whatever happened to saturday night?

Last night was opening night.

Wow is all I can say. The support and love myself and the other cast members have gotten is just overwhelming.

I'm just sad it's almost over. Two more shows and then never again.

But for tonight, I can only hope to do even better and hope people walk away from the show with a deep appreciation for what theatre is capable of doing.

i'm always in this twilight, ruminating.

The worst is over. Thank God. I can breathe again.

Well, not really. I have a cold and therefore can only breathe through one nostril.

But now that the day has passed, I feel like I can return to normal again. The year mark was supposed to be the milestone. It's supposed to be easier from now on, right? Time slowly heals all things. But I also feel like time pulls us away and makes us forget. I don't want to forget.

I suppose that's why I write. I go back to my old journals sitting in my closet often to see if I discover anything new. And I can remember the moment I wrote each poem, each bit of prose, each story. I remember exactly what I was thinking, exactly what I was feeling consciously and unconsciously when I put the pen to paper. I don't forget things easily. Maybe it's because I write so much. I can never truly let anything go. All my memories are immortalized in ink, and I prefer it that way. Writing shows me who I was, who I am, and sometimes even glimpses into who I will be. I don't think a lot of people have that.

I mean, I know that our memories aren't often completely truthful, that we reflect back on the past with bias and edit ourselves. And while writing in the moment or about a moment also brings with it my emotional biases, I like to think I have an accurate record of my life that I can refer to. I like that.

Which is why it frustrates me that I haven't been able to write. I'm afraid if I don't write I won't remember this brief period of my life, which I feel is rather important for me to remember. Everything is important for me to remember.

Even the mundane things.

Even the moments that cause me pain.

it's empty in the valley of your heart

A year ago today, the world lost Clinton Taylor. I miss him dearly. I know everyone he knew feels the same pain I'm feeling. Last night I looked at the clock; it said the time was 12:54 and I started to cry because I realized it was the 15th of February.

But really, I greatly dislike this month. I want it to be over.

say hello, wave goodbye.

What a week this has been. But I'm glad to say I'm smiling more and dwelling less. Bittersweet. Saying goodbye always is.

I have a paper due Monday, but I'm finding it difficult to come up with motivation. I just want to curl up in bed and watch Boston Legal. I need to get rid of all this unproductive laziness.

I really hate when I have the urge to write but find I have nothing to say. For that, I offer up something I wrote in my journal Wednesday, when I was decidedly more somber:

I can't give a genuine smile
unless someone pulls a laugh
from my overcast heart.
Lethargy prevails in the aftermath.
A funk pervades my countenance.
It seems so effortless to pretend,
but I don't desire to put on
two different hats and two different masks.
Happiness is a brief thing
that occurs in random spurts.
But it is fleeting, unfortunately;
I can't seem to grasp it,
capture it in my fingers and hold on tight.
But my grip would be desperate.
I cannot sink so low;
my pride will not allow me to need.

sing a sad song in a lonely world.

I'm exhausted. Just exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. All over. My head hurts. My body aches. And it takes all my energy to really smile.

Erik's memorial service this morning was inspiring. I'm envious of his positive outlook on both life and death. I wish I could view them the same way, all calm and collected. It was an honor to be able to sing in his memory.

I just wish that uplifted feeling carried over to my evening.

I drove home this afternoon in order to attend Richard's funeral service tomorrow morning. The family gathered to watch the Super Bowl at Aunt Gerry and Richard's house, and while it was nice to them gathered in one place again, I was completely unprepared to handle it. Gerry started crying as I walked in the door because she was so thankful I was there, and the rest of the night she called me Miss Agnes. I spent the rest of the night gathered around the dining room table listening to and sharing stories about my Uncle Richard, which was really nice and comforting until we started reading through the notes Richard wrote while on a ventilator in the hospital...

I've always thought myself to be a strong person, but this has been really trying. I just want some closure.

uncle richard

The guitar.

A quiet corner

in a house full of merry holiday noise.

You, the patient teacher,

your wrinkled, veiny fingers

curling around the neck

and plucking out notes

one by one.

You were old then,

and I so young.

You're gone now,

a mere memory in so little time.

And that guitar sits

collecting dust in a quiet corner.

I've neglected it.

And now that you're gone,

I fear I'll forget all the notes,

I'll forget how to play

that familiar tune.

If it's true,

I'll have disappointment to add

to the sadness.

My Great Uncle Richard died yesterday. Among all my memories, my favorite was the one Christmas he taught me Ode to Joy on the guitar, and it remains the only thing I know how to play.

I dislike February so far.

Ever singing march we onward, victors in the midst of strife. Joyful music lifts us Son-ward in the triumph song of life...