A total solar eclipse of the heart

The solar eclipse in Montana, 2017

I do not understand how anyone is planning on doing anything between April 7th and April 9th. 

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! 

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.  

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

And then totality. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

And then it’s done. A three-ish hour long wonder complete. 

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. 

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. 

See you in 26 days, Texas. 

*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.

**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! 

"When I go to sleep, I can't count sheep for the white lines in my head" --Bruce Springsteen

Let’s imagine, for a moment, that I prioritize travel. 

I’m actively silencing the voices that say “it’s too expensive” or “that’s not for you.” 

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? 

Granted, right now I’m prioritizing raising funds for my intimacy direction certification program, 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?” 

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*) 

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. 

(That said, if anyone I love wants to join me, let’s make plans! We’ll go out dancing!) 

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. 

Amsterdam. 

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. 

Paris. 

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. 

Tahiti. Or Bora Bora? Someplace tropical. 

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. 

Machu Picchu. 

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. 

Egypt. 

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. 

England. 

Plays at the West End, and a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon. A pilgrimage for the hopeless theatre kid I am. 

But while I make all these plans, it’s been deeply fulfilling to think back to all of the magical traveling I have 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!)

I’ve eaten Black Forest gateau in the actual Black Forest of Germany, and explored the fairytale castle of Neuschwanstein, wandered the cobbled streets of towns centuries old.

I’ve strolled the National Mall and wandered past Ford’s theatre, walked through the museum of the home where Lincoln died. 

I’ve snorkeled in Hawai’i and Mexico.  

I’ve climbed ancient ruins in Belize and walked beaches in El Salvador. 

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. 

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. 

I’ve walked through the maze of the Grand Bazaar and slipped my shoes off to enter the Hagia Sophia in Instanbul. 

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. 

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. 

I’ve taken a ferry across the San Francisco Bay and taken an elevator to the top of the Empire State Building. 

When I list it out like this, I feel astonishingly lucky. 

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.  

I guess we’ll find out. 

Tableaus of the American West, spring 2021

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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.  

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. 

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. 

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. 

I suppose I’ll end abruptly, in that crisp way that you pull your car into your own driveway after a week away. 

On mileposts and the question "What's the point?"

I’ve been thinking a lot about mileposts lately. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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?” 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Looking forward

(photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/dpetrus/)

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. 

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. 

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. 

So I’ve decided to look forward to those “impossible” things instead. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.   

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. 

I look forward to finding out. 

Rockaway Beach, Oregon

We stayed in a small apartment, decorated predictably with a “seaside retreat” theme. Jars of shells. Paintings of ocean waves. Disturbing and brightly colored salt and pepper shakers in the shape of fish, their lips puckered obscenely. There’s even a framed copy of “Footprints in the Sand.”

When I was young, I had a bookmark with the familiar allegory printed on it. I remember being fourteen, a poet at heart already, and astounded by the unexpected beauty of the last line. “It was then that I carried you.” Standing in a Hallmark gift shop, I showed it to my father in awe, and used it to mark my place in my scriptures for years.

Now it feels cloying. Trite to the point of absurdity. There’s a Gideon’s Bible in one of the drawers here, alongside playing cards and a selection of puzzles. Hints that maybe we’ll all get saved on this trip.

Beckah and I share a pullout sofa bed that somehow gets absurdly smaller every night we sleep in it. I have no physical explanation for this phenomenon and conclude that it must be either metaphysical or metaphorical. A symbol of having outgrown something, maybe.

That week, I spend every morning walking on the beach. A brief 15-minute communion with my first love. The Pacific Ocean is creator and destroyer, nourishing and violent. It is genderless and powerful and bigger than I can fathom. My love for it feels the same way.

I felt quiet on the last morning, sitting in the car as we drove away from Rockaway Beach. That morning was an efficient flurry of packing and cleaning, carrying things down the stairs. Quiet cooperation. We drove through forests of dense pine and ferns and I listened to my parents talk in the front seat. I’m sad to be leaving my family behind here. I’m going to miss them.

The melancholy of already missing them feels like my heart has been dipped in warm honey. I’ve spent the last few months digging through all of my miniature childhood traumas, stumbling over anger and hurt from the past like driftwood after a storm. We’d all been broken at some point, for some reason or another, and there were times when our home was a hospital with no doctors or nurses. We were all doing the best we could with what we had. All of our volatile hearts reading abandonment in every choice everyone else made. I remember times when we were all of us so hurt and angry with each other that the air seethed with it.

But it all feels so long ago now. Not something to ignore, but something that doesn’t really matter anymore.

