is a blog by Brendan
There’s a way to be roundabout and poetic about this, and I often am, but honestly, fuck that. I broke up with Audrey today. It hurts.
I did it because I was part of something beautiful that was torn apart by time and distance, once, and I won’t be again. Because I’m going away in the fall. Because I have to do the right thing this time. Because I have to believe.
Entry 255! I have almost a whole byte’s worth of journal!
Every time I start to get uppity about something I’m doing at school, dramatic irony thwops me on the forehead. Like, for example, the past couple of weeks have been the beginning of music rehearsals for the spring production of Chalk Circle. That means, thanks to the grand tradition of Brendan’s Roommates Letting Him Pretend He’s A Musician, I’ve been actually reading things on sheets of music and playing them on congas with a band of real musicians. This honestly gives me the shivers.
Then, just as I’m starting to believe something like “hey! this stuff can be learned,” along comes Wynton Marsalis.
I only got to watch the first third of the show (two hours), but everything I saw was… well, pretty much what you’d expect from Wynton Marsalis’s band, assuming you know who Wynton Marsalis is. I don’t even think I enjoyed it as much as some of the other people watching it up on the catwalk with me, because I honestly don’t have a developed taste for jazz. I was still in awe. The talent and skill those guys put on display was ineffable.
That said, today was the first day I ran my whole route–what I guess now is around three miles–without stopping to walk. I haven’t done that since high school, and I did both on rainy days, and there’s really no dramatic irony possible there. No matter how many people run better than me, the fact is that right now I can run as fast as I ever have in my life.
I went with Jon, Amanda, Amanda’s sister Kelly and the one and only Artdrey to a Legends game on Friday, then to see Spirited Away on Sunday, and in between…
There are apparently a lot of Beaux Arts Balls thrown by architecture departments all over the country, but the one in Lexington is the biggest, or so they tell me. People put on costumes and go underground and get physically rearranged by the music, and then there’s girls in fashion… things, and after that there are guys who are pretending to be girls.
I’d never been to a drag show before (although I have watched To Wong Foo several times), but I wasn’t really surprised. There were a couple of ladies who were definitely men, and then there was one who was fairly androgynous, and then… there was Jenna.
Jenna was beautiful.
Jenna is my soulmate.
Jenna, if you’re out there, know that I’m out here too, and no, I’m not single, but dammit I could be.
Next topic! I should emphasize more that this was a costume party, as in Halloween costumes, only in April, so with more skin. There were some intricate and pretty ones there, and then the size-over-intricacy ones (meet Mister Pez Dispenser!) and then there were just people out to make their fetishes public.
I came to the conclusion, that night, that costume parties exist to let people show off the way they really want other people to see them. The dude with the tux and the wolf mask wants to sweep you away; the girl with the angel wings and garter belt wants to be touched and untouchable; the guy with that much metal in his face… he’s just doin’ his thing, man.
So if this is the case, I find it terribly appropriate that Audrey and I wore brightly colored rayon old-person jogging suits. They were worth more than a few compliments from other partygoers, and they were the most comfortable things I’ve ever had the eye-grinding displeasure of wearing–the Secret of the Mallwalkers! They were also two terribly comfortable outfits on two terribly comfortable personalities. Even if, um, they did hurt to look at. The analogy breaks down there, I guess.
Part of me wanted to come back in jewelry and a big hat and my soon-to-be patchy pants, sure, but mostly I just had a great time in an elastic waistband, hovering next to my girl and being lifted bodily by the bass. Times that great in pants that swishy are few and far between.
(I’d like to cap off this entry by talking about Spirited Away, but really, can I say anything that hasn’t been said?)
I never talked about the Guster show, did I? It was a little strange, because all of a sudden, Guster is a rock band.
This was the third time I’ve seen them, and I never knew that. I don’t think they really knew either. They took a long time off from headlining shows while lots of little Guster fans loaned their Guster CDs out to soon-to-be Guster fans, and when they came back, a) they were suddenly hardcore and b) everybody knew all the words to the songs. They surprised the hell out of everyone, including themselves, and the result was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. And they didn’t even play “Bury Me.” They didn’t have to.
The opening act was this band Blue Merle, the first purported “alt-country” band who seem to actually care about the country part. I always thought I hated most country music, but recently I’ve come to understand that what I hate is Nashville music, and that the country influence isn’t inherently bad.
(I still hate steel guitar, though.)
Anyway, Blue Merle was possibly the most enthusiastic alternative-lite band ever–much, much too happy to be doing what they were doing. This was one of the reasons I liked them so much, the other being that their music is really really good. You can stream the beginning of some of their songs on their (unnecessarily Flashy) site, and I just put up Bens mp3s like a week ago, so I won’t post them now, but be warned! Or, if you live around here, ask to borrow the CD. I’m flexible. I can handle that.
Oh, and they totally signed a broken drumstick (which the drummer threw and for which I dived, and which I snagged, in the process nearly mauling a girl with a broken arm)! I’d cam it, except it’s not really that interesting. It’s basically a broken drumstick with permanent marker on it.
You can’t borrow it, though. That baby goes on my wall.
Back from a whole, whole lot of driving (or, technically, riding). I’ve played cards and doodled and finally bought the third Sandman book and now am trying to think of things to amuse a sinus-infected Audrey. This is not to say that the sinusly infected aren’t easily amused–she’s currently zoning out at the fake wood grain on my desk–but rather that thinking of things to amuse her helps make me feel useful in the face of illness. I hate it when people are sick.
And speaking of that, I should really quit talking about “somebody” and talk about Maria, who was the person about whom I was worried and who turned out fine after all. She goes to Brown and she’s one of my best friends in the world, and now you, true believer, will have a reference for when I mention her.
