down from. But there are some unforeseen complications as well. One source, who wished to remain anonymous, shared her experience: “I didn’t realize how often I lip sync in stores,” Jane (not her real name) stated. “I’ve been doing it for about a year, and the first time I went out without a mask, I couldn’t figure out why people were staring and smiling.” It took Jane a few minutes to realize she’d been lip syncing to the Bruno Mars song playing over the loudspeakers. While most of us have found mask-wearing a little annoying, many have discovered unexpected benefits. “I went two days without brushing my teeth!” said one source, who also wished to remain anonymous. Others cited being able to cover acne, secretly mouthing rude things to people who walk too slow, and not feeling obligated to smile at friends’ babies. There’s also the benefit of not getting sick as often—while masks prevent the spread of COVID, they also prevent the spread of other infections like the common cold. It will likely be several months before we all adjust to a post-mask-requirement world, and there may be a few growing pains. None of us expected mask requirements to have silver linings, but it turns out there was something to smile about after all. Even if no one could see it. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>GETTING THAT SUMMER BODY! </b></p><p>It’s been a long year and a half! We’re all coming out of isolation and getting ready for a summer of hedonism. Worried about that “quarantine 15”? You’re not alone. But luckily, you are only two steps away from having that “summer body,” and both take little to no effort. Step One: Have a body. Step Two: Experience summer. </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>CORRECTIONS</i></b></p><p><i>Last week we ran a story about a local cat who believed that the entire couch was hers. We erroneously stated that the couch belonged to the humans in the household. We have been informed that the couch is, in fact, the cat’s. </i></p><div><br /></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-50875749802903950062021-05-04T14:48:00.005-07:002021-05-04T14:49:59.956-07:00Full reviews of things half-finished<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UYNlHDFEDms/YJHBeSRNPwI/AAAAAAAAA_U/bEQiyb9k4-MCoCoqAU5UXSHbkBdXSF28ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1080/BOOST_GUEST_BLOG_IMAGE_SET_5_FIVE_STAR_REVIEW_BG_1200x628px_v1_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1080" height="265" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UYNlHDFEDms/YJHBeSRNPwI/AAAAAAAAA_U/bEQiyb9k4-MCoCoqAU5UXSHbkBdXSF28ACLcBGAsYHQ/w424-h265/BOOST_GUEST_BLOG_IMAGE_SET_5_FIVE_STAR_REVIEW_BG_1200x628px_v1_1.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><i><p><i><br /></i></p>***NO SPOILERS INCLUDED; PLEASE DON'T SPOIL IN RETURN***</i><p></p><p><b>New Girl (television sitcom) </b></p><p>I slept on this show for literally a decade, and then A recommended it, and now it’s 2 weeks later and I’m almost done with season 4. I am charmed and delighted by this ensemble-based sitcom. I dismissed this show for so long for a few dumb reasons. One is that I was (am) a hipster with no logic and had this unjustified sense of superiority for “not liking sitcoms.” The other is that I am intimidated by Zooey Deschanel and have an unfounded fear that every straight guy wants me to be her. (That’s probably some internalized misogyny, actually.) But I now adore Zooey’s character Jess, and I’m also deeply in love with Nick Miller. (Crush on TV character = another way I’m currently acting like an 8th grader.) </p><p><b>Shadow & Bone (series on Netflix) </b></p><p>I read the “Six of Crows” series last summer, and then devoured the “Shadow and Bone” trilogy a few months later. Leigh Bardugo has become one of my favorite authors. (Strong focus on characters and relationships, good world-building, suspenseful plots, diversity of all kinds!) The Netflix series combines these two separate series into one story. They take place within the same world, but in different timelines, and are really pretty damn completely different. Six of Crows is all “ragtag group of petty thieves pulling off an epic heist” and Shadow and Bone is all “a girl is the answer to a prophecy about destroying the work of dark magic.” Structurally speaking, so far I think they’ve combined the plots fairly well. I think it technically works, but in all honesty, I think some executive at Netflix made a poor choice in slamming these two stories together. Even if you were just thinking as a dirty capitalist, the fan base absolutely exists to get way more mileage out of this world. They could have done literally twice as many episodes and people would have watched the hell out of it. But too late now, Netflix, so I’ll embrace what is and accept these plots being interwoven. I’m a fan of the art direction/design. I think the casting is fairly perfect, with no A-list stars to distract or “carry”—just capable actors doing good work. (Thank GOD this wasn’t made in the 90s, when studio execs would have cast Leonardo DiCaprio as Kaz for the star power and made every character straight and white and neurotypical.) (Also, I hadn’t realized until I watched the first few episodes of the series that I’d been picturing the Darkling looking a lot like David Bowie. Ben Barnes is much better casting.) </p><p><b>Dear Edward (book) </b></p><p>I dragged myself through 80% of this book. It had so many good reviews on Goodreads, and it was on so many lists, and I always like stories with multiple intersecting perspectives. Maybe I wasn’t in the right mindset or something, but I found this book to be a BUMMER. A whole lotta focus on trauma. Especially about, and from the perspective of, Edward. I imagine the end of the book is probably uplifting somehow. Finding meaning in the tragedy or whatever. But the discovery of the letters felt sort of trite. It was a “Chicken Soup for the Soul” resolution being set up. I spent most of this book hoping for a final chapter like The Goldfinch’s, but eventually decided I didn’t have the patience to get through the rest of the story to get to it (if it existed). </p><p><b>The COVID-19 Pandemic (a pandemic) </b></p><p>I’m mostly including this as a reminder (to myself more than anyone) that the pandemic is not yet over. I got my second shot in early April, and as of Friday, our entire household is vaccinated. Today, I drove past a movie theatre and thought about being able to sit in a darkened room in front of a big screen again and almost cried. I still haven’t eaten IN a restaurant yet, and we’ve had two or three other vaccinated people over, and I just accepted a role in a musical with COVID precautions. So in my corner of the world, things are looking pretty good. Vaccinations are up and infections are down. I still wear a mask when outside the house, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. I give the pandemic as a whole zero stars, but I give the current healing Utah curve a solid four and a half. </p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-34741719035502133572021-04-19T17:50:00.006-07:002021-04-19T17:53:41.289-07:00Parallels to 1998<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9nR3I4eQDNQ/YH4lFspTMBI/AAAAAAAAA-0/ksmN-tw1IssmUX4jKgOywyP0MN7zAHbIgCLcBGAsYHQ/s639/IMG_0956%2B2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="411" height="373" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9nR3I4eQDNQ/YH4lFspTMBI/AAAAAAAAA-0/ksmN-tw1IssmUX4jKgOywyP0MN7zAHbIgCLcBGAsYHQ/w240-h373/IMG_0956%2B2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">In the summer of 1998, I moved from the San Francisco Bay Area to southern Oregon. I would turn 13 that September, and begin my new life as an 8th grader at Talent Middle School. And while I’m turning 36 this year, and that middle school beginning was over two decades ago (!), I’m finding myself at a similar new beginning, with some strange parallels. </div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">I should state that I know that the pandemic is definitely not over. We’ve got variants popping up, and mask mandates and business restrictions ending way too soon, and in general our enthusiasm seems to be outpacing the decline of COVID. </p><p style="text-align: left;">But there does seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel, and after receiving my 2nd vaccine shot, I find my heart readying itself to enter the world again, post-pandemic. </p><p style="text-align: left;">First of all, just like in 1998, I spend a lot of time thinking about whether or not I should shave my legs. Ditto on wearing mascara. I can’t decide if I agree with society’s expectations enough to justify the time spent in meeting them. But I also want the social currency that comes with meeting society’s dumb expectations. Will people still be friends with me if I don’t shave my legs or wear