There are still hints of what was, in small moments, spread apart. There are moments when we are impatient with each other. When wounds barely healed break open at the slightest word. Some olive branches are dropped into the sand. There are table settings that are empty. And yet look at us, all these years later, passing marshmallows around the campfire. Talking about whether or not the morality of the artist affects the art as we drive to a restaurant in Manzanita. Smiling, sharing frozen yogurt samples. Taking turns at the dishes, at taking out and putting away bedding. Walking through brambles and weeds on that hill in Tillamook, where in five or six years, there will be a garden and a porch and a house with a giant kitchen.

It may sound trite, but it feels like the ocean no longer dashes us against the rocks. Sometimes a rogue wave knocks us off balance. Or the water rises above our knees with the kind of freezing shock that paralyzes us for a moment. But the ebb and flow of the tide doesn’t threaten to drown us anymore. Our heads are above water now.

We’re laying a foundation above the tsunami zone, at the very least.





photo credit: Dad Whittaker

Lessons In Luxury

I spent the last 10 days dog/apartment-sitting at a “luxury apartment complex” in north Salt Lake. And while this blog entry will probably be an insufferable examination of privilege, I learned some things about living luxuriously that I want to share.

The hallways smell like Disneyland
Or like a combination of Disneyland and a new car and a house that a realtor is showing. I can’t quite describe the smell. Maybe there’s some vanilla in there? Some kind of citrus? It’s bright and clean and sort of cloying. Even when I knew to expect it, it surprised me every time I walked in.

Everyone is really friendly
Smiling inquiries about your day are common in the elevator. There’s a casual “Hey how’s it going” every time you pass someone in the hallway, or out on the sidewalk outside. I attribute the phenomenon to people not really having much to worry about? I KNOW that there are plenty of things to worry about, regardless of income or address, but everyone I met seemed either really okay with their circumstances, or they were really good actors.

Everyone is really attractive
And not because it’s a requirement on the lease. But because if you can afford to pay thousands of dollars per month to live in an apartment with a rooftop pool, a gym, a private dog park, a spa, and a private sports club with 16 screens, you can also probably afford to pay for braces. And tanning. And Proactiv. And high-end face creams. And regular salon trips. And you also probably have time for regular exercise, cooking with fresh produce, and regular sleep.

Food delivery is complicated in what’s basically a gated community
Every evening, there was usually a crowd of five to ten people standing outside, waiting for Dominos and GrubHub and Jimmy John’s. Because you need a key to get into the building, and to use the elevator, and the lobby closed at 5, so it was impossible to get anything delivered to your door.

All the grass is watered at night
I know this should seem obvious. But I haven’t lived in a place with professionally watered lawns for…actually maybe never? I discovered this one night when I took the dog I was sitting to the private dog park to run around at a time when it wasn’t crowded or 150 degrees. I threw the frisbee exactly one time and then took two steps forward and fell right into a huge mud puddle. My sandals, my knees, and my right hand were caked in slimy wet dog park mud. (I have decided that it was mud and only mud and there were no other substances in that mud.)

A rooftop pool is where I’m supposed to spend my afternoons
Technically, I also had access to the gym, but why would I spend time in a gym on a hot summer afternoon, when I could be cooling off IN A POOL? A pool with a view of the Capitol building and Temple Square to the east, and a valley stretching out to the west. A pool with “wet deck seating” (AKA lounge chairs all along one shallow end of the pool) and fountains and private cabanas and very soft fake grass? ON THE ROOF? The first day here, I took a book and a towel up and spent a blissful two hours basking in my new, albeit temporary, life. It also provided a helluva view for fireworks. I’m a big fan of living small, but if I could have a rooftop pool for the rest of my life, that would be acceptable.

My standard of living IMMEDIATELY adjusted, regardless of the fact that my income stayed basically the same
I spent maybe three hours at the apartment before being like, “Yeah, I WILL order an extra side from Noodles and Company!” “I’ll get premium gasoline!” “This toilet paper isn’t soft enough!” That didn’t last long, because even though I did get paid for this dog/house-sitting gig, it was not enough to cover the costs of extra sides, premium gasoline, AND top-notch toilet paper.

I had to check my racist assumptions at the door
At the beginning of this experience, I rolled my eyes at the indulgence of what was sure to be a rich, white kid playground. It’s Salt Lake City, Utah. And they’re luxury apartments. How much whiter can you get?
And then I got there and realized that there was actually a lot of diversity and I should give Salt Lake and the people who live there some credit. I was coming from this liberal “class is a racial issue!” perspective, and while I do still think that class and race are deeply entwined in this country, seeing the diversity at the apartment complex was a good reminder to me to check my own racism. Because I realized that I was assuming that only white people could be rich in conservative Salt Lake City. Yikes. YIKES, RIGHT?! It’s like I was trying to be SO AWARE of my WHITE PRIVILEGE that it didn’t immediately occur to me that I might be making some hasty generalizations.

