njósnavélin.

njósnavélin by sigur rós. (also known as “untitled #4 from the album ( ). )

a friend once told me that you could fall in love to that song.

in other news, i still laugh every time i step into the shower when i see that the shower head hasn’t moved from its 6-inches-too-short-for-my-height position.

give my gun away, when it’s loaded – is that alright? yeah, alright with you?

‘you are what you love. no? you are, completely and only, what you would die for without, as you say, the thinking twice.’

- DFW, “infinite jest”

and now, my current song obsession (because it’s absolutley beautiful):

“Rootless Tree”

What I want from you is empty your head
They say be true, don’t stay in your bed
We do what we need to be free
And it leans on me like a rootless tree

What I want from us is empty our minds
We fake the thoughts, and fracture the times
We go blind when we’ve needed to see
And this leans on me, like a rootless…

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you
And all we’ve been through
I said leave it, leave it, leave it
There’s nothing in you
And did you hate me, hate me, hate me, hate me so good
That you just let me out, let me out, let me out
Of this hell when you’re around
Let me out, let me out, let me out
Hell when you’re around
Let me out, let me out, let me out

What I want from this
Is learn to let go
No not of you
Of all that’s been told
Killers re-invent and believe
And this leans on me, like a rootless…

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you
And all we’ve been through
I said leave it, leave it, leave it
There’s nothing in you
And did you hate me, hate me, hate me, hate me so good
That you just let me out, let me out, let me out
Of this hell when you’re around
Let me out, let me out, let me out
Of this hell when you’re around
Let me out, let me out, let me out
Hell when you’re around
Let me out, let me out, let me out
Hell when you’re around
Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out
Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out
Let me out, let me out, let me out

Fuck you, fuck you, love you
And all we’ve been through
I said leave it, leave it, leave it
It’s nothing in you
And did you hate me, hate me, hate me, hate me so good
That you just let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out
Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out
Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out
Let me out, let me out, let me out

Let me out, let me out, let me out
Hell when you’re around

Let me out, let me out, let me out
Hell when you’re around

Let me out, let me out, let me out
Hell when you’re around

- damien rice

i am turning in revolutions; these are the scars that silence carved on me.

at the risk of sounding like a pretentious little fuck, i’m just going to throw this out there: i’m reading a 1000+ page book for fun, and i love it.

i attempted to read infinite jest in september of 2008 – shortly before DFW passed away. i just couldn’t get into it – his sentences were complex, his footnotes endless, and his wandering writing was something that i couldn’t seem to wrap my preoccupied brain around. i was in the middle of rehearsing 6, sometimes 7 days a week, going to class 4 days a week, working 2 part time jobs, and trying to graduate – i guess saying that i was preoccupied is a bit of an understatement. needless to say, my first edition hardcover copy soon found its way back onto my bookshelf where it gathered dust and sat, further untouched, the bookmark wilting sadly around the 100 page mark.

i’d been meaning to pick it back up and revisit the multitude of characters and storylines, but i never seemed to have the time to devote to the undertaking. and until i heard about the “infinite summer” idea via a good friend, it seemed like DFW was doomed to a lonely life at the bottom of my bookshelf.

there’s something about immersing yourself in good literature with someone else that is incredibly appealing. maybe it’s knowing that someone is going through the ordeal with you; maybe it’s just nice to know you have another human being with whom you can converse and discuss ideas with; maybe it’s simply that “misery loves company.” whatever it is, as of june 21st, i found myself cracking the cover of infinite jest for the second time – but this time, i’ll finish it.

i’ve got deadlines now. i’ve got people with whom i can discuss the book with, all who are roughly reading it at the same rate i am. and for some reason, the book is holding my interest this time around. i can’t seem to put it down – when i’m not reading it, i’m thinking about it. i find myself laughing out loud at DFW’s dry sarcasm and ingenious wit, laughing at things that i didn’t seem to understand the last time around, and just thoroughly enjoying myself.

at this point, i’ve successfully passed the point where i left off last time, and my interest is only growing with no sign of decline. it looks promising.

as a recent college grad, i’ve got more free time to read than i’ve had in the past 4 years. granted, working two jobs and racing to auditions keeps me busy, but i am overjoyed to finally be reading something again, just for the hell of it. i’ve already made a list of my next conquests:

1) finish “infinite jest”

2) re-read “the man without qualities,” volumes 1 and 2

3) re-read sartre’s “being and nothingness”

4) finish reading kerouac’s collections of journals, “windblown world”