mascara? Because I really want to have friends. </p><p style="text-align: left;">And just like I did in 1998, I feel vaguely uncertain about my social skills. At age 13, I just didn’t have a ton of experience in making and maintaining friendships. At age 35, I’ve got the experience. It’s just that I’ve been hanging out with the same 2-4 people for more than a year and don’t entirely remember how to have conversations. Even social interactions with people I’ve known and loved for years are tinged with a slight uncertainty. There’s an 8th grader inside of me nervously whispering “Did you say the right thing? Should you say something else? What else can you talk about?” </p><p style="text-align: left;">This also means that any successful (AKA not too awkward) human connection is cause for celebration. (A few weeks ago, I chatted with an entire group of people I didn’t know and I wasn’t very awkward and I rode the high of that for like four days.) </p><p style="text-align: left;">And if I'm being completely honest, beyond social interactions, in the back of my mind, there’s the buzzing possibility of romantic interactions. In 8th grade, I didn’t have any plans to date until I was 16, and it would still be a full four years before my first kiss. And okay, maybe the possibility of romance was in the front of my mind in 8th grade. I couldn’t help it. I was a hopeless romantic and Ryan Gosling was stealing my heart as Young Hercules on Fox Kids, and the radio kept playing these sappy songs, and I could see my peers pairing off in halting, hand-holding couples. I kept wondering if it would happen for me. When? With whom? How? Would it be all starlight and dancing in gazebos and poetry, like I dreamed? </p><p style="text-align: left;">I'm pleased to say that as of 2021, I've been able to experience my share of starlight and dancing in gazebos and poetry. But at this point, four years post-divorce and five months post-breakup, some of those questions are beginning to reach up to my heart and head again. Every single relationship I've ever had felt like a fluke. Not quite an accident, but like something I fell into without any planning or expertise on my part. Yes, I've had relationships before, but their initiations don't feel like anything I can replicate. (How does one actually start dating someone? Besides doing a theatre show with them, flirting throughout rehearsal, and then eventually making out?)</p><p style="text-align: left;">But logistics aside, there are more urgent questions. What if I ask someone out and they politely decline? Will I survive that? (Probably?) Or what if my year+ in relative isolation has completely eroded my ability to read any kind of social cues, and I don’t notice if someone is flirting? Or <i>worse</i>, I think they’re flirting when they’re <i>not</i>? </p><p style="text-align: left;">8th grader thoughts. </p><p style="text-align: left;">But there are also some positive parallels between 8th grade and now. I draw comfort from the same sources now that I did when I was younger—from books and movies and music and walks in nature. I feel uncertain of my exact future, but I know what I love and what I want to do, just like I did in 1998. Theatre and writing has been in my bones for as long as I can remember, and I knew even 23 year ago that I wanted to do both of those things. There are days as an adult when I can't get over the beauty of making my 8th grade dreams come true. </p><p style="text-align: left;">1998 definitely had its rough moments. Moving to a completely new state and new school at age 13 is pretty challenging. But in the grand scheme, things turned out okay. </p><p style="text-align: left;">And while I'm sure 2021 will have its rough moments, I think things will turn out okay this year too.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u6aDVo7fAgw/YH4lXgW0F6I/AAAAAAAAA-8/t3UsgMdjfks6gaQfb1eSaAR7M-weQ6OIgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1464/IMG_0567.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1464" data-original-width="1031" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u6aDVo7fAgw/YH4lXgW0F6I/AAAAAAAAA-8/t3UsgMdjfks6gaQfb1eSaAR7M-weQ6OIgCLcBGAsYHQ/w301-h428/IMG_0567.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-68187255696814675542021-04-05T13:33:00.003-07:002021-04-05T13:33:37.342-07:00On mileposts and the question "What's the point?" <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CKFMc6H7yto/YGtz5vSUnGI/AAAAAAAAA-Q/ADmuwcYOFb4p0uLnj16-bspMENSfQZaYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s510/utah-5641320__340.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="510" height="298" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CKFMc6H7yto/YGtz5vSUnGI/AAAAAAAAA-Q/ADmuwcYOFb4p0uLnj16-bspMENSfQZaYwCLcBGAsYHQ/w447-h298/utah-5641320__340.webp" width="447" /></a></div><br /><p>I’ve been thinking a lot about mileposts lately. </p><p>It’s partly because I’ve got a bad case of “itchy feet” lately, which sounds clinical, but is just my phrase for “wanting to travel or explore new places or be someplace that isn’t here.” I’ve been daydreaming about a huge cross-country road trip to see everyone I know and love this summer. I’m planning a trip to Arizona to see some family in May. </p><p>But I also know that I can’t drive for more than about five hours before I start to lose my mind. It’s just too exhausting, and I get tired of music and podcasts and singing and silence and sitting. So I’ve been finding mileposts. Places to stop and rest, to take a break and refill my strength before I keep going. </p><p>If I had more time and hadn’t procrastinated this blog entry, I would have written much more poetic and symbolic drafts of this essay before posting the perfect and complete version of it. But I’ll have to tell instead of show this time. </p><p>Because the last year or so has been the longest metaphorical road trip of my life. It has been for all of us. Pandemic aside, mine has included everything from the sudden and unexpected death of a dear friend to childhood cancer in the family to rejection from dream jobs to the break up of a serious relationship. And I’m tired. Tired enough that my brain started asking, “What’s the point?” </p><p>In the last two months or so, so many small to medium-sized hardships just kept happening. It began to feel relentless. None of them were anyone’s fault, necessarily, and most were just perfectly reasonable and un-preventable circumstances, that also happened to make me miserable. </p><p>My brain was asking “What’s the point?” often enough that at the suggestion of my therapist and doctor, I finally raised my dose of antidepressants, and after a week or so of adjusting, it’s made a wonderful difference. </p><p>But the other thing that’s helped me is these sort of metaphorical mileposts. Moments when I could rest and refill before I carry on. Some have been planned—a massage, a haircut, a weekend getaway. Some were tiny things I chose in the moment. Looking up at the stars before I go inside, after coming home from Door Dashing. Opening a window to listen to birdsong or rainfall. Letting my body sleep when it needs to sleep. </p><p>But some of the most beautiful mileposts were ones that were unexpected gifts. A late night text conversation about travel and magic and tarot readings. A friend stopping by unexpectedly—sitting in the sun and talking for an hour about art and how our bodies hold stories. A book that unexpectedly captured my heart (I see you, “The Kiss Quotient” by Helen Hoang). A rehearsal where the actors are making beautiful discoveries and creating stunning moments. Moments of magic. The other day, I was waiting to pick up a Door Dash order in a Five Guys, and noticed a Pearl Jam song playing over the speakers. As I got back into my car, my iTunes on shuffle, I thought “I wish my iTunes would shuffle to a Pearl Jam song” and immediately, my iTunes began playing “Wishlist” by Pearl Jam. </p><p>There are times when the road trip we’re metaphorically on is so enjoyable that we don’t even notice how long we’ve been in the car, or that we’re in a car at all. And other times when it begins to feel relentless. When we start to wonder “What’s the point?” So on the long drive from Salt Lake City to Tucson, Arizona, I’m stopping at both Zion National Park and the Grand Canyon. I’m giving myself mileposts where I can rest and breathe and refill before I keep going. And the trip itself is a metaphorical milepost in the longer journey of this spring and summer, one with so many unknowns and a few quiet longings. </p><p>I don’t think there’s one “right” way to go through difficult times. But I’ve discovered that for me, having mileposts helps to answer the question “What’s the point?” The point is a visit to see my mom and sister in Arizona in May. The point is that talk with T on the front patio. The point is theatre. The point is magic and starlight and