An Unforgiving Teacher

Injuries suck. I mean, they really suck.

You're going full-speed, doing everything, making things happen, on top of the world, nothing can stop you. And then you get a stupid injury. It hurts like all hell, but you think, "Hey, nothing can stop me! Why should this stupid injury stop me?" And then you make it worse. And, stubbornly, you insist again on your invincibility. Until your spinal cord snaps and you're paralyzed for life.

I'm stubborn. I don't let anything stand in my way. Ever. You'd have better luck convincing a brick wall to tango. So when I got my most inhibiting injury ever, my initial instinct was, "To hell with being injured. My spine doesn't want to move? I'll make it move!" Or better yet, "Doctors? Who needs 'em! All I got to do is toughen up, and I'll be fine." Thankfully, however, logic has been winning out mostly. Logic has a pretty good argument: "Not moving around much right now sucks. A lot. I know. But if you keep moving around, trying to be unstoppable, you are going to be permanently injured. Or dead. DEAD. DO YOU WANT TO DIE?? No? Well, rest up, and you'll be good as new soon. With over 9000 toughness points for overcoming your injury. So over 9000 or DEATH? Which will it be?"

Logic has learned how to appeal to the illogical: hyperbole. I've been enduring the psychological misery of not being able to do all the things I want with logic's ridiculous reasoning. Don't tell the illogical, but this isn't a video game; toughness isn't measured numerically. Whatever points I think I'm winning by recovering from an injury don't really exist. Or, at least, no one else cares about them. Even I don't.

What I care about is being able to go full-speed, do everything, make things happen, on top of the world, nothing can stop me again. As soon as possible. In one week, a bunch of nervous teenagers will all one by one stand up on a stage, speak for less than a minute, and desperately hope they managed to somehow blow me away in such a short time frame. Little do they know, I'm just as nervous. Casting is the most terrifying part of production. But then production will begin. Little old injured me will need to be ready for the physical demands.

Did you know directing is physically demanding? Sure, it can be done from a chair, but that's not the kind of director I want to be. I want to be that director the cast always remembers for all the passion and positive energy she put into the production every single day, come rain, sleet, snow, or hail. I want to be that director that makes everyone in the production say, "Hey, this is fun!" I want to be that director who isn't the boss, but the role model. I want to be that director whose love for everyone involved in the production is obvious. I want to be that director who fits John Quincy Adams' definition of a leader: "If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader." I want to inspire.

I hate being less than 100% right now, but I know the rest right now is necessary. I have to let my body heal so that I may be around as long as I can to learn how to become the person I dream of being. I have to learn patience, and I have to learn to take care of myself before I can be worthy of taking care of others.

Injuries suck, but they're one of those "either you learn, or you die" situations. Either you learn to swallow your pride and listen to your body's needs, or you run your body straight into the ground and destroy yourself. Injuries are unforgiving teachers.

Discombobulation

I missed a day again, I know. Things have been crazy. I'm exhausted. I'm happy. I feel like I have a fever, but it's just because the weather got ridiculously hot again. And now it's supposed to rain tomorrow. Or today, I guess, by the time you read this.

The play I wrote is officially being put on at the school! I'm very happy. It was such a long day today. Yesterday. First day back to class (though only one of them), and then rushing off to meet with the principal, only to have him tell me that I needed to go talk to the drama teacher and after school program, as I had been doing since LAST YEAR, and got sent over to him by them. So I went back to the after school program, found out why the guy in charge last year stopped answering my questions about working with the after school program: he wasn't part of it anymore. Whatever. The new guy was easy to work with, totally on board pretty much immediately, once we determined that I could meet basic requirements for working for the program. He said he liked people who were passionate about what they do. I think I'm passionate.

I need a new paragraph. So then I ran in my heels and aching spine straight to the choir room, happily announced that the play was happening (I already knew the drama teacher was behind me), and started getting information out to students. The bell rang, it was the next class, I gave information to those students too, and then I finally ran off (yes, ran again) to the drama teacher, got bombared with hugs from old classmates, and gave him the script. More information distribution, running around, etc. for another hour at least.