I can’t do what I’d like to do, of course, and mention her name with a link to her blog, because she doesn’t have a blog. Why do so few of my friends have convenient blogs? Get a blog, Maria!
For the perceived length of this spring break, I really don’t have much other news, except this: dream school Carnegie Mellon said yes to me but no to any kind of financial support, which essentially means saying no to me, as I don’t think I’m legally permitted to Stafford-borrow as much as it would cost to go there. Still, it feels good to know that I could be there, in another life. Maybe there’s another Brendan in potentiality who software engineered himself right through Pittsburgh and into Blizzard after all.
And maybe he got smashed by a pig truck. You know, it really doesn’t do any good to speculate.
This is a long, relieved expulsion of breath. I got into UC, and I got in with full tuition.
There’s no stipend or anything, as far as I know, so I’d be working or borrowing heavily–I’m not clear on how using student loans for cost of living works, exactly. UC is also not my top personal choice, but it’s a choice, and it’s a very good choice, departmentwise. It comes recommended from not only Dr. Shannon, but my uncle John, the man who first bribed me (with Monopoly money) to “think about Centre.” And obviously that turned out okay.
I’m still waiting to hear from (in order of likelihood) UK, U of L, IU, UCLA, Carnegie Mellon, and Dartmouth. UW has already said no, if not officially. I think that’s what had me nervous about it–the fact that my first response was declination. It was very easy to believe that they’d just keep coming in.
They didn’t, though. One way or another, I will be in grad school in the fall. It’s nice to have a little ground back under my feet.
There are two reasons I usually need to go running. One, the need for exercise and endorphins and exuberance, has been with me for most of spring term. It’s a good thing, and it’s something I know enough not to indulge when I’ve only had four hours of sleep (as I did for most of this past week).
Earlier tonight I felt the other need, the bad old kind, the fall term kind. It’s not as nice and it’s not rewarding. It is, as it took me a while to realize, a form of self-punishment.
My friends are hurting right now and I don’t know how to fix them. I want to be able to fix anything, but these are human problems with unknown quantities and there’s no easy solution. I know that. But.
This weekend I won one argument: I managed to convince someone that what happened fall term, what made me need to go running, wasn’t her fault. I’m glad of that. I lost another argument: I wanted to visit someone who wouldn’t see me, not because she doesn’t want to, but because she needs time for herself. I don’t mind losing in itself, but I still wish I could talk to her.
I can’t make the cause for the second person’s time alone go away; I can’t fix what’s making the first person want to blame herself; I can’t fix people who are sick and tired, I can’t fix people with misplaced affections, I can’t do much of anything except give of my time.
One of the most important things I learned during my internship, though, is that time isn’t free. My time isn’t free. There’s only so much of it, and I’m more conscious than ever of the fact that I can’t run on four-hour nights indefinitely.
This entry isn’t a question, and it’s not a cry for help. It’s just a monologue. I know people will read this and try to think of ways to help, and that’s beautiful: I hope you know I appreciate it. But I don’t need help yet. I just need to figure out a way to proportion the time I give–to figure out how much is mine to give, and how much is already bought.
That’s one problem I will figure out, I believe. I believe.
Over the hump of the week now, I think. Wow. Coming back from SETC and going straight back into school things was like jumping out of a placid, cozy houseboat right into a sausage grinder (um, underwater). Makeup tests, makeup homework, Cento, road show, consultant meetings, old-computer hauling, more road show–it’s all been a bit ridiculous,and I’ve had fourteen hours of sleep in the last sixty.
Next couple of days are a bit of a breath, thankfully, and then it’s only a week until spring break. It looks as if Jon, Amanda and I are going to roll up to Bloomington to check out IU and maybe do some interviewing, even though Jon most likely won’t end up there–they apparently only give money to PhD students, and Wake Forest is still falling over itself to attach his name to cash for a Master’s.
Also, on the way up we might get to see Guster in Cincinnati! I want to visit people in Louisville, too, and I’m trying to figure out a way to get dropped off and just stay there on our way back from Indiana. Anybody have a room to let? I’m penniless, but I’m a right hard-working scullery boy, I have all my own teeth, and I reckon I can pick out a merry tune on my nose-flute.
I got her, Michelle, the director I wanted. My instincts were right, this time: she’s a genius. My director is AMAZING. We (where by “we” I mean “she”) talked about the play for almost an hour, during which she came up with better and more interesting character profiles and staging and motivations than I could have imagined. Her mind moves like water on hot grease. Synergy. This play has the potential to be incredible; I wanted to kick people in the teeth, and that may just be what she’s going to do.
I’m exhausted, ecstatic, emotional. Obviously I’m in a heightened state; I haven’t slept since we left the Days Inn yesterday morning, a low-contrast memory. But I’m excited too, and something in me is trembling. Doing this hurt. Last year I felt fatalistic about what was going to happen that night. This year I feel terrified, and joyful, and I ache.
I’ve written happy and sad before, but I don’t think I’ve ever managed to clearly transmit pain until now. I think The Laramie Project was the most important thing I’ve ever done. I think this was the hardest, and I think I did it right.
Twelve hours of sleep until I watch it come to life.
Having it read aloud was like being naked.
I’ve never written anything I count as drama before, and this play is dramatic. The cushion of laughter was still there, at the beginning, but it didn’t help because I knew it wasn’t achieving what it could yet. I wanted to make it hurt, which meant I had to make it feel good first. It hurt me. I can’t tell yet if it hurt anyone else.
The directors are picking out plays in the next room, and I’m still nervous, because there are one or two of them I’d love to have pick it and three of them whom I dread. I could babble on here about how I made mistakes for the cold reading and why I want whom I want, but I’m going to turn this thing off. My fingers hurt. My play is done, and it’s barely started.
It’s called “One Eye, One Tooth.”