the universe answering prayers in the form of songs shuffled on iTunes and good books. </p><p>Some mileposts are solid and scheduled, like a second COVID vaccine dose or a roadtrip. But the more I look for them, the more I see mileposts to give me strength day to day. And even though it’s cheesy, I thank the universe for them. </p><div><br /></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-32630068474437536902021-03-22T16:15:00.004-07:002021-03-22T16:15:23.643-07:00Dashing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ltfMBcos3h4/YFkkuGjVwPI/AAAAAAAAA9k/MqfoY5lGq0Ym6RnuBCCI-3y1M1zPgbanACLcBGAsYHQ/s262/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="193" data-original-width="262" height="253" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ltfMBcos3h4/YFkkuGjVwPI/AAAAAAAAA9k/MqfoY5lGq0Ym6RnuBCCI-3y1M1zPgbanACLcBGAsYHQ/w344-h253/images.jpeg" width="344" /></a></div><p>Welcome to Door Dash! We’re pleased you’ve decided to become a “Dasher.” You probably started doing this as a “temporary gig,” but you may find that it becomes one of the best jobs you’ve ever had, if you’re a slightly rebellious type who doesn’t like being told what to do. There’s almost complete freedom, you can consistently make around $20 per hour, and it’s mostly driving around while listening to music or podcasts. You don’t even really have to schedule yourself. Just dash when you feel like it. </p><p>But as a new dasher, there are a few things you should know. </p><p>People will not always leave their porch lights on, have a clearly visible address on their house, nor leave detailed instructions on how to reach their apartment number within a sprawling labyrinth of a complex. You may occasionally find yourself wandering around with a full meal from Popeye’s for ten minutes before finding your destination. You may consider writing a strongly worded letter to the universe in general, requesting that your destinations always be well-lit and easy to find. </p><p>While the Dasher app has the ability to connect to your phone’s GPS system, this is not always reliable. You could discover that in your attempt to deliver McDonald’s to a family in Magna, your phone has guided you to the abandoned Saltair Pavilion, a dilapidated venue on the edge of the Great Salt Lake. These kinds of misadventures can be avoided by making sure the location in the Dasher app and the location in the Maps app are the same. </p><p>Some people will be assholes. They will come out of their houses without masks and expect you to hand them their food, which you will either reluctantly do, or more often, you’ll set their food down on the ground and walk away because there’s a pandemic still happening. Some people will also be assholes by not tipping. You don’t have to take those orders. You can ignore them. </p><p>If you’ve struggled in the past with the difference between left and right, in part due to years of being both an actor/dancer and a director/choreographer, where stage left and stage right are opposite of your left and right when looking at the stage, you may find that following GPS instructions regularly will help improve your ability to tell the difference. Spending hours each day being told to turn either left or right with pictures and arrows to guide you will kind of start to embed the difference more solidly in your brain. </p><p>You’ll also grow more deeply familiar with the area in which you live in general. You’ll start to patch together neighborhoods and highways and areas into a more comprehensive mental map. It will be deeply satisfying. </p><p>You’ll also grow familiar with restaurants in your area, and learn their quirks and what to expect. An order from that Boba place will usually take 10 minutes longer than stated, but you’ll get to watch KPOP videos on the large TV in the lobby while you wait. One restaurant chain will not serve Dashers through the drive-thru, but this other one prefers it. That cookie place always pays well, and the customers tip like gangbusters. Never take a grocery delivery from Walmart unless you know how big it is. </p><p>Note that there are a dozen hotels near the airport and that the drive is a bit of a pain, but the tips are usually worth it. Also not that the FBI has a large, nondescript office building in the same area. You’ll discover this because one day you’ll deliver Panda Express to a friendly employee there. </p><p>You may, on some nights, find yourself wishing that no one else would be on the roads while you are driving, ever. You may long to cruise through town, unhindered by other drivers, not needing to deal with long lines, lights that are slow to change, or people who don’t understand speed limits and/or turn signals. This is normal. Take a few deep breaths. </p><p>If at all possible, drive a car that has infinite cupholders. You will need to be able to transport your water bottle, a separate drink for yourself if you’re fancy, customer drinks, and your phone. A 2012 Compact Toyota Prius will have excellent gas mileage, but not enough cupholders. </p><p>Keep your eyes open. Not just for safety, but for wonder. There will be evenings when the sunset sky looks so spectacular it will seem like a painting. You may see a white rabbit nibbling in the grass of someone’s front yard. You’ll get two orders in a row for two different people named “Gray.” Look for magic. There are little altars everywhere.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uoxJyeQ9zuY/YFkk0GZT5fI/AAAAAAAAA9s/HSF13D-mPlcmp3cAP_WQM3zXKPyD_sDrACLcBGAsYHQ/s1440/149700114_10103615522637384_7269496542735449672_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="376" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uoxJyeQ9zuY/YFkk0GZT5fI/AAAAAAAAA9s/HSF13D-mPlcmp3cAP_WQM3zXKPyD_sDrACLcBGAsYHQ/w376-h376/149700114_10103615522637384_7269496542735449672_o.jpg" width="376" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-6264639631197424572021-03-10T15:52:00.005-08:002021-04-24T14:51:05.939-07:00Mental Health Life Buoy/Cheat Sheet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CLu9Cb9lN6Q/YElaiXEDO-I/AAAAAAAAA8s/X2JjTszvuxA2hsNNTvQYisxBZkwHNFmkgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/25277430465_f863396dbe_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="294" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CLu9Cb9lN6Q/YElaiXEDO-I/AAAAAAAAA8s/X2JjTszvuxA2hsNNTvQYisxBZkwHNFmkgCLcBGAsYHQ/w522-h294/25277430465_f863396dbe_o.jpg" width="522" /></a></div><p>Okay, so this blog entry has been in my drafts for…months? Years? Honestly, it would have been more helpful to post this last spring, when we were all reeling from the new pandemic-y world we were living in, but I was also reeling so it’s getting posted now. </p><p>VERY IMPORTANT DISCLOSURE: I AM NOT A THERAPIST. I am not an expert in mental health. I’m sharing the things I’ve learned from years of being IN therapy and living with Major Depressive Disorder, studying brain/nervous system function because I’m a nerd, reading books, and following a bunch of Instagram accounts about mental health. None of this should be considered professional advice. I’m only sharing what is helpful for me, and the reasons behind those things. If you can afford it, I highly recommend speaking with a professional.</p><p>I also have to recognize the irony of me posting this at a moment when my own mental health is not great, but whatever. </p><p>Okay. So here’s one of the most helpful things I’ve ever done for my mental health: have a cheat sheet. I’ll share mine, and also a “blank” one for your own use, and you’re welcome to adapt it in any way you see fit! Here are the details on mine, and the reasons behind making it. </p><p>When we’re in crisis, big or small, it’s really hard to think clearly. Our brains are too busy trying to keep us safe/alive to be able to do some higher executive function task like make a list of what we need and then figure out what to do to meet those needs. So in moments of non-crisis, you can pre-make that list and keep it handy for when the crisis moments hit.</p><p>I’ve organized mine into linear steps, because most of the time, this “order of operations” works really well for me. Here's my "life buoy"/mental health cheat sheet:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fd1IPaCB2Lo/YElfhc2ELZI/AAAAAAAAA9A/mpqL3xDqlIki5F2Ol3X460WwduEB-ed3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/HELP%2BFINAL%2B11X17%2B%25281%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1325" height="945" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fd1IPaCB2Lo/YElfhc2ELZI/AAAAAAAAA9A/mpqL3xDqlIki5F2Ol3X460WwduEB-ed3QCLcBGAsYHQ/w613-h945/HELP%2BFINAL%2B11X17%2B%25281%2529.png" width="613" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><b><i>Step One: </i></b><span>Breathe. Breathing intentionally and deeply helps calm your nervous system down when you’re feeling anxious or stressed, and definitely won’t hurt if you’re feeling depressed. For me, breathing is a good way to sort of tune back in to the present moment, and primes my brain for whatever else I need to do. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Step Two: </b></i>Check in on the basic needs. Have you eaten, slept, and/or moved your body recently? I can’t tell you how many deep emotional crises I’ve had that were basically solved with a snack and a nap. BECAUSE WE ARE ALL TODDLERS. At least I am. And even when the crisis wasn’t SOLVED with a snack and a nap, those things always help shrink the crisis down to a more manageable size. Our brain function is impaired when we don’t eat or sleep, so providing it with those things helps us get the right neurons firing again. As far as moving your body, a 20-minute walk or 10-minute yoga session can also help calm your nervous system. There’s this crazy cool thing where bilateral stimulation (left-right movement) calms the vagus nerve, which sounds woo-woo but is actually true(-woo). If you’re not able to meet those needs for food, sleep, and movement right away, then remind yourself that these things are probably exacerbating whatever crisis is happening.</p><p><i><b>Step Three: </b></i>If breathing, snacking, sleeping, and moving aren’t helping quite enough, move on to the more specific needs. Some of the questions and answers on this list are pretty specific to me, but some are more universal. </p><p><i>Do you feel lonely? </i>Make a connection—send a text or message just to say hi, or have a conversation with a friend. </p><p><i>Do you feel “anxious attachment” panic? </i>Are you worried that you’ll lose someone, or that they don’t love you enough? Take a few deep breaths, then forge a connection with someone else (a safe person that you feel secure attachment to). </p><p><i>How long has it been since you’ve been touched? </i>If it’s been a minute, find someone or something to cuddle, or book a massage. </p><p><i>Is there something that you're avoiding? </i>Try writing in your journal to get to it. You can also try going on a walk to think about it, or doing some visual art about your feelings. </p><p><i>Do you feel unattractive? </i>Do something to help you feel appreciative of your body. Shave your legs, give yourself a pedicure or manicure, do a face mask, soak your feet, or take a shower/bath.</p><p><i>How are your hormones doing? </i>If you're PMS-ing, that may be affecting your mood.</p><p><i>Are you procrastinating a task? </i>Google Image search an example of the finished product, then tell yourself to do the thing, but you only need to do it for 5 minutes at a time, and then take a 5-minute break. Or "lean in" to figure out why you're procrastinating, then address that reason.</p><p><i>Do you feel ineffective? </i>Accomplish some small thing. Sweep the floor, make the bed, clean the toilet, send the email. Just ONE thing. If you can’t do the one thing, do one thing half-way.</p><p><i>Do you feel overwhelmed? </i>Take a moment to sit down and make a to do list. Remind yourself that you can totally do the things on the list, and that you only have to do them one at a time, and if you have to put a few things off until tomorrow, that’s okay.</p><p><i>Have you waited a few days? </i>Most things work themselves out on their own. Give yourself some time, and then check in again. Practice letting yourself feel the distress without needing to do anything about it.</p><p><b><i>Step Four:</i></b> If it turns out that there isn’t anything specific going on, or if you’re not able to fix the circumstances making you unhappy (*cough* pandemic *cough*), or your brain just isn’t making the helpful chemicals, then move on to the go-to self-care activities. Feel free to take suggestions from my list, and add your own! </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Take a hot shower or bath</li><li>Use the HeadSpace app and do a mindfulness session</li><li>Do some visual art—paint, collage, sketch, photography, cross-stitch</li><li>Read a good book</li><li>Write some poetry</li><li>Take a social media break for at least 24 hours</li><li>Watch a favorite movie or TV show</li><li>Listen to a favorite podcast</li><li>Watch some YouTube videos of cool dances, cute babies, or funny animals</li><li>Genuine laughter: Watch a comedy special or some YouTube bloopers</li><li>Spend time in nature</li><li>Go on an exploratory drive</li><li>Do a puzzle or play a game</li><li>Say some affirmations (“I am valuable, it’s gonna be okay, I am loved and lovable, I will get through this”)</li><li>Masturbate</li><li>Clean or organize something</li><li>Sing (YouTube karaoke or while on a drive)</li><li>Have a big ole cry</li><li>Reach out to trusted loved ones and ask for encouraging words or funny memes</li><li>Make a meaningful connection with a loved one (text, talk, visit)</li><li>Cuddle a friend, significant other, or a pet</li><li>Get a massage</li></ul><i><b>Step Five: </b></i>Get some professional help. If you’re consistently in “crisis,” or if the crisis is deep enough that none of the other things are helping, turn yourself over to the experts. As a reminder, crisis hotlines aren’t just for those who are contemplating self-harm in the moment—it’s for those who just need some help through whatever’s going on. And sometimes the hospital is the best choice to help get you on your feet again. I stayed in a psychiatric hospital for a few days back in 2017, and it was challenging but truly one of the best things I’ve ever done. It saved my life. Having info on your local psychiatric unit on hand is helpful because if you’re in crisis, you may not be able to think clearly enough to look it all up. <p></p><p><br /></p><p><i>Important thought that’s not included on the mental health cheat sheet, but that I think is really important: </i></p><p>There’s a difference between distraction and processing. Both have their place, but it’s really helpful to note which you’re doing, when, and why. Distraction is doing something in your mind/body that helps regulate your nervous system and bring you down to a kind of “stasis.” Sometimes it’s intentionally moving away from whatever the issue is, but for me it’s helpful to think of it as calming yourself enough to process later. Processing is doing something in your mind/body that allows you to work through an issue now. </p><p>I’m learning, much to my dismay, that if something needs to be processed, I can do it now or I can do it later, but it’ll need to be done at some point, and if I don’t do it now, it might affect my relationships and self-worth in the long run, so if I can, I might as well do it now. Even then, I still sometimes need some time to calm down with distraction.</p><p>Please feel free to take what works for you from this, and disregard the rest! (And also, please please please remember that I’m not a therapist! I’m only sharing what has been helpful for me. I cannot speak for others, and I definitely cannot speak for the psychological community.) </p><p>Here are a few other resources that have been helpful for me! </p><p>BOOK: “Burnout” by Emily and Amelia Nagosky</p><p>BOOK: “The Anxiety and Phobia Workbook” by Edmund Bourne</p><p>BOOK: “The Body Keeps the Score” by Bessel van der Kolk</p><p>INSTAGRAM: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/findmywellbeing/?hl=en" target="_blank">@findmywellbeing</a></p><p>INSTAGRAM: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/the.holistic.psychologist/?hl=en">@the.holistic.psychologist</a></p><p>APP: Headspace</p><p>APP: Calm Harm</p><p>APP: Yoga Studio (by Gaiam)</p><p>IDEA: Attachment Theory</p><p>And here's a blank version of my print out! It's 11 x 17 inches, because that was a standard printing size that was also big enough to write things clearly and largely enough. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_4RC1Wc4D6U/YElfxOF1yWI/AAAAAAAAA9I/E3LQPFDjktgCWW4MQQ51S7ii488mDr96wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Copy%2Bof%2BHELP%2BFINAL%2B11X17%2B%25281%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1325" height="977" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_4RC1Wc4D6U/YElfxOF1yWI/AAAAAAAAA9I/E3LQPFDjktgCWW4MQQ51S7ii488mDr96wCLcBGAsYHQ/w632-h977/Copy%2Bof%2BHELP%2BFINAL%2B11X17%2B%25281%2529.png" width="632" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div>Now go be well! <div><br /><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo credit <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/chrismartinuk/" target="_blank">Christopher Martin</a></span></div></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-29530491069966413182021-02-22T16:32:00.003-08:002021-02-22T16:32:30.262-08:00Flash Fiction: "Self Help" <p><i> A "dive" into some fiction today, which I don't spend enough time writing. I found and polished up this old story from one of my MFA classes. At the time, I was interested in the idea of self-help gone awry, and the prompt I was given for class was "swimming pool." </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p7RnhrQrOZk/YDRMjzt9auI/AAAAAAAAA8A/vu8JGVyPFbIho8y950NMZpiAzZkWB8VAwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/6260897866_c65be76ba4_k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="354" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p7RnhrQrOZk/YDRMjzt9auI/AAAAAAAAA8A/vu8JGVyPFbIho8y950NMZpiAzZkWB8VAwCLcBGAsYHQ/w472-h354/6260897866_c65be76ba4_k.jpg" width="472" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">"Self Help"</p><p>Laura Lundquist did not have a swimming pool. </p><p>She lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment, ten minutes away from the marketing firm where she worked. She had no dog, no cat, and no houseplants. She spent her evenings watching documentaries and foreign films, and trying new recipes, the results of which often languished in her fridge for weeks before she threw them out.