By the time I got home, I had to lay down. So exhausted. I still am. And my brain is really exhausted. I was going on adrenaline almost the entire day, since I didn't actually have the energy to do all I did today with my body being such a mess. It's like spending money you don't have. Now I've got these nasty bills to deal with and no money to pay them with. Except it's energy, not money.

I'm staying home tomorrow. Maybe I'll be able to think more clearly and write something interesting, rather than this rambling nonsense.

Sorry about the lack of post yesterday. I was up all night working on the script and not blogging. And then I crashed. And I'm about to crash again right now, so this post is done. Happy Wednesday?

Silver Linings

Some of you already know what happened Friday. It's not a secret, but it's not something I would like to share with the entire universe right now. If you ask me separately, I'll probably explain to you what happened. The point of this post is not really about what happened though.

Just about anyone who has been in a similar situation will probably tell you it is a bad situation. And it is. But bad things happen, and there ain't a thing you can do about it sometimes. I can't go back to Friday and decide to just stay home instead. Had I stayed home, nothing would have happened. But I didn't stay home, and what happened happened. Nothing I can do to change that now.

But I can change what I think and feel about it. I could be miserable, could complain about idiotic people, could be angry with myself, could demand the sympathy of others, or any number of things. I could be filled with negative emotion. But I don't want that. As it is, I am in physical pain right now, and I'm very frustrated because I'm a bit helpless and have no choice but to depend on others to help me with things I was previously handling on my own. I've lost responsibilities I valued, and I've lost the most important part of my day: the hour I get to spend with my brother each day.

I could be bitter, but I don't want to be. I want to be happy. I need to be happy, to feel positive emotion, in order to combat the pain and limitations that I now must deal with. The pain is bearable; I know it will pass. I have suffered much worse before. And my limitations are also not forever. They will pass, but while they remain, they give me new things to appreciate.

I have incredible friends. There are a lot of people who care for me a lot, some of whom I barely even know. For all of our short-comings, we humans have an amazing ability to love and care for each other. Though we may often act selfishly (I know I sure do), when another needs help, we are capable of amazing acts of selflessness and compassion. And I love that. It gives me so much hope when I see how capable humans are. It gives me faith. It is so much easier to face difficulties with faith. When you know things will be okay, it doesn't matter so much that things aren't okay right now.

Someday, our world will be a place of peace and love for each other. Friday helped me find faith in that future again.

P. S. My meeting is tomorrow! Wish me jelly beans!

P. P. S. Nothing really terrible happened, and I'll be fine again soon, so don't worry, for those of you who I know will. Like my mother. Hey, mom, stop worrying about me!

Mac of Woven Elements

Ah, back to the good old days of fifth grade, when I was working on the show "Woven Elements." If I find the original script, I'll scan it. Also, sorry about the late post; I'm still recovering from Friday.

Just one page of many attempts to decide on Mac's hair. D is very anime, no? I mean, who's hair actually does  that?

Saturday

It just occurred to me that I didn't write something for today ahead of time. Not bueno. I completely forgot to check, and only realised it when I looked at my blog stats a few minutes ago and saw my views were lower than usual, even for a Saturday. I'm sorry, guys. I'll have something for you tomorrow, but yesterday really shook me up (It's a long story, not for the world wide web, at least right now.). Enjoy your weekend, everyone. Thanks for understanding.

Dearest readers,

I have a confession to make: I am a procrastinator. There. I said it! Despite my wondrous ability to get myself ahead of schedule and write the week's post early in the week, I do procrastinate. My name is Elizabeth, and I am a procrastiholic. I have searched and searched for a cure, but found none. I have looked high and scoured low. I have dug through the earth and sailed through the sky. I have spent lifetimes probing for the cure to procrastination, and still could not find one.

There is no such thing as a cure, for procrastination does exist because everything is procrastination. It's Thursday night, and I had a snarky post written up, but got home too exhausted to draw the pictures that it needed. I had nearly all week to draw them, but I did other things instead and never got to drawing them. That's what we call procrastination.