East, west, home is best
While a rooftop pool is heavenly, and lightly scented hallways are pleasant, and it’s nice to exchange pleasantries with attractive people in the elevator, I don’t think I’d be happy living in a luxury apartment. I love sitting on a slightly cluttered porch with a book and a popsicle. I love a backyard and a big living room and nerdy feminist roommates and doorknobs that are almost 100 years old. There’s something sort of beautiful and comforting in things that are imperfect.

On the Pleasures of Wandering

A few years ago, my family spent Christmas in Rome. We were there for about a week, without too many detailed plans, so one Sunday afternoon, they all said, “We’re going to go see ‘The Hobbit’!” And I said, “I’m going to go see Rome.”

I grabbed my passport and wallet, a copy of the key to our small apartment, and started walking, with no planned destination or activity in mind. I headed west because the streets looked interesting in that direction. They opened up onto a park, where a dozen barbecues were taking place around a community soccer game. The men on the team were middle-aged, with a few thirty-somethings here and there. Fathers who had been kicking soccer balls in public parks since they were kids themselves. I walked around ancient columns, now crumbling in the grass, and sat on a patch of grass and watched the game, cheering and booing in passionate English, to match the passionate Italian around me. At a nearby table, laden with food, a radio played pop music while people chatted.

I wandered down towards the Colosseum, taking side streets and eavesdropping on fellow tourists. I stopped to listen to a woman sing while accompanying herself on a guitar, before being verbally accosted by an older man who told me I was “very attractive” and told me that I should sleep with him “on the last night of the year for many presents!” I declined.

I made my way past the Spanish steps, past gelato shops and designer clothing stores. As night fell, music drifted out from the doors of the churches I past. I found myself in a large courtyard and turned to discover that I’d stumbled upon the Pantheon. I stepped inside and craned my neck, looking up and up and up at the concrete dome, at the oculus at its center that would flood the cavernous room with light during the day. A group of people were singing hymns, standing in a small cluster, and I stood and listened to their voices echo off the old church walls.

It never occurred to me to worry about how I was going to get home. My internal compass is pretty reliable, and our apartment was near the Colosseum, which I figured would be pretty easy to find. I actually don’t really remember how I got home that night—I must have just walked in the direction I figured I needed to and eventually found my way back.

I am now a fierce advocate of wandering. It’s how I discovered the Pantheon. Years ago, it’s how I discovered “magical Egin” while on the back of a Kymco People 150. Through wandering, I’ve stumbled upon art installations, hidden parks, and historical sites. And sometimes I don’t stumble onto anything at all, but end up just wandering. It’s a reward in itself.

Here’s the counterintuitive thing, though. If you’re traveling to a new place, you have to actually schedule time in for wandering, or it won’t happen. You have to consciously set aside a block of time and guard it ferociously. The entire point of wandering is not to plan the time, but I highly recommend planning the time in which to not plan the time.

In order to have an enjoyable wander, I also recommend not bringing very much. No maps, no notebooks, no umbrella in case of inclement weather. Just the absolute minimum of what you need to be safe.

Wandering can be done in a car, or by foot. When traveling to a new place, I’m a huge fan of the walking wander. But I’ve also had many a lovely exploratory drive, alone or with company. That’s another thing about wandering—it can be done alone, or with others.

During that same trip to Italy, there was a day I scheduled to go explore Florence. I had a few places on my list to see—the Duomo, the Uffizi, the Galleria dell’Accademia. But I didn’t really make plans beyond that. I told family that they were welcome to join me, although I warned them that I didn’t have much of an itinerary. In the end, a few of us ended up taking the train from Rome to Florence, and spending the day wandering the city, looking at art, walking cobblestoned streets.

I know not everyone enjoys wandering as much as I do. I’m usually a planner in most aspects of my life. But there’s something sort of magical about just…moving forward. Not having a clear destination in mind. Not worrying about whether you’re doing something right or wrong. Not trying to meet anyone’s expectations or to get the right picture or the check the right thing off the list. Just walking. Just driving. Just stumbling. You might find a gem. But if you don’t, it’s usually all right. Just exploring is its own reward.


photo via

Totality, in flash fiction form

Maybe someday I'll write more about witnessing totality with Mom and Beckah and Ray in Wyoming. But in the meantime, here's the experience from another (albeit fictionalized) point of view. 

"Two Minutes and Twenty-Two Seconds"

I live in a plastic package. There are lots of other packages here in the box with me. We wonder why we are here, and we wait for a long time.

Finally, I feel hands. I hear a voice say, “Ship to Portland, Oregon.” More voices say, “Cheyenne, Wyoming.” “Rexburg, Idaho.” “Excelsior Springs, Missouri.” I’m put in different box with some others like me. Our box travels to Alameda, California.