5) possibly re-conquer “atlas shrugged” and “the fountainhead”

ambitious? maybe. pretentious? sure – why not? but now that i have the time, why not revisit some of my old favorites? maybe i’ll even find some new things to read. either way, it feels incredible to finally have the time to read whatever i want, whenever i want. i haven’t experienced that freedom in a long time.

it was a white crane; it was a helpless thing.

i’ll be 22 tomorrow.

but it’s just another birthday – another year older, and (hopefully) another year wiser.

so, i ask, is it time to let go of grudges?

i received a card from my grandmother in the mail today. “happy birthday, dear granddaughter,” the cover said. it was illustrated in pastels and subtle, glittery text, reaffirming the fact that my grandmother will probably still be sending me glittering birthday cards no matter how old i get.

i was surprised to get a card from her, of all people. i didn’t get one last year, nor the year before (that i can remember). i just figured that she was still playing her games and thought that i would care if i didn’t get a card – which, i didn’t.

i don’t have a lot of respect for my grandmother (my dad’s mom, to specify), and i’m not going to go into the details here. i suppose i could, but out of respect for my father, i won’t. i lost respect for her over the last 6 years or so, and it was a direct result of the way she treated me, my family members, and stupid little mind games she’d play to get attention.

i didn’t make any real effort to contact her or call her; the way i see it, the telephone works both ways. after moving to chicago, i pretty much lost all contact with her, saw her MAYBE once a year, and then when she got angry and pissy because our family was still in contact (and hanging out with) my aunt’s ex-husband, it was kind of the last straw for me. the ultimate last straw was when she refused to come to my little brother’s high school graduation, even though my family offered to come pick her up for the 1/2 hour drive.

i refused to call her or talk to her, and i know it bothered my dad. i remember him calling me last winter and pleading with me to give her a call for her birthday – the hour long conversation went back and forth, my explaining (and yelling, sorry dad) about how she shows no respect for our family and that i refused to have anything to do with someone who treated her own son the way she did. but i could hear in his voice that it hurt him, and i consented with, “fine. but i’m only calling her for you. i’m not calling her because i care.”

i still feel guilty about it, but that’s how i felt, and kind of how i still feel. like i’ve said before, i’m a good person – but if you fuck with my family or my friends, i can be a real bitch.

the birthday card that came in the mail caught me off guard. when i saw that it had been addressed properly, my first thought was, “huh. either dad called her and asked her to send this, or she actually took initiative and asked him for my address.” upon opening the card, i found a generous check and a magazine clipping entitled “grandmother’s pearls of wisom.” it was cute, the message inside the card was generic, but at the same time, the effort made me smile a little. when i pulled out the magazine clipping, i found a handwritten message on the inside cover:

“lindsey, could you find time to call grandma once in a while? i’d love to hear from you.”

immediately, i felt guilty, defensive, and apologetic, all at the same time. she’s an old woman – maybe she doesn’t realize the games she plays. maybe her arithritis prevents her from dialing a phone. maybe she DID realize the way she’s acted, and now she feels bad about it.

either way, i’m an adult now. it’s time to move on and just accept the way things are – if not for my sake, then for my father’s.

dad, i’ll get grandma’s number from you tomorrow. i’ve got a phone call to make that’s probably several years overdue.

so we choose between reality and madness; it’s either sadness or euphoria.

i will always expect more of myself than of others.

this is both a fault and a blessing.

steady as she goes; are you steady now?

i did something last night that i am not proud of.

no, i take it back.

i AM proud of it. i’m not a violent person generally, but i had to stand up for myself last night – for that, i’m proud.

after the intense thunderstorms last night, the weather took a turn for the better. granted, it was still incredibly humid, but it had cooled down to at least 80, there was a cool breeze blowing, and the sky had decided to turn off the monsoon weather for the time being. so, i decided to walk home from work.

it was about 12:30, friday night. it may not always be the smartest idea to walk 2 miles in the dark by yourself, but it was a friday night, it was beautiful out, and there were people everywhere. that, and i was too cheap to waste money on the cta.

so i walked. and it was lovely until i started to approach wrigleyville.

then, the cat calls started.

to be fair, drunk wrigleyville boys like to cat call anything without a penis.

however, some of the girls seemed to enjoy it. ESPECIALLY the ones who could easily have been mistaken for a hooker looking to turn a trick – skirts were barely there, as were shirts.