Right now, I am procrastinating on much needed sleep. And yet I am completing a task I deem important: writing up my usual blog post. Every time I write these posts, I am procrastinating; there is something else "more important" that I could be doing. Always. I have never done the most important thing ever. Never have, never will. I don't even know what it is, but I am sure as heck procrastinating on it. I'm taking classes and getting a college degree when I could be building up my community arts company and "jump-starting my career." I'm learning to play guitar when I could be learning how to perform CPR. I'm writing and directing for high schoolers when I could be mailing off manuscripts to publishers. Everything I do is a procrastination of some kind. I think procrastination is a wonderful thing. I don't want a cure. If I stopped procrastinating, just imagine all the things I wouldn't do!

But procrastination is dangerous. You have to use it wisely. Handle with care. Procrastination can be not only unproductive, but even destructive. And boy, do my brain cells die when that darn TV is on and my distraction-seeking mind clings to it and leaves behind whatever procrastination I had previously been busying myself with. Procrastination can also lend itself to things like not sleeping, not eating, or too much of one or both, and that's not healthy.

So this week's lesson, dear readers, is to recognise that you are procrastinating. Always. Embrace procrastination. Happily declare that you are, in fact, a procrastinator! Buy a "Proud Procrastinator" T-shirt!* Never again feel shame for procrastinating!

But of course, be sure to stick to the good, productive, nondestructive procrastination. Easy, right?

*I was kidding about the T-shirts, unless people actually wanted them. The design will be up Sunday, and that'll be the new poll. Unless you guys give me strong feedback before then.

George Carlin

Disclaimer: Like most commedians, George Carlin can be vulgar and offensive. Watch his stuff at your own discretion. You have been warned.

Speaking of deceased people who I wish I could have met while they were still alive, (Isn't that redundant? "Met while they were still alive"? Can you really meet dead people?) I love George Carlin. As I write this (back to being ahead of schedule, thankfully!), I've just been watching videos of his old stand-up routines on YouTube. His segments on cats, stuff, and airplane safety will always be my top three. I've made it a rule to always watch his bit on airplane safety before going on a plane and insist that anyone else travelling with me watch it before too. It just makes airplanes much more enjoyable, because everything is just so much more ridiculous.

But George Carlin had a lot to say about our society, from our obsessions with "stuff" or our material possessions to the flat-out arrogance in thinking we are superior to even the planet on which we reside. To think that humans, who aren't even capable of caring for each other, can care for every living thing on our planet and in existence is just insane. We can't even care for our own children. Animals all seem to have their systems worked out, and they work without any issues nearly all of the time, but us humans can't even figure out whether to use breast milk or formula, how much, and how long. Meanwhile, we're all just blowing each other up over our perceived differences.

But then he has things like his bit on the ways in which we're all alike. Like when it's Wednesday, but it feels like Thursday. Then you wake up the next day, and you're back to normal again. Or the mystery of the jumping pillow. You know, the way the pillow moves if you close one eye and then switch to the other when you're lying down in bed. Or when you fall asleep in the afternoon, and then you wake up, it's the middle of the night, and you have no idea what day it is. Or you walk to a room, and when you get there, you can't remember why you walked over.

I love George Carlin because he makes me think while making me laugh. That's something not many people can do. To both entertain and teach all at once takes much more than to do only one or the other, but when you're entertained, it becomes easier to learn, and when you're learning, it's easier to be entertained. Have you ever noticed that? Two people can try to teach you the same thing, and the more successful one is always the one who manages to entertain you and make it interesting. You could be talking about the dullest subject, but if it's presented right, you'll be engaged. And when your mind is learning, when your brain starts functioning and processing things, you appreciate the world so much more suddenly. You get the references, the allusions, the subtle things which make everything that much more enjoyable.

Maybe I should employ some comedy into my Friday posts.

I Love Lucille Ball

It's happened at last. Week four, and I've finally been assigned my first paper of the term, due in 29 days. The assignment? A "six to seven page 'feminist' biography" with at least four sources. (Protip: If you want more than a C, write more, get more sources, and quote them.) The criteria for our subject is that she has to be an Ameican woman who lived the majority of her life in the United States, died before we were born, and led an admirable life. Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Billie Holliday, Janis Joplin, and Judy Garland are all out of the question, as well as Amelia Earhart, though she's only banned for being incredibly popular.