A woman opens the box. She says “The eclipse glasses came!” I wonder now what is eclipse glasses. The woman takes me out of the package. She unfolds me and puts me on her face.

“I can’t see anything with these,” she says.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to,” a man voice says. “You’re only supposed to see the sun through eclipse glasses.”

I think I am eclipse glasses.

The woman carries me outside. We look at the sun. It is very bright, but the woman is smiling big. I know this because when big smiles happen, there is a lifting of cheeks and I feel myself lift with them. She goes inside. I stay on the fridge with a magnet, in plastic with other eclipse glasses. The four of us stay there for long time. Sometimes the woman looks at us and makes a mark on the paper next to us. We watch shadows creep across floor every day, warm, then cool, then dark, many times. 

One day, the woman takes us off the fridge. She smiles big and does a little dance and sings about a thing called “Fort Douglas Wyoming.” We go into a suitcase, with clothes and binoculars and maps. 

When the suitcase is opened, there are two more woman voices. I go onto different faces. We look at the sun again. It is still very bright. There is more big smiling.

We sit in the car for long time. Then, the first woman—the woman from before—opens the car door. I see many other people here, too. There are many other eclipse glasses on other faces. This is a place with many cars, one small building, and a big road. A place for resting on long journey. There is food and laughing and people looking up.

The woman puts me on her face. We look at the sun. The woman puts me down again. She does this many times.

But then, the sun is different. The sun is not a whole circle like before. I can see a little bite out of the sun. The woman gasps. She says “First contact!”

The woman puts me down, puts me on her face to look at the sun, puts me down, puts me on her face to look at the sun. What is strange about this is that the sun is different every time now. The bite is bigger, and there is less sun.

A different woman talks. “The light is so eerie!” She is right. The light is different. The sun is almost gone.

Then suddenly, the sun is black. The woman takes me off her face and gasps. I hear many other gasps from the other people here.

I can see all around. The sky is not like daytime, and not like nighttime. It is most like the end of a day, with colors and shadows. There are stars even, there near where the sun should be. But the sun is most of all different. It is black, a black hole in sky, dark dark dark. But around the sun are light beams. Light beams that look like shadows, but opposite. Shadows of light. Three big light beam shadows, and many small ones.

It is strange, and feels not real. This is daytime, but light is like end of day, but even that is not quite right. It is a different light.

Then there is a bright diamond beam from the sun. The woman puts me back on her face. Her face is wet now…there is a salty wet from the woman’s eyes. She puts her hands on her cheeks, and her face is lifting me.

The sun is growing now, making it again like daytime, with no more stars. When the light is all the way like day again, the woman takes me off her face. I sit in the car. I sit in the car for many hours. I listen to the music and I listen to the voices talking.

“That was totally totally worth it,” the man voice says.

The woman voices all say yes. Yes, it was worth it.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget how that looked,” a woman voice says. “The whole thing was so strange. It feels like it couldn’t have been real.”

I feel the same way. I do not say this, because I am eclipse glasses.

I stay in the suitcase for some time. Then I live on a shelf in the woman’s house. She smiles at me some days. The sun is the same always now, shadows creeping across the floor every day, warm, then cool, then dark again.

Maybe the place where light changed was dream. Maybe it was not real when the sun became black with shadows of light. But I remember always the salty wet from woman’s eyes. That did taste real.

I stay on the shelf. I watch the shadows across the floor many times. The woman’s hair changes to grey. I live with dust and I do not look at the sun anymore.

But I am eclipse glasses. I did, one time, see a wonder.

What are you doing August 21, 2017?

If you live in the United States and your answer is anything other than "watching the total solar eclipse," I'm gonna say you need to change your plans.

Here's why this whole thing is so awesome.

First of all, it's a cosmic coincidence that total solar eclipses happen AT ALL. Our sun just happens to be 400 times bigger than the moon, but it also just happens to be 400 times farther away from us. So from our point of view on earth, they appear to be exactly the same size. The moon passes between the sun and the earth, causing a total solar eclipse, fairly often...it's visible from some point on earth about once every 18 months. But the path of totality crossing the United States? That's a little rarer. The last time it happened was in 1979, and it won't happen again until 2024.

So where's it gonna be visible? HERE:

That grey band is where you gotta be to see totality. You'll still get a pretty good show elsewhere (check out this guy's site for more info), but it's less than a day's drive to get to the path of totality from just about any point in the U.S. So I say go for it! Carpe diem, people!

