Sadness, sadness

Heartfelt pain
If all our love
Has been in vain....

This is much harder than I thought. How things change with a phonecall.

Mood: Precipice
Music: "Won't you take me by the hand/take me somewhere new/I don't know who you are/but I, I'm with you"
Prayer: Oh, God - amen.

Finger-Itching

I've been in a desperate mood lately to get back to writing. Anything. Plays, essays, stories - especially stories in prose; especially fantasy once again. And more, to get those stories out there. The question, as always, is one of time. But whilst reading the biography of Chesterton, I'm itching, itching to write again. This is a good thing, I think - although it's also an eyebrow-cocked-to-God thing, as in, "Hallo, God...why am I thinking of all these alternative means of making a living? Hallo? Halloooooo?"

Anywho, so that's all to say that I found this on the net and was very surprised and gratified. Happy day!

Oh, and some wonderful anonymous person wrote this:

"Niamh and the Hermit is a wonderful debut for Snyder. While reading her book you can easily believe that you are hearing a fairy tale from the Medieval ages. There are points when it seems as though we are in the story ourselves, that we're sitting in a pub and listening to the legend of Niamh. But then the "legend" interweaves itself to become realistic and what we thought was the normal world shifts into legend. Snyder's book is like a story that is on the brink of the Faerie Lands where reality is no longer certain. Her prose is spectacular with sweeping descriptions and witty dialogue. But words aside, Ms. Snyder has now debuted as an artist and composer. Scattered throughout the novel are original illustrations and maps. Written on musical staffs are some songs the characters themselves sing. These melodies are haunting and truly seem authentic to the "time" she has set this story. The world building of the Twelve Kingdoms is extensive as seen in the appendices. Tales and legends referenced in the story are expanded upon, further drawing the reader into Snyder's world. A world from which one does not want to escape."

Anyway, which is all in all a great inducement to keep writing, and hopefully a gentle nudge to wonderful people to remember to support your local, struggling, silly authors with reviews at amazon.com.

Tra la - I love the spring!

Mood: Significantly improved
Music: Spamalot - I just need upbeat
Thought: Bantam Spectra for TSV. Yes.

Time time time

See what's become of me
While I look around for my possibilities
I was so hard to please

Ha! Did I think things would slow down? Silly, Emily - kicks are for trids. So, some things I am thankful for in the nonce:

Modern electronics - everything from sattelites, to DVD's, to USB ports, to CD's, to copy machines, to external harddrives, to cellphones, to sloppy old jaloppies that keep running.

God's grace. His mercy. The quiet, deafening hush with which He entered the world. My own sense of unworthiness before the Christ-child. My fear, and awe and tembling as His mother invites me in. My fear to do so. And His grace despite my own ill-temper, even moments after grace.

Sausage and mushroom lasagna made by me Muther! Hurrah!

Midterm review sheets that are in Word Documents. Hoopla! Yay for repeating old curriculums! (Curriculae?)

Two instances of seeing that perhaps there's hope - no, that there is hope - and grace in other's lives.

Mood: Too much to do - too much to do!
Music: Kristen Chenowith's "Let Yourself Go" CD
Schedule: Beginning Matchmaker and preparing for midterms. Blaurghnfphthmnnnnghuuuuuuuuhsztfffffmmphtle. Yup.

I have found my haunting moment

And like usual, it's in a created song/dance number. Ah ca. But what it shows is the female character's desire for their respective men. It's going to rip hearts out. And I'm going to take the Act IV Dolly monologue and put it in the middle of the song during the orchestral repetition/bridge. And I'll use my "shadowdancers." Le sigh. I think it'll make the story WORK.

Praise God. Now I have a reason to do the show.

Mood: Must off - trailer check for Casanova
Music: "My Funny Valentine" - amazing
Thought: Beauty, beauty!

An Epiphany of Chocolate

Some wise men bring frankincense
And other kings bring myrrh
But the king who brings me chocolate
Is the monarch I prefer.

~*~

The show is cast -
The crisis passed -
The home a home of sweet content
And all is done as it was meant.

Mood: Better and better - family is a better repose than sleep.
Music: "My Funny Valentine" - I think I just found my haunting moment - thank GOD!
Thought: Family reminds us what is real. Putting away groceries and discovering the gift of chicken salad is a greater paradise than all the limelights of the world.

Once in every show....

Spamalot on in the background, since it has not been on since forever. It is currently fulfilling the role of not having a working DVD player in my area - so I can imagine what the blocking ought to be for a show I've never seen. Anywho, this post is meant to suffice for sporadic journalling, and a disgraceful negligence of journalling on the New Year and the old.