I wanted to do an English poet, except they're all English (duh). I came up with plenty of men I admired, as well as a few living women whose lives I'd like to exemplify. But all the dead women seemed to be dead from living wild lives full of drugs and the sorts of things I don't find admirable. But the internet is a wonderful place, and told me about a wonderful woman who fit all the criteria with flying colours: Lucille Ball.

I actually don't know much about Lucille Ball. When I was a kid, I thought people were saying "Lucy O'Ball." I knew I Love Lucy was obviously a really old show, since it was in black and white. But I grew up on "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do!" and the "Vitameatavegamin girl."

But I'm eighteen. I'm adult, not a little girl staring in awe at a black and white TV show. I Love Lucy wasn't just a TV show, and Lucille Ball wasn't just an actress. They broke barriers; they changed our society. I didn't expect to find someone who I personally was in awe of; I don't like politics, and that's exactly why I don't like the word "feminist." But if an actress and her silly TV show can change our society and can be considered feminist, maybe I can change our society too, and maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be so opposed to being called a feminist.

Expect many more posts about Lucille Ball in the coming weeks; I have much to learn. I was going to end with my favourite Lucille Ball quote, but I couldn't choose, so I picked a few, closed my eyes, and pointed. What I landed on was: "One of the things I learned the hard way was that it doesn't pay to get discouraged. Keeping busy and making optimism a way of life can restore your faith in yourself." Pretty, funny, and smart? I think I'm in love.

P. S. I absolutely hate learning about dead people. I really wish I could meet Lucille Ball now, and I can't. She seems so incredible, but I'll never get to meet her and find out for myself. So she'll never be anything more than ideas in my head, intangible, impossible to fully grasp, and terribly elusive.

Epileptic Dwarf

Last week was great. I was way up high on the blogging rollercoaster, overlooking miles and miles of endless worlds. I was so excited, I got all my posts for the whole week done Tuesday. It was an easy week. I just sat back and watched as my blog views went up on their own.

And then the views started going down. Like they always do on the weekends. And I tried to get some blogs for the week written ahead of time, but nothing came out. Nothing sounded good. I was too demoralised from the weekend lows. So now it's almost 11PM Monday night, I'm exhausted, sick, hungry, and wanting nothing more than to just sleep right now. But I have to blog. So I go catch up on webcomics.

I'm thinking I should switch to doing comics. Make jokes and draw kitties? Boy am I in the wrong "profession"! And then, of course, it occurs to me that I'm not that funny and every cat I draw ends up looking like an epileptic dwarf with a crack problem. Comics are too much work. So I gaze through my inbox.

There's a message from a writer. I need to write him back, but I've forced myself to blog first. It gives me time to get past the giddy excitement and respond reasonably and calmly. But if this writer's book is as good as the first page, and if he can put some blind faith in me, Ironic Sea Serpent Books is going to start turning into a real publishing company soon. As if all my dreams weren't already coming true enough.

I guess I have no reason to be so demoralised whenever my blog views are lower than I'd like. Even this post, no matter how stupid this is, is going to be read at least 20 times. TWENTY TIMES! I can't even believe that. And it'll probably get more like 30-40, since it's a Tuesday post. And it's just me rambling pessimistically.

I'm ashamed of not being happy 24/7. Blog views is such a stupid thing to complain about. And it makes me so mad at myself that I have to force myself through the pity party until I reach the end and realise that, hey, my life is pretty good. So good, that I'm starting to feel like I can't even dream fast enough any more.

New dream: start a webcomic about an epileptic dwarf with a crack problem.

P. S. Thanks for reading my blog, even when I'm demoralised, moody, and unappreciative. Every time someone views my blog, I feel a little more ready to conquer the world.

P. P. S. I just looked at my comments, and I saw that I had two new comments today, both of which made me smile. Why are you guys so wonderful? Thanks. I'll keep blogging.

Surprise!

Want to know what the two surprises I mentioned on my Facebook page Saturday are? If you read yesterday's post, you'll understand when I explain this first one:

Sundays are back! But not like you remember them: I'm going to be scanning old notebook pages, drawings, writings, and all sorts of things, and posting them up here. It'll range from really old (like elementary school days) stuff to current projects, but it'll all be original, hand-made work. Messy, chaotic, full of mistakes, and most importantly: human. I want to go back to crossed out mistakes, eraser smudges, illegible writing, doodles in the margins, and all the evidence of the imperfect path taken to make something. I want to make something more than just a serious of zeros and ones displayed as pixels on a computer screen. I want to create.