</p><p>Walking into her apartment after work, the July heat radiating on her skin and hair, Laura imagined slipping out of her clothes and into the cool chlorine of Noah’s pool. She’d dangled her feet in it at last year’s work party, and he had smiled at her briefly, as she sat alone. She spent that afternoon watching him, and trying to hide the fact that she was watching him, and trying to figure out whether or not he was watching her. The hairs on the back of her arms stood up whenever he walked close by. </p><p>Perhaps his invitation hadn’t been personal. Laura was a part of the head count. Noah just happened to be hosting that year’s work BBQ, and they happened to work together. Still. She felt hypnotized by the way the sunlight glistened on his warm arms, or how the water gathered on the hairs near his ankles. When he laughed, it was like firecrackers in her lungs…joyful and suffocating all at once. </p><p>When it all became too blinding, she’d stood up from the side of the pool and quietly walked into the house. In the bathroom, she had pulled open drawers, peeked into the cabinets. She had categorized the inventory of his private life. Old Spice High Endurance Pure Sport Deodorant. Colgate whitening toothpaste. A razor that needed cleaning. All of these intimate things. Answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask. </p><p>With music playing distantly outside, and the chatter of co-workers on the back porch, she had quietly opened doors until she found his bedroom. She’d run her hands along the row of clean shirts in his closet, and sat gingerly on his bed. For a few brief moments, she laid back with her legs dangling over the edge, his comforter had been cool beneath her as she’d stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, her arms stretched out to either side.</p><p>In the office, he never looked up from his desk when she walked past. But she had seen him, four desks down, slip his shoes off as he worked. She watched him twirl a pen between his fingers as he bent down over his sketchpad. She’d seen his lunch in the office fridge. </p><p>It was late July now, weeks since that party at Noah’s house. Laura closed the apartment door behind her and pulled her dress over her head. She kicked her shoes off as she walked to the bedroom. Her sheets were cool on her back as she stared at the ceiling. She ran her hand along her neck. </p><p>What she wanted was to swim in Noah’s pool. She wanted to come home to that backyard. She imagined him sitting with his feet dangling in the water, smiling at her as the water cooled her limbs. She imagined that he would ask her about the book she was reading, and if Marie from accounting was still ignoring her emails. And all of the thoughts that Laura had tumbling through her head would have a second home in Noah, and she would be able to breathe again. She would drown, smiling, in his love. </p><p>Laura’s mother thought that Laura was depressed, because “she never went out and didn’t have any friends.” Laura replied that she liked being home and had friends at work. Laura arrived home one day to a package from her mother, containing four different types of vitamins, two DVDs of “guided positive affirmations,” and a book called “Taking Charge of Your Life: Going For (And Getting) What You Want.” </p><p>In late August, Laura made her decision.</p><p>His back gate was unlocked. Laura stepped into the back yard and walked to the edge of the pool. She stepped out of her shoes and pulled her shirt over her head. She unzipped her skirt and let it fall, unhooked her bra, and stepped out of her underwear. </p><p>She took a deep breath, and jumped into the blue-green, undulating water. Laura floated there, her face tilted to the sky, her arms making lazy circles. </p><p>She didn’t hear the gate unlatch. So she was startled when she heard the voice she had been imagining. <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p>“Who the hell are you?” </p><p><br /></p><p><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/charlottedownie/">Charlotte Astrid</a></span></i></p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-30121226950973099232021-02-08T09:46:00.000-08:002021-02-08T09:46:08.428-08:00“I am to wait, though waiting so be hell." --William Shakespeare, Sonnet 58<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DO1W2_Tmmto/YCF4kxiGLPI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/aTVwEr2EDm01GGukjZkuWDaG-O_u7g11gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Pause_Button.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DO1W2_Tmmto/YCF4kxiGLPI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/aTVwEr2EDm01GGukjZkuWDaG-O_u7g11gCLcBGAsYHQ/w426-h266/Pause_Button.png" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p><i>“I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises.” </i></p><p><i>--Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2</i></p><p><br /></p><p>I know we’re all sick of the pandemic, but I don’t know what else to write about. It touches almost every aspect of my life right now. I feel myself in a sort of uncomfortable limbo…I’m living in suspended animation and I do not like it. I have all of these goals, for my career, for my finances, for my art, for my LIFE, and all of them are temporarily on hold because of this goddamn virus. </p><p>I’ve applied to one particular job that would start in the fall, and it would literally be a dream come true to get it. But they haven’t begun interviews for it yet (that I know of), and I know they’re busy managing pandemic-related challenges at the moment, and so I wait, though waiting so be hell. </p><p>I also applied to different temp job, assisting with vaccine site coordination, and it pays literally 4x what my current job pays, and it would be doing something to help end the pandemic. When I spoke to them last week, they said they were 95% sure I was going to be selected for the next group, but I haven’t heard from them yet. And so I wait, though waiting so be hell. </p><p>I have my fingers crossed for travel to see family, hopefully this fall. But it’s all dependent on the pandemic and whether or not we’re all vaccinated and how safe travel is in general. And we won’t really know the answers to those things until later this summer, or maybe fall. And so I wait, though waiting so be hell. </p><p>I also find myself longing to spend time with friends. I’m generally pretty introverted, but all I want is to get together with a bunch of people and go out dancing, or have a party, or do karaoke, or sit around a bonfire and talk, or have a movie night. I want to hold and be held, and to sit in company of others I love. I did luck out in the people I’m sheltered at home with—A and K are magnificent humans. It’s just that I long for others, too. But the general public probably won’t get vaccinated for another several months, and it’s not safe to gather until then. And so I wait, though waiting so be hell. </p><p>And oh, how I miss live theatre! I miss rehearsals, and blocking, and greenroom laughter, and dressing room talks, and making discoveries in a scene, and the energy that crackles between the audience and performers. I’ve found myself longing for my old Playmill summer-stock days lately. What a dream to sing and dance and act, 13 times a week, for months on end, in such a beautiful place. If someone offered me the chance to safely do “Seven Brides” or “Joseph” at the Playmill again, I would do it in a heartbeat. But doing live theatre, without masks or distancing, simply isn’t safe right now. We need to wait on vaccination. And so I wait, though waiting so be hell. </p><p>There are a few other tangible things I can’t do anything but wait for. My tax refund. Another possible stimulus payment (we’re waiting, Congress!). I’m waiting for spring, when we can plant things and continue our yardwork projects. We’re doing some re-organizing at AOTC and I want it to be finalized so I can get going on whatever my job ends up being. </p><p>And there are other, more intangible things that only time will give me. Healing from recent heartbreaks. Processing old traumas. Breaking old patterns and building new ones. I feel like those are in progress, which helps lift some of my anxiety about this time of waiting, but because that progress isn’t quite tangible, it can be hard to notice. </p><p>On Sunday night, I drove around West Valley and Taylorsville and sang the entire soundtrack to “Reefer Madness” because I felt like I was going to lose my mind if I was in my house for one more minute. It did help…I may have to do it dozens more times with other soundtracks until something in my life is certain again. </p><p>But in the mean time, I wait, though waiting so be hell.