The sporadic ramblings of Emily C. A. Snyder - devoted to God, theatre, writing, and much randominity.

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Location: New York, New York, United States

Artistic Director and Co-Founder of TURN TO FLESH PRODUCTIONS. | Author of "Nachtstürm Castle," "Niamh and the Hermit." | Playwright: "Cupid and Psyche," "Math for Actors." | Classical director and educator.

Friday, November 24, 2006

I am quickly falling in love

With the key of F#min. Haunting haunting key. A little difficult to keep the four sharps going, but it's a loverly key. Was doodling about in it last night - all the chord changes and relative majors and sevenths and such - mostly as an alleviation to the studying that is currently exploding my brain. Since it seems at this point that I am doing worse on each practice test I'm taking, I'm taking a short break now rather than drawing a circle on my monitor and repeatedly bashing my brains into it. Oh, silly standardization! Oh, the evils of putting purposely deceptive bits on a test! C'mon! Play fair! It's not so much a measure of how smart or capable one really is, as it is a measure of how tricksy one can be! (Which would explain a lot about our system of education and government.)

Anywho, loverly long lunch with Jills who is, as I type, now with the other Schneider schweister for the evening. Huzzah for unknowing autonomy, boo to lack of Julie in my life. Watched with mutermuter and darlink schwiester Acts III & IV of edited Hamlet last night, which did much to alleviate my sense of panic. (Mother knows her child well and predicted I'd be in a panic. Oh, wunderschoene mutermuter!) First visit to local Olive Garden did much to impress, particularly as I was seranaded by Andrea Bocelli whilst I entered. I'm sure I much confused the staff as I journalled (yay for handy journals!) whilst waiting for Jills to arrive, but the music, the fireplace, pen and paper kept me occupied. Great catching up with Jill. Ich leibe dich, darling - and thank you as always for conversation and perspective and the delight of your company.

Time certainly flies, n'est-ce pas? Still, standing over this particular precipice, the white sleeves billowing to show the wind's own dance, and the persistent question of "Can I fly?" echoing down through the miles of fog below me, I cannot help but tremble a little. And then grow sad, for it sha'n't be long before whatever lies behind the veil below (or is that above or just beyond?) grows pale and mundane itself. I must remember the castle and not the precipice. I hope I do not lose my sense of awe.

It's as though...no, let me begin again. When in my first year at college, I had a crush on the local philosopher (surprise surprise) who went off one long extended lunch (I begin to wonder how much of my thoughts on life come from long extended lunches - rather Adamsesque, non?) about how he didn't wear a wristwatch because he wouldn't be a slave to time. Now, at the time (no pun intended) I was torn between the desire to free myself from the shackles of minutes and seconds in a desire to please his rather revolutionary self, and repugnance at the chaos that would quickly ensue from such an anarchic act. Throw away my watch? But how would I get to class on time? Wake up in time? Know that I ought to be going to sleep even if I wasn't? I think I actually lost my watch soon afterwards in one of those charming coinkydinks that look loverly on paper but are a pain in the neck in life, and did fairly well before finding my watch again.

However, round about the next semester, after I'd gotten over that particular crush (God bless that guy, dunno what happened to him) I drew a picture of Time (a woman with a clock's face for her own) pulling in another woman (presumably me) by shackles attached to the second woman's wrists. To frame them both, I put half a clock showing some hour or minute behind them. It's a good piece. Drawn during the Great Books seminar, as I recall, mostly because I did most of my drawing then, since I felt that I had nothing to contribute to the conversation at that time. (Oh, silly Emily! However, I absorbed a great deal.)

So now, it seems almost as if I'm not shackled to Time, nor is she a dead-faced clock, nor less Lewis' Time-Giant, but rather as though I were sitting on the minute hand, being gently but inexorably guided to my next place of contact. But being on the minute or hour or week or year hand, it's rather unnerving still to come to the top and to look down - ferris-wheel like - below. I don't trust Him enough, and I ought to. But I can feel His hand upon me, guiding me though I cannot see Him.

Nothing is for naught. All times are sacred. All experiences are important. All can be made well. God makes good of everything.

But, oh, I wish I knew.

Mood: F#min
Music: Some random instrumental piece that's forming itself, cosmos-like, in my brain. Currently, I can't hear it, but I can feel it taking shape.
Thought: Isn't the soul a magnificient thing?
Gacked from Julie: So. True.

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