Pearce's Wisdom and Innocence biography of Chesterton arrived a few days ago and has proved an excellent tonic to Patricia McKillip's ephemeral but unsatisfying Harrowing the Dragon. It's such a relief to read about the man who lived, and lived large, who fully embraced the romance of orthodoxy, the jolly champion of common sense. His very thoughts are a tonic to the present post-modern malaise. Of course, his grave witticisms make one wish that one were half the dedicated journalist as he - rather than the solipsistic journaler - and also make one wonder just what Chesterton would think of the blogsphere. I suspect he should be at once glad for it and wildly dissatisfied - particiularly since he could not earn a living from it, and since such selfish folk as I can claim some corner of it. A newspaper would not record my timetable, but I expect the net to support it. Ease is cheap.

Despite such high and noble sentiments, I feel impelled to shout to the pixelated world that I have edited up through "Arabian" - and it is good. It was not so good when I abused my body two days in a row staying up to 6 and 7 a.m. respectively - but it became significantly better when I went to sleep at 10 p.m. (after curling up with Chesterton [the only man I regularly read]) at New Year's Eve. So you see, I was not journalling because I was finally remembering to take care of this awkward vessel, my body. My body alone is not Brother Ass - my will claims such humble origins also. As it is, because I actually slept well on New Year's Eve (albeit, waking at 1:30 and being unable to get back to sleep until 3:30 - sigh), I truly enjoyed and appreciated the first day of the New Year which was, delightfully enough, also the first day of the week. Mom and Jules have finally joined the choir at IC, and roped me into singing again last weekend, which itself - although I do not care for chorus work - was a blessing, in part because Fr. Jonathan was playing the organ, and Marty was serving the mass, and I was simply struck by the Communion of Saints, by the Apostolic Succession, and by all the good priests God is raising up for Himself. It felt that morning like the first day of the whole world. I hope, therefore, all both of my readers, that I may be excused if the fabricated world of the internet held no attraction.

Mothers are God's gift to a befuddled mankind. He who abandons his mother is no better off than a Pan - who, although charming, can never really grow up enough to know the whole of happiness. "There is something that you want from me, Wendy, and I think Tinkerbell wants it too, but I don't know what it is." Pan knows he is lacking - and though we love him, since he cannot bind himself either to wife or to mother, he cannot return our love.

My own mother is full of holy wisdom, I am sure. Her comment the other night (the one when I stayed up 'til 7) was that even beyond my own theory that we all need to be touched and that the tragedy of this world is that we have been told that all touch is sexual, and so we don't actually know how to be in right relationship to one another - to this she said that she thought that even sex was a search for a certain type of touch which is the one we all really crave: that is to be held like a child. I think she must be right. And to think on her thought puts so much into perspective regarding myself, my kids (and the frequent debates I have with them), with God, with characters (that is for writing purposes, and directing, too - because every time I direct I'm merely putting my philosophy on the stage)....

She also reminded me of the purpose of life, which is, of course, Heaven - but more, to bring our own souls and others to His throne. This was in my mind as I sang in the choirloft, able to see the whole of the nave and the sanctuary and the illustrations in the arcade, and I must say it's very nearly made up my mind (barring some other closed or opened door on the part of God) about Next Year. About the years following, I'm still unsure, but I'm very, very near to being fairly certain about what He wants of me in a few months time. Reading the biography of Chesterton aids in that regard as well - particularly given my current (and who knows) familial state.

My mind is a single track, and since I have apologised for it elsewhere and since there's the remote possibility that my sister might read this and since I'd prefer not to be assured of a slap upside the head for this at least, I won't apologise at present for returning to my single, sad refrain. Or joyous, really. I am of course about to speak about my great passion: theatre. It confounds and bothers my "intellectual" self as to why I'm utterly, profoundly, inextricably enamoured of theatre - so much so that I think it might be fairly said that I'm in the midst of a wonderful love affair - but I suppose that inasmuchas one can never satisfactorily explain why one loves except that one does, so I love theatre. And, to my surprise, I love writing for the theatre. Perhaps this love will pass, or fade, or become a household love that must wait while I complete another task, or will finally learn to coexist with writing fantasy (which, while I also love, I haven't the time right now - I'm holding down essentially three jobs: teaching, directing and voice lessons) - but regardless, my heart absolutely bursts with the happiness of theatre. I cannot express enough my gratefulness to God, the rapturous thanks of a very young girl to her Father, for such a temporal prince as the world of the stage. The world can be right on the stage. The world can be beautiful on the stage. Everything is permissible because everything is in its right place - that is, the moral boundaries are in place as firmly as the procenium, so that within both boundaries something wonderful can be created. I love it, I love it, I love it. I can think of no better place to be (excepting, of course, Mass or Adoration - which, I grant, I do not avail myself of enough. Oh, Lord, forgive me for not loving You as well as I ought! Oh, Lord, give me a greater heart to truly love You more than all Your creations! Amen!).

And with those few thoughts, I leave this humble post. Dad has finished watching the commentary for A Mighty Wind and Mom is ready to see the most recent 20 min. of Nutcracker edited. And I must needs print out the audition form and make sure I'm all set for school tomorrow - provided we have school tomorrow.

Mood: Bon. Tres, tres bon.
Music: "I'm all alone" - bwahahahahahahha!
Thought: Julie is an amazing artist....