</p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-6192719372836592842021-01-25T14:47:00.002-08:002021-03-13T13:49:05.844-08:00"You are the cause of my euphoria": A BTS Love Letter<p>This is the part in the romantic comedy when I realize I’ve been wrong about them the whole time. </p><p>They were right there, for so long, and I just didn’t see it. I was foolish and I was prideful and I locked my heart away in the name of artistic integrity and I was wrong about all of it. </p><p>And now I’m just a girl, standing in front of a KPop group, asking them to keep making music and videos and art and concerts.</p><p>There are people in my life who love fiercely and bravely, without shame or pretense. I want to love like that. So this is my love letter to BTS. </p><p>They've been around since 2013, but didn't come into my life until the end of last year, when my roommate Ali showed us their <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFYAXsa7pe8">Tiny Desk concert</a>, shortly after her own love began to develop. For weeks (months?), she sent me and K memes and clips, showed us episodes of Run BTS. And I was definitely charmed. Of course each member is gorgeous and talented, and the few songs I heard were catchy. But in my hipster head, it was <i>K-Pop</i>. I was raised on Queen and Mozart and the Beatles. My iTunes is full of Tom Waits and Spoon and Fiona Apple. “Real” music. I thought of K-Pop as pastel bubble gum corporate nonsense, with a fandom of screaming teenage girls, in a world I had no connection to. </p><p>This is the part of the story where I admit that I was a fool.</p><p>I don't know how or when the switch happened. I can't point to the exact moment when I fell in love. But somehow the memes Ali was sending me started to get under my skin, and I thought, "Well, I just want to learn their names." </p><p>Famous last words. (This is literally a joke in the fandom. We all start by just wanting to know their names.) And then I fell hard and fast. </p><p>First of all, before I get any further into it, anything I have to say, <a href="https://www.esquire.com/entertainment/music/a34654383/bts-members-be-album-interview-2020/ " target="_blank">this Esquire article </a>says better, so feel free to just read that. Or this older <a href="https://ew.com/music/2019/03/28/bts-exclusive-cover-story/">article from Entertainment Weekly</a>. But for my own personal thoughts, read on.</p><p>KPop is an intense industry in Korea—there are trainee programs that churn out pop groups every few years and promote them while training the next ones. The idols and groups that populate the stages of Korea are marketed products. And part of the reason I love BTS so much is because while they occupy that space of being products, they also seem to subvert and defy the industry in many ways, just by being so deeply and genuinely THEMSELVES. </p><p>Wait. </p><p>Lemme introduce you to the boys. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1qDpfOodoR0/YAr6_1NrIqI/AAAAAAAAA6M/3tDuxRa5rBEFDqQh8bhF2QCGtqNPmoYOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/BLOG.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="349" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1qDpfOodoR0/YAr6_1NrIqI/AAAAAAAAA6M/3tDuxRa5rBEFDqQh8bhF2QCGtqNPmoYOwCLcBGAsYHQ/w665-h349/BLOG.jpg" width="665" /></a></div><br /><p>From left to right: </p><p>Suga (Min Yoongi, Yoongi, solo work under Agust-D). Rap line. Probably one of the best rappers of our generation? Dry humor exterior, deeply caring interior. (Check out <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGjAWJ2zWWI " target="_blank">the music video for his solo track Daechwita</a>, with cameos by fellow BTS members Jin and Jungkook.)</p><p>J-Hope (Jung Hoseok, Hoseok, Hobi). Dancer, rap line. Human sunshine. Everyone, including me, saw him during <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T4x7sDevVTY " target="_blank">Carpool Karaoke</a> and asked “Who’s the guy in the middle?” </p><p>Jin (Kim Seokjin, Seokjinnie, Jinnie, “World Wide Handsome”). Vocals, visual. Oldest of the group. Caring older brother, king of dad jokes. </p><p>Jungkook (Jeon Jungkook, Kookie, JK, “Golden Maknae”). Vocals, dancer, visual. The youngest of the group, or the “maknae.” Good at almost everything he tries. </p><p>RM (Kim Namjoon, Namjoon, Rap Monster, “God of Destruction”). Rap line, incredible lyricist. Leader of the group. (Also spokesperson and translator, since he’s the most fluent in English.) </p><p>Jimin (Park Jimin, Jiminie). Dancer, vocals, visual. Astonishingly talented dancer. Besties with V. </p><p>V (Kim Taehyung, Taehyung, Tae). Vocals, dancer, visual. Breathy and ethereal vocals, incredible fashion sense. Besties with Jimin.</p><p>The seven boys have practically grown up together—they each joined the trainee program as teenagers, and Jungkook was only 14 when he started. When they debuted in 2013, their ages ranged from 16 to 21. And after all those years together, their friendship is so deeply evident in all of the HOURS of content available to watch (concert footage, Run BTS, Bon Voyage, In the Soop, V-Lives, fancams, BTS bombs, and memes and clips from all of the above). They care so much about each other and it’s my favorite thing. (Leader RM has said that the members think of each other as something between friends and family, and the editor of the Japanese magazine CREA once said "BTS love each other so much they don't know what to do.")</p><p>And the music. Oh dear readers, the music. I came to BTS in a weird sort of backwards way—I became a fan just from watching other content, and listened to hardly any of their music for weeks. And then I listened to “Love Yourself: Tear” front to back and it was over.</p><p>I could spend a bunch of time listing all of their record-shattering stats on Billboard and album sales. I could go into detail about KPop trainee programs and their vigorous schedules and how hard these boys have worked to get where they are. I could tell you how <i>quickly</i> they sell out stadiums. I could tell you about all the social media records they've shattered, and then shattered again. But you can Google all that. </p><p>Instead I’ll just extol the hard-hitting synchronization of the dance rehearsal for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBzr2udonZI " target="_blank">No More Dream</a>. (This video is from the year they debuted, so Jungkook is only 15 here.) Or the enthusiasm and passion in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkuEzN8IS_o " target="_blank">the dance rehearsal for On</a>. The stunning vocals and desperation of the track <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OKdDc119Lzk" target="_blank">House of Cards</a>. The lyrical sensuality of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8z1TtlY1no&t=60s" target="_blank">choreo in Blood, Sweat, and Tears.</a> The classical beauty of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0lapF4DQPKQ " target="_blank">music video for Black Swan</a>. The dark sexiness of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOoQASUhW88">Jimin performing Filter live</a>. The playfulness of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1i_x2_TGE0" target="_blank">the dance rehearsal for Baepsae</a>. And good night, the enormous, over-the-top intensity of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-0v1fNVdas&t=1841s" target="_blank">Dionysus at the 2019 MMA awards.