that being said, i don’t think it’s EVER ok for cat calls to happen, to either sex, no matter how someone is dressed.

i, on the other hand, was dressed in torn, espresso-stained blue jeans, ratty converse, and a conservative tank top. i was gross, sweaty from working in the coffee shop for the last 6 hours, and simply trying to navigate the sidewalks in order to get home. i realized too late that i probably should have steered clear of the whole clark street area, but i was trying to be rational by taking the busiest, best lit route home.

there was this guy.

let’s call him “bro-dude.”

bro-dude stumbles out of some cantina on clark street (moe’s?) with two of his buddies. bro-dude himself is so drunk that he can barely walk without holding onto the outside wall of the bar; bro-dude#2, the guy on his left, appears to be just as drunk as he is and they are leaning against one another as they sway down the sidewalk. the third guy (and i will not call him a bro-dude because he was actually sober and behaved like a human being) was trailing a few feet behind them, clearly annoyed by the fact that he was having to play “babysitter” this evening.

bro-dude stops about 20 feet in front of me and elbows bro-dude#2.

“hot bitch,” he says.

bro-dude#2 tries to focus on me but can’t. “yeah, dude. fuck.”

bro-dude lets go of his human support stand and tries to high five me as i walk past. i smile politely, shake my head, and continue walking.

“WHOAAAA, bro. bitch is too good for us,” yells bro-dude#2.

“too good for us, bitch? you got a nice ass, baby – come have a drink with us,” offers bro-dude.

i continue to ignore them, but it is difficult to out-walk them as there is chad/trixie body debris EVERYWHERE. i am reduced to a painstakingly slow amble towards clark and addison. i don’t even have to turn around to know that they are now heading in the same direction i am.

“chicago sluts are all the same, dude,” says bro-dude#2, a little too loudly. “think they’re too fuckin’ good for us.”

“she’s got a nice ass, man.”

“yeah, man. hey baby – why aren’t you wearing heels? maybe you should just fuckin’ loosen up – it’s hot out here – take your top off.”

it is at this point when i can tell that they are right behind me. i am almost next to the bouncer at the door of the bar, who has been checking id’s and watching this whole scene out of the corner of his eye. i can see them stumbling around behind me in the refelection of the bar glass, and for a moment, it looks like bro-dude has stumbled and gone down, as i can no longer see him.

but then i feel a palm against the pocket of my jeans and a sharp, strong squeeze.

“mmm,” i hear bro-dude grunt.

i didn’t even stop – i just used my momentum, swung around, and caught him neatly on his right cheek bone.

i watched him stumble backward into bro-dude#2, giggling about how “bitch is feisty” and rubbing his cheek. the sober friend ran forward, and before i had a moment to defend myself verbally, he said quietly, “look, i’m so sorry. he totally deserved it. can i give you money for a cab ride home or something?” i declined politely, saying that i lived only a few blocks away; he half-smiled and held out his hand for a high-five. “he’s had that coming for a while. so, thank you?”

as i turned to continue my walk home, i caught the eye of the bouncer – who, to my surprise, was laughing and clapped as i walked past him. i managed to smile at him before i rounded the corner of clark and addison and started heading west to magnolia. in the three blocks between that intersection and home, i realized that my mood had gone from incredibly positive and happy to angry and pissy in a matter of moments.

when i woke up this morning, i was STILL in a bad mood.

hopefully i can shake it before my audition tomorrow.

my girl, linen and curls; lips parting like a flag all unfurled.

for the first time in a long time, i was inspired and electrified by theatre.

for the first time in a long time, i witnessed an entire audience inspired and electrified by theatre.

seeing shows like that confirm why i love this profession.

i want to do that, be a part of that, inspire and ignite people that way.

so thank you guys.

and if you haven’t seen Oedipus at the Building Stage yet, go. please.and bring everyone that you can.

got some whiskey from the barman.

when you want something so badly that it hurts, is it enough to overcome the nerves?

you look at the number of people who you’re up against, the other girls who have resumes far more impressive than yours, the ones who have been around for a while and aren’t just fresh out of college, and you wonder: why me? why did i get the call?

you feel honored, scared, excited, and nervous.

you know that you’ve been busting your ass to get off book, to get those lines memorized, to make intelligent and defined choices, but you can’t help but ask: will it be enough?

sunday evening, here i come. cross some fingers for me or something.

if i went and lost myself – would you know where to find me?

i have an inkling.

double entendre.

do with it what you will.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

- Bluebird by Charles Bukowski