Although...two warnings. Number one, don't look at the eclipse without eye protection. You can suffer serious permanent eye damage from looking directly at the sun, even when it's partially blocked by the moon. You can get special "eclipse glasses" for hella cheap on Amazon, though (pack of ten for $10). Regular sunglasses won't cut it. Number two, hotels and campsites along the path of totality are BOOKED SOLID, and have been for months. Because big space nerds like me plan their entire year around this.

BUT JUST CHECK OUT WHAT WE HAVE TO LOOK FORWARD TO!
Here's what will happen in the path of totality on August 21st, 2017, over the course of about half an hour. (DON'T FORGET TO WEAR ECLIPSE GLASSES!)

First Contact
As the moon starts to move in front of the sun, it will appear to take a little tiny bite out of it. You'll be able to see this with a telescope before you can see it with the naked eye.

Crescent projections may possibly be seen on various surfaces
As more of the sun is covered, it will look like a crescent. If you happen to be near some trees or other vegetation, look on the ground. The spaces between the leaves create a "pinhole camera," projecting images of the solar eclipse on the ground. You can also create this same effect by making your own pinhole projector--just punch a tiny hole in a sheet of paper or cardboard.

Changing light
The light will become noticeably dimmer. You may even notice a strange or eerie "tint" to the light as more of the sun is blocked, and colors will appear washed out.

Strange animal behavior
If you happen to be near wildlife, you may notice some changes in behavior. Animals don't keep calendars of solar eclipses (that we know of), so they interpret the darkening light as oncoming twilight, and may either settle in for the night, or get up and start their nocturnal activities. (Joke's on you, fauna!)

Sharpening shadows
Because of the angle and amount of light, shadows become much sharper. If you look at your own shadow, you may be able to see the shadows of the individual hairs on your arms.

Drop in temperature
Two thirds of the sun's radiation is in the form of heat, so as more of the sun is covered, we get less of that heat. The weather changes will vary depending on where you are, but you can expect an average drop in temperature of about 10 degrees Fahrenheit.

Oncoming umbral shadow
Quick! Look to the west! You'll see the moon's shadow barreling towards you as the eclipse continues. The shadow moves across the landscape at over 1000 mph! (By comparison, planes cruise at around 575 mph, and the speed of sound is about 767 mph.)

Shadow bands
Just before totality, you may be able to see shadow bands rippling across any white-colored surfaces nearby. The tiny sliver of sunlight remaining passes through layers of turbulent air in the earth's atmosphere, producing shadow bands--kind of like the patterns the sunlight makes in water.

Bailey's beads
The moon isn't a perfect sphere...it's got mountains and valleys just like earth. As it passes in front of the sun, a few last shafts of light pass through these valleys, creating bright "beads" of light in a ring around the moon.

Diamond ring
When only one of Bailey's beads remains, the moon will look like a diamond ring in the sky.

Totality! 
THE MOON WILL COMPLETELY BLOCK THE SUNLIGHT! Totality will last about two and a half minutes, depending on where you are. And it will be amazing. Night will fall during the middle of the day, and instead of the sun, there will only be a black disc visible in the sky.
For a few brief seconds at the beginning of totality, you may be able to see the sun's red outer photosphere and chromosphere. If you are lucky, you may even see prominences, red streamers of light created by eruptions on the sun.
You'll be able to see the stars and planets during the day. In the United States, you'll be able to see Venus, Jupiter, and maybe Mars and Mercury.
The light will create a 360-degree sunset.
And for a few brief minutes, you'll get to see the sun's corona...outer wispy layers of ionized gas that are only visible during a total solar eclipse. The translucent shafts of light shining out from all sides of the sun is one of the rarest sights in nature, and can be as bright as a full moon at night. This is the main source of light during an eclipse. If you have a telescope or binoculars, you can look for loops and arcs in the corona that reveal the sun's magnetic fields. The corona is very difficult to photograph, and photographs aren't able to capture the full live experience of viewing.

Then, Bailey's beads will become visible again, the umbral shadow will continue moving west, and everything else will happen in reverse order.

AND WE GET TO WITNESS IT! This is a cosmic MIRACLE. I know the word "miracle" has religious connotations, but I can't think of a good secular equivalent to describe how incredible it is that this happens and that we get to be alive and on earth and in the United States to see it.

So what are you waiting for?! Make your plans! Figure out the closest path of totality and tell your boss you're taking the day off.

Here's your packing list:
- Binoculars and/or telescope
- Eclipse glasses
- A pinhole camera (piece of cardboard with a hole poked in it)
- A large piece of white posterboard or foamcore board to see shadow bands
- A full tank of gas
- A sense of wonder.

See ya in 54 days, solar eclipse.

Learn more about the upcoming solar eclipse here, here, and especially here.

If I were a drinker...

...I might pick this weekend to drink.