</a> (The entire performance is like 40 minutes long—start at 29:14 to see Dionysus; FLASH/STROBE WARNING from 34:16 - 36:05.) </p><p>The boys in BTS are also <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NS6hRfAOHFQ" target="_blank">big ole goofballs</a>, which is effing delightful. But even more beautiful to me is the genuine love the members BTS have for not only each other, but for their fans. It’s evident in their TinyTan videos like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7BMF0ozFS0" target="_blank">this one for Dream On</a>. In the way they always thank ARMY (what BTS fans call themselves) in every album and every concert and every interview. And words fall short for the hope and beauty I feel watching the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5q5mZbe3V8" target="_blank">music video for Life Goes On</a>. It feels like a such a gift. It’s this lovely poignant look at this pandemic-driven moment in history. Watching it, I felt so deeply that we belong to each other, we human beings, and that the future holds beauty for us all. (Also, the music video was directed by BTS’ own golden maknae, Jungkook, because he’s wondrous.) </p><p>I think part of the reason I love BTS is because watching them reminds me of what it’s like to be with a bunch of theatre kids. It makes me feel the same way I did hanging out with cast-mates in Yellowstone during Playmill summers, or talking in the parking lot after a show at a theatre somewhere, or sitting at a cast party and laughing about everything that went wrong during the run of a show, or messing around in the greenroom before curtain or backstage. Watching BTS perform feels familiar too—sharing the stage with people you care about, doing what you love together, hyping each other up and celebrating each other's success, and having moments to shine yourself, and having SO MUCH FUN while doing it. </p><p>I also love that they’re challenging some toxic masculinity in the rest of the world just by being themselves. In Korea, men and boys are much more physically affectionate with one another—arms around shoulders, hugs, shoulder rubs, sitting on each other’s laps, etc. There’s even a name for this kind of affection…“skinship.” A lot of this kind of behavior is coded as “homosexual” or “girly” or “weak” in America, and therefore unacceptable for many straight men. (One time in college, two guys I knew accidentally brushed hands while passing food to one another and one of them recoiled and said emphatically “No contacting man-flesh!”) By comparison, members of BTS share beds when they travel and cuddle up on couches together and slap butts regularly. A lot of Americans/non-Koreans see this and make assumptions about sexual orientation, but these KPop boys are literally just being their affectionate selves. </p><p>And while we’re on the subject of breaking gender norms, GIVE ME BOYS IN MAKEUP ALWAYS. Have you seen these boys <a href="https://www.allure.com/gallery/best-bts-beauty-looks" target="_blank">rocking lipstick and eye shadow</a>?! Life-changing. For concerts and photo-shoots and occasionally everyday life, the boys don lace and chokers and bracelets and earrings and eyeliner and I am here for all of it. </p><p>The K-Pop industry isn’t without its issues. Despite all of the makeup and same-sex touching, Korea is still homophobic. There’s an obsession with personal appearance that pushes folks into disordered eating. The trainee programs for idols can be grueling and overly controlling and downright abusive. The music industry in Korea can be exploitative (see "fan service"). There are legitimate reasons to criticize Kpop as an industry. But sometimes our reasons for dismissing KPop (and BTS) have more to do with internalized bullshit that doesn't hold up to any real scrutiny. That Esquire article I linked above really said it best: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jgbwMO05j90/YA9HNEIq2wI/AAAAAAAAA6w/s-5bm1tdHAATJ6emkfu_5pk31u3sSPBJACLcBGAsYHQ/s960/131349754_10103530562962254_496929993658909615_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="960" height="358" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jgbwMO05j90/YA9HNEIq2wI/AAAAAAAAA6w/s-5bm1tdHAATJ6emkfu_5pk31u3sSPBJACLcBGAsYHQ/w561-h358/131349754_10103530562962254_496929993658909615_n.jpg" width="561" /></a></div><br /><p>I originally intended to convert you all with this blog. But you're under no obligation to love or even be interested in BTS. Like Ali said to me once, people come to the boys if and when they’re ready. It took me a while to come to them. There’s a whole wealth of knowledge, an entire vocabulary, a slew of inside jokes that you learn as you become an ARMY. You may make a few incorrect assumptions because of your American perspective at first, like I did. (<a href="https://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-1324-the-6-strangest-things-nobody-tells-you-about-life-in-korea.html " target="_blank">This article</a> is a helpful guide in giving context to Korean media.) If you do come to the boys, be forewarned that they will probably come for you, one after another. You’ll cycle through a specific phase of love for each of them. </p><p>One of my other original intentions in writing this blog was to defend myself and my love for the boys, to get ahead of the shaming or teasing I anticipate (perhaps falsely). But I don’t want to do that either. I just want to love them. Fiercely and bravely. </p><p>Yes, BTS can be a distraction from the woes of our current timeline (pandemic, lack of COVID-safe theatre work, financial worries, recent breakup). But BTS is more than that. They offer hope and light and music and love in a world that’s uncertain, pandemic or not. I know it's cheesy, but I thank the universe that I'm alive on earth at the same time as BTS, and that Ali found the boys and then shared them with me. </p><p>I love BTS because of their talent, their humor, their individual quirks, their attractiveness, their friendship. We stan a group that stans their fans and each other. When we see BTS performing on stage, or doing an episode of Run BTS, or traveling for Bon Voyage, we’re watching people spend their time with people they love and belong to, people who work hard at their jobs, and people who humbly show gratitude for the people who have given them what they have. </p><p>I love BTS because they have what so many of us long for—to love our jobs and be good at them, a chosen family who can laugh and work together and encourage each other along the way. </p><p>And by loving them, I find myself a part of a chosen family, too. One of millions of ARMYs who love these boys, fiercely and bravely, and are lucky enough to be loved back. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z8l6QGFmB5A/YAr-lOL_dPI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/nUrdmpaYyiEBUWNnweQ5uxqABFFTNR0tQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/BLOG%2BFINALE.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="364" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z8l6QGFmB5A/YAr-lOL_dPI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/nUrdmpaYyiEBUWNnweQ5uxqABFFTNR0tQCLcBGAsYHQ/w646-h364/BLOG%2BFINALE.jpg" width="646" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-12303607504318560332021-01-11T18:52:00.001-08:002021-01-11T18:53:06.424-08:00Short Imagined Monologue: Open Mic Night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xeOzcbT2W6I/X_0OXF02WrI/AAAAAAAAA5s/dQ5gpHkAfvoFeDMqV-rmN2xp1vTCJnIRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/Armor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1774" data-original-width="2000" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xeOzcbT2W6I/X_0OXF02WrI/AAAAAAAAA5s/dQ5gpHkAfvoFeDMqV-rmN2xp1vTCJnIRQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Armor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><i>POV: You’re at an open mic night, where one average guy from your office is doing a stand up routine for maybe the fourth time in his life. </i></p><p><i>(I’m aware that in this imagined mid-pandemic situation, no one should be at an open mic night or a bar, so please feel free to picture everyone as masked and distanced and also feel free to ignore the inconsistencies of jokes about a pandemic alongside jokes about working alongside each other in an office.) </i></p><p><br /></p><p>Hey guys, I’m ___. Shout out to my co-workers for supporting me here tonight. I put flyers up all over the office, and now that co-workers actually showed up, I’m wishing I’d prepared some jokes, ha ha. My boss is here. Hi, Sharon. I promise it wasn’t me who ate your leftovers in the breakroom, ha ha ha. Debbie, I’ll reply to your email in the morning, ha ha. </p><p>The problem with having your co-workers come to see you at an open mic night is that you’ll have to see them again every day afterwards. And if you bomb, they’ll know. At least they’re a little drunk, so maybe it’ll be fine…Looking at you, Rob! Easy there, big fella. </p><p>Let’s see…uh…2020, amiright? Thank god we made it through that year. And thank god it’s now 2021, and everything is totally different! Ha ha. </p><p>That was supposed to be ironic. </p><p>Anyways. Let’s see…um…</p><p>It has been a rough year. We’ve got the COVID thing going on. I swear if COVID was a font, it would be comic sans. No one really likes it, it’s really annoying, and we’ve all been told to avoid it, but it keeps showing up everywhere, amiright? And it seems to show up most often with old people, too. Both COVID and comic sans have that in common, ha ha ha. </p><p>No offense, Julie—your company emails are great, and I don’t mind your font choices, ha ha. But may I suggest a simple Helvetica now and then? Maybe a solid Garamond? Mix a sans serif with a script font for that classy look, ha ha ha ha. </p><p>A little typeface humor for you there. </p><p>Okay, what else, what else…</p><p>So…okay…um…so the vaccine! They first gave the vaccine to an English guy named William Shakespeare. A couple hundred years too late, amiright?! * ba-dum-chhhhhh * But seriously, the guy’s name is William Shakespeare. He must get shit all the time. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” “To be or not to be.” “I liked your early stuff better!” What a pain. </p><p>Speaking of pain, I bumped into my coffee table the other day and got a big bruise, but the worst part about the whole thing is that after I bumped into it, I apologized to the coffee table. I’ve been stuck in my house so long that I’ve started to think of furniture as my roommates. That coffee table has just as much of a right to the living room as I do, ha ha. The coffee table doesn’t pay a dime of rent, but it’s usually pretty easy to get along with, ha ha ha ha. </p><p>Okay, um…let me see…one minute left…one minute left…</p><p>It’s too bad I can’t be this good at keeping track of time at the office, amiright, guys? I am lucky I still have a job during these unprecedented times. At least I hope I still do, right, Sharon? Ha ha. I don’t think you can fire me for my stand up. I’ll have to talk to Tina in HR, ha ha ha. </p><p>Um…lemme think…I recently got my stimulus check. It was nice to have a little extra money. I was able to use half of it to pay about a week’s worth of rent, and then I used the rest to pay off 0.3% of my student loans. I think it made a big difference. I really felt a financial burden lift. Maybe someday I’ll be able to afford healthcare. Thanks, Congress! Ha ha ha. </p><p>Oh, man, Congress. So this attack on the Capitol, right? Pretty intense. I mean, these guys looked ridiculous back when they were carrying tiki torches, but this was next level. Most of the photos from that day look like bad publicity shots for a Village People album. Some of those guys did look pretty angry, though. They were maybe one pitchfork away from getting their asses kicked by a bunch of enchanted furniture. </p><p>I tell ya. It’d all be so much funnier if it wasn’t real. </p><p>Okay, that’s it for me. I’m ___, have a great night everyone! </p><div><br /></div>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-47913839468873426302020-12-28T16:43:00.008-08:002020-12-28T16:43:33.824-08:00Looking forward<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lM7E_46WIkw/X-p7ZtfcehI/AAAAAAAAA5Q/cbjEOS4nQ1svt_4NVZmCkQ9qraq80YU8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/6164182120_cafe550b0a_k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lM7E_46WIkw/X-p7ZtfcehI/AAAAAAAAA5Q/cbjEOS4nQ1svt_4NVZmCkQ9qraq80YU8gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/6164182120_cafe550b0a_k.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/dpetrus/)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>I have a tendency to look backwards in time. To be fair, this is partly because the past has already been written. I can go back and look at old journal entries and photos and news stories and remember what happened. The future contains all these question marks. And if 2020 has taught me anything, it’s that there are more question marks than I ever thought. </p><p>I do think there’s value in looking backwards now and then. You can remind yourself of things you learned, or see patterns you didn’t notice at the time. And I’m a sucker for nostalgia in general. </p><p>But in this strange time of suspended animation, I find that looking into the past is a little bit painful sometimes. Much of my nostalgia is tinged with faint heartbreak nowadays. I don’t think it will always be that way, but when I find myself looking backwards, it’s with an ache of longing for things that are impossible right now. </p><p>So I’ve decided to look forward to those “impossible” things instead. </p><p>I may not be able to do many of these things for months, or even a year. But here’s what I’m looking forward to in the future. </p><p>I’m looking forward to sitting in an IHOP with my laptop open, writing a blog or a poem or a script. I’ll order a second hot chocolate, and now and then I’ll notice the song that’s playing and smile. I’ll try to avoid getting syrup on my keyboard and will somehow fail, and it will be completely worth it. </p><p>I’m looking forward to having friends over, and laying my head on someone’s shoulder and laying my legs over someone else’s lap. We’ll see each other’s entire faces, and we’ll bump into each other as we go to get another drink or snack from the kitchen. We’ll squeeze a hand or shoulder affectionately as we pass by one another, or mid-conversation. </p><p>I’m looking forward to sitting in an airport, after hurriedly gathering my coat and shoes and laptop from the TSA bins that get re-stacked in that tense chaos. I’ll get a chocolate croissant and some fruit from Starbucks and then go sit by my gate with a book. On the plane, I’ll drink a ginger ale and do part of a crossword puzzle and then fall asleep, and be a little groggy and hungry when I land wherever I’m going. </p><p>I’m looking forward to going to a movie theatre and paying way too much money for a giant bucket of popcorn and a gallon of soda. I’ll consume at least half of it during the 28 minutes of trailers before the movie starts. After the credits, I’ll walk into the parking lot and look up at the sky and the world will seem a little bright after the darkness of the theatre. </p><p>I’m looking forward to standing in line for the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, avoiding the diamonds in the floor and hoping one of us gets to sit in the driver’s seat. I’m looking forward to the brackish smell of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, and churros and lemonade, and my feet being absurdly sore from walking around the parks all day. </p><p>I’m looking forward to sleeping on friends’ couches. To driving a few hours to someone’s house, then talking late into the night, and then being woken up by friends’ children in the morning, wanting to play. </p><p>I’m looking forward to visiting someplace I’ve never been to before. I’ll take the afternoon or evening and wander on my own, with no plan—just exploring whatever I come across. Maybe I’ll walk along a beach in the moonlight, or stumble upon a gallery or historical site, or people-watch at a park. </p><p>I’m looking forward to going to concerts. To being packed into a huge stadium with a stressful amount of people and blissfully yelling lyrics along with whoever’s onstage, or packed into some small venue somewhere where the music is loud enough to make the cartilage in your nose vibrate. </p><p>I’m looking forward to visiting family. To holding the people dear to me, and eating food together, and talking for an hour or two afterwards. I’ll try to be extra helpful with the chores, to make up for all my teenage years spent at rehearsal instead of sweeping the kitchen. </p><p>I don’t think life will ever completely go back to “the way it was.” I kind of hope it doesn’t. I don’t see how it could. But I think all of these experiences that I’ve been thinking about—travel, time with loved ones, communal art—will all be a little sweeter after this time. </p><p>I look forward to finding out. </p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1491368809081158836.post-89706758695156514302020-10-14T20:31:00.001-07:002020-10-14T20:31:52.966-07:00Hold, please<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upLPHxXdCUo/X4fCoEYq4_I/AAAAAAAAA3Y/Y4OD2hDkkSQ8b-LLKwx1xqH5cX6urCNxwCLcBGAsYHQ/s750/570bdf7ec863e0_Know%2BWhen%2Bto%2BHit%2Bthe%2BPause%2BButton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="750" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upLPHxXdCUo/X4fCoEYq4_I/AAAAAAAAA3Y/Y4OD2hDkkSQ8b-LLKwx1xqH5cX6urCNxwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/570bdf7ec863e0_Know%2BWhen%2Bto%2BHit%2Bthe%2BPause%2BButton.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />You may have noticed some radio silence on the blog lately--Beckah and I haven't been doing our <a href="https://butshesnotstupid.blogspot.com/2018/04/sisterblogchallenge.html" target="_blank">Sister Blog Challenge</a>. But that's because life got kind of insane...it's been very little for months and months and now it's suddenly filled with full-time jobs and directing gigs and filmed theatre and small theatre marketing and online classes and Inktober and NaNoWriMo planning and yoga and tax season. <p></p><p>So we'll be back. It'll just be a minute. </p>Lizhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04355806806548753255noreply@blogger.com1