It's just been a long, intense, emotional week, and I dealt with it by spending WAY too much time in my head, to my own detriment and possibly to the temporary detriment of several friendships (sorry, everyone). There's not really any one particular thing going on. It's lots of things.

It's "Mockingbird" closing, which hurts so much that I haven't even really had the courage to face it. I was not ready for that show to end. And while I trust that I will have plenty of other meaningful experiences with other wonderful people, "Mockingbird" came at such an important time and I built so many incredible friendships and the story is so important...it's just hard to let go of.

It's this paper I'm supposed to be working on for my Narrative Journalism class, that I can't find my way into, that's so big and sprawling and all the quotes and research are all so overwhelming. And my interview with the one source that would have been the perfect "way in" fell through.

It's being divorced, and navigating all of the new territory I find myself in. The loneliness and freedom and uncertainty and unfamiliarity of it all.

It's missing my sister so much that my chest physically aches.

It's auditions for "The Heart of Robin Hood" coming up in a week, and being so busy and overwhelmed by other things that I didn't finalize an audition song until YESTERDAY, so now I'm trying to cram a lot of preparation into seven days.

It's feeling like my testimony is being rearranged a little bit right now. Which is, ultimately, a good thing, but it's not exactly comfortable.

It's not being able to find an ENTIRE 50,000-WORD DRAFT of one of my old NaNoWriMo novels, which is actually still so overwhelming that I haven't fully pursued looking for it.

It's trying to balance my introverted need for alone time and my lonely need for companionship, which I haven't had to do to this extent since I was twenty-two or so, when I was a slightly different person under very different circumstances.

It's re-evaluating what I really want. In friendships. In Church. In life. In relationships. In how I spend my time. I feel like I have a solid core of understanding about who I am, and about the big abstract things I want. I want to be kind and learn a lot and experience things fully and make other people's lives better and create meaningful art. But it's figuring out the concrete, every day ways to do those things that's taking some re-evaluation.

It's doing one improv show and feeling like my contributions to it were small and pretty mediocre, and then doing another improv show that was so so solid.


But it hasn't JUST been challenging things. There have been great things this last week, too.

Getting really positive feedback on one of my workshop pieces for my MFA.

My 3-year-old nephew gleefully screaming my name and running to hug me when I showed up to babysit, and the hilarious speed with which my 10-month-old nephew crawls.

Sitting and talking with girls from the "Mockingbird" cast while we played with five adorable tiny puppies.

Having some pretty awesome validation for my work as an actress.

Buying a bunch of new bras that I'm OBSESSED with.

Eating popsicles and watching a documentary with a friend on a Tuesday night.

Finishing a painting and having it turn out even better than I had envisioned.

Spending time with the cast and crew of "Mockingbird" on a Sunday afternoon, eating food and talking and laughing.

Good conversations (even though some have also been scary conversations) with friends, with family, with my therapist, with my God.

Dinner with an old friend and his significant other, eating amazing Thai food and laughing and talking and reminiscing.


See? Beautiful and challenging things. It's just I've got a lot spinning around my mind-grapes nowadays, and it can be overwhelming experiencing all of this while simultaneously working 20 hours a week, taking MFA classes, and also doing all the little stupid things that need to be done, like filling the gas tank and doing the dishes and fixing the bathroom faucet and folding the laundry and restringing the guitar and finishing that graphic design project and refilling a prescription and getting groceries and watering the plants and sewing the sleeves on those blouses and eating and sleeping and basic hygiene.


I'm real grateful for a 3-day weekend, y'all. I don't have any solid plans, and I keep thinking about possible impromptu road trips that I probably can't afford to go on. But boy, are my feet itchin' to go on a road trip. I started this blog by saying that if I were a drinker, I'd drink this weekend. But I think it would just be another form of "running away." There have been lots of times in my life when I've "run away," but I've always come back. It's just a momentary escape. A moment to re-align my mirrors, get my head on straight, take a breath. I'd stop running away if it stopped working.

When I left work on Friday, my boss asked me what my weekend plans were. I said, "I might go on a road trip." When he asked where, I said, "I haven't decided yet." And I'm still deciding. Deciding whether I even need or want to run away, and if I do, what form it will take. But whether I hop in the car and keep driving or sit at home and paint, I'm really glad I have a long weekend to do so.

art via David Wallace

Three books, two bags, one me

Jacob and I just got back from a whirlwind trip to New York City, and I'm going to write about it.

So, both Jacob and my brother-in-law Dave made it to final callbacks at The New School. And I was free, so I decided to tag along and splurge on a few shows while I was there. We took the red-eye on Friday night, arriving Saturday morning, and then left again on Monday. So it was a SUPER SHORT trip, but we managed to pack some good times in there.

WHAT DIDN'T HAPPEN DURING OUR TRIP TO NEW YORK: 

1. Winning the lottery for Hamilton, even though we entered like, 3 times.
2. Running into Daniel Radcliffe and becoming friends with him, in a platonic "meet-cute" sort of situation. (Before we left Utah, I told Jacob that I had a daydream about this, and he replied, "You've had that daydream every time we've gone to New York." Which is true.)
3. Me opening Snapchat and singing "History is happenin' in Manhattan and we just happen to be in the greatest city in the world!" while wandering Manhattan. Even though I was tempted. Like, every 15 seconds that I was in Manhattan.

WHAT DID HAPPEN DURING OUR TRIP TO NEW YORK: 

Here it is in verbal form.

1. Jacob and I stayed with our friends, Sean and Danielle, whom we know from Rexburg. They recently moved to New York and we spent hours picking Danielle's brain about the acting work she's been doing.
2. Danielle and I got catcalled by a guy in a bagel costume. The catcalling thing would usually annoy me, but the addition of the bagel costume made the entire thing so ridiculous that I had to just laugh at it.
3. We were also able to run around with friends Omar (who was there doing acting career research) and Jeff (who lives there). Good times were had in the Drama Bookshop and Shake Shack.
4. Jacob and Dave did callbacks, which culminated in a  24-hour play festival, which I got to watch.
5. Saw an SLC friend Ben's one-man show, "The BYU/Berkley Plot."
6. Saw two Broadway shows, which I'll devote separate paragraphs to.
7. Wandered the Met by myself for a few hours.
8. Had this bizarre encounter while waiting in line for a play...

People behind me in line: "I think that show's closed. It's in Salt Lake now. Is it? I can't remember."
Me: "It is. I'm from Salt Lake."
People behind me in line: "No kidding! We are too!"
Me: "No way!"
People behind me in line: "So where in Salt Lake do you live?"
Me: "In South Salt Lake, near --- South and --- East. How about you?"
People behind me in line: "Whoa. We live at [names an address roughly two blocks away from our apartment]."

Of the 9 million people in New York City, we bumped into each other. The universe is bizarre, man.



And if you don't follow me on snapchat (@lizannechapman), here's the trip in snapchat story form.



And here's a brief, geeky drama kid earful about the two Broadway shows I got to see.

THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE DOG IN THE NIGHT-TIME

I just re-read this book for my YA Lit class, so I was especially excited to see it adapted for the stage. And boy, was it adapted for the stage. The National Theatre just knows how to utilize THEATRE to tell a story. There are things you can do in theatre that you can't do in any other medium. And you guys. The sound design. The set design. The costumes. The concepts. THEATRE IS SO FRICKIN' MAGICAL. The show won Tony's this past year for Best Play, Best Direction, and Best Lighting Design, Best Scenic Design. It was nominated for Choreography, even though it wasn't a musical. Alex Sharp won Best Actor for his portrayal of Christopher. I saw his replacement, Tyler Lea, who was perfect and sympathetic and charming and wonderful and honest. I was so impressed by his work. 

Here are two clips, showing some highlights of the show. There aren't any good (legal) clips of specific scenes, just because the nature of the adaptation doesn't really separate the plot into tidy "scenes." Things transition pretty quickly. But these still give a good glimpse of the show.

SOMETHING ROTTEN

I was debating between seeing Fun Home and Something Rotten for my last show. But I finally decided that Curious Incident was a thought-provoking, moving piece of theatre, and that I should end my trip with a "big and shiny, mighty fine-y, glitter-glitz-and-chorus-line-y, bob-your-head-and-shake-your-hiney musical." So "Something Rotten" it was. And it was perfect.

First of all, Christian Borle. You know, the guy who won a Tony for playing Shakespeare in "Something Rotten"? Who won another Tony for the role of Black Stache in "Peter and the Starcatcher"? Who played various roles in the original cast of "Spamalot," including the Historian and Prince Herbert?

Yeah, him.

I got to see him. And he was totally deserving of that Tony Award.

The show was funny and dazzling and charming. There weren't any deep, dramatic messages, but there was joy and talent, and it gave me a song to sing for when I'm blue.

Here are a handful of clips from "Something Rotten." There are a few more of these, just because the show lends itself better to performances of certain numbers.

"It's Hard to Be the Bard" at the White House


"A Musical" at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade


Mashup of "God I Hate Shakespeare" and "Will Power" from The Today Show



Jacob and I have no idea if New York is in our near future. He went to grad school auditions at several different schools around the country, and who knows what the results will be. And it could be that we decide to just stick around Salt Lake for a while after all.

But I left New York filled with the reminder that no matter where my life and career take me, I'll always always always adore theatre. My heart is just there, and I can't imagine that I'll ever be truly at home anywhere else. I belong to the theatre, undeniably and unavoidably. It was good for my soul to remember that.

Dear Diary

Well, it's been a while since I last wrote. I was gonna blog about Donald Drumpf at some point, but what more can I say than what has already been said? Thanks, John Oliver. I'm too tired to write at length about politics. I'm writing at length about writing, nowadays.

My MFA is going well. I kind of wish I had taken 3 classes instead of 2...I'll probably do that after these semesters are done. I'm taking poetry and screenwriting next semester--woo hoo!

I recently blogged about all the awesome stuff I have to look forward to. I've accomplished a few of them, and added a few more items. Disneyland was AMAZING. We rode Indiana Jones as a family 3 times, and all 3 times, Beckah got to be the driver. (Which meant that I spent most of the ride yelling at her to find the lights, step on the gas, and "get us outta here!" Apologies to our fellow riders, who didn't realize they were getting drama kids in their group.)We also introduced Beckah to Space Mountain, which she'd never been on. At the end of the ride, we all turned around to ask her what she thought, and she just looked at us and unsmilingly shook her head. Happy birthday, Beckah! Other highlights included watching a fireworks show from Main Street, almost crying on the Peter Pan ride, and, according to my FitBit, walking 57,342 steps in two days. (Daily average is about 8,000.)

(In line for Indiana Jones. Beckah and I have never looked more like sisters in a picture than we do in this picture. Even though all of us look kind of like cartoons.)

The trip to Rexburg last weekend was lovely, and I was reminded (again) of how lucky I am to have such amazing in-laws. Think of the best cast you've ever been in, or the best improv team you've been part of, or your best group of friends. Now realize that those people will be your actual family. FOREVER. It's so awesome.

In stuff added to the list of Things To Look Forward To, I don't start rehearsals for Cabaret until June, and I noticed that the Hale Orem was doing Jane Eyre, which closes June 4th, so I auditioned last-minute, and GOT CAST. I get to play THREE roles: mean ole schoolmarm Miss Scatcherd, the aristocratic Mrs. Dent, AND crazy, locked up Bertha Mason. I'm most excited about playing Bertha. And I get to be double cast with Lauren Hughes, one of my favorite fellow actresses.

I don't know what cast I'm in yet, but the show runs April 24th - June 4th! Details to follow. There are some familiar faces in the cast--folks I worked with during Damn Yankees and/or Oklahoma, and I'm excited to get to know them better, and to make new friends as well.

Of course, I don't know the music from this show AT ALL. And I was reminded last night at rehearsal that I suck at sight-reading. I spent twenty minutes tonight trying to plunk out notes on our keyboard. Why are the alto parts of awesome-sounding chords so HARD?

Also, I've been keeping this hush-hush for a while, but Jacob and I have been writing for a Late Nite type show exclusively on youtube, and we're filming the first episodes this Saturday! Well, they are. Jacob and I will be in New York. But our jokes will be spoken. The show is called That Late Show (with Cassidy Hilton) and the guests are all social media stars and it's gonna be awesome. We had a final planning/writing meeting tonight, and man, these people all know what they're doing. They're great comedians and storytellers and entertainers, and I'm just excited to be part of something like this. I'll post links to new episodes when they're uploaded! Aaaaaand if you're in the Salt Lake Area this weekend, go be part of the studio audience! There will be pizza, shirts, hilarity, and other feelings. Check out the Facebook event here.

Oh! And I've been snap-chatting a lot lately. I recently re-downloaded snapchat, and this time around, I'm a huge fan. My stories usually include cute snaps of my nephew, me rapping Hamilton, thoughts from my car about auditions, and other stuff that's interesting enough to share, but not interesting enough to share on Instagram. I hella snapped Disneyland, too, and I'll probably do the same with New York this weekend. Feel free to follow! Username lizannechapman.

Welp. Jacob and I are leaving for New York on a red-eye in less than 24 hours, and I'm starving, and my Kindle is calling my name, and the spot between Jacob's shoulder and jaw is missing my head. (I think that last part was romantic, but I'm not quite sure--it doesn't quite ring the way I wanted it to...the point is I want to cuddle?)

Sleep well, my dearies.

The year of the reel*

WELCOME TO THE NEW YEAR! I'm sure there are grammatical inconsistencies in this, but I'm too lazy to correct them. There are also several design inconsistencies, but I'm too lazy to correct those too. Anyway. Here's our family newsletter for 2014!

Also, if we look cool at all this past year, it's because of Cassidy Hilton. He took the above picture, and he also wrote and directed "The Interrogation," which is probably one of the coolest things we've ever filmed.

*double-entendre, pun intended. We dove into film work this year (film "reel") and made a lot of exciting transitions (the mind "reels").