Surprise number two is the announcement of the free art giveaway contest winners: everyone! Insert maniacal laughter here. I tricked you all! That was the plan all along! It's my gift to you for supporting me. I am constantly amazed at all the support I have; you guys are absolutely incredible. So I hope you enjoy the art. It's going to take me awhile to do it all, since I am pretty busy, but just be patient and I'll get the art to you as soon as I can.

Anyway, if you haven't noticed yet, there is a poll on the top of my sidebar. I would love if you voted in it. And I'd especially love blog comments (or Facebook ones). I love hearing from you guys. Honest! I'd rather this blog be a community and a conversation than just a lonely or tyrannical monologue.

Have a wonderful week!

P. S. I have a meeting with the PHS principal a week from tomorrow. Updates about PHS's theatre program will henceforth be posted on the Ironic Sea Serpent blog and Facebook page.

Harry Potter Musical

I found this in an old middle school notebook today.

Years ago, I was working on a Harry Potter musical. Each book would be one full-length musical, making seven in total. This was long before the final, extremely-long books came out though. Above is the very original text of the first scene of The Philosopher's Stone. I think I'm going to have to stage this one day.

Earthly Existence

It all ended with a dull thud. No crash, no boom, no excitement. Only a dull thud, and it was all over. It all began just as mundane, and I can't seem to recall anything particularly noteworthy between the mundane and the dull thud. In fact, you can barely even consider it a happening at all.

As I said, it began mundane. I awoke that day, but did not get up. I'd fallen asleep on the couch again, and the TV was still on. It was the middle of the night, and some stupid infomercials were on. I gazed numbly at the screen.

It had become quite common that I'd wake up like this. My mother warned me that I might die in my sleep and not even know it. "Last I saw you, you already looked dead!" she scolded me. I wasn't sure why I should care. My earthly existence has ceased to matter. I had accomplished everything I hoped to on earth. I had no physical dreams to make come true any longer.

And so my body wasted away. I was unashamed. I could not care about my earthly body as long as my unearthly soul demanded all care be devoted to it. My soul held my true existence. My body could die, and I would never care, as long as what mattered to me remained strong: my soul.

When I awoke, I felt nothing. I had been sure that some bodily function had woken me up, but I felt no ailment. Regardless, I stood up to get myself food. I did not make it to the kitchen, however. Sirens were approaching, and my roommate rushed past me to the couch I had been sleeping on. Panic filled the air.

Everything gets blurred here.

It seemed my mind was trying to put information together in an earthly fashion, but, being only human, it was faulty. I could not comprehend why paramedics were rushing into my home. Nor could I comprehend why my roommate was stricken with such panic over the couch. And, finally, I could not comprehend what I saw when I walked back to my couch.

I was lying on the couch. My roommate shook me. She was crying, I realised. My body fell to the floor with a dull thud. And then it hit me: I was dead. She was delirious. I tried to speak, but my words fell on deaf ears. I was a ghost.

For a moment, I felt liberated. At last, I was freed of my earthly body! And then, a wave of sickness hit me. Suddenly, it hit me that she was crying over me, over my death. My mother would cry too. My roommate was already blaming herself for not doing something to save me, for not knowing I was dying; my mother would only be worse.

I tried to leap into my body, to return to my human life, but I was dead. I tried to speak, tried to smell, tried to feel, but all of my senses were gone but, somehow, sight. I could see that I did not want to be dead. I wanted nothing more than to return to my earthly life and live again. I suddenly understood what was meant by the words, "You don't know what you have until it's gone." And so I cried too. I shook, I flailed, and with a dull thud, I hit the ground.

I woke up the moment my body hit the ground. Infomercials were on, just as they had been in my dream. I stared at the screen, bewildered. I touched my skin, making sure it was real, making sure I was alive. I knew I was. I had only been dreaming; it was only a nightmare.

But I was shaken, forever changed. My lethargic slump ended with a dull thud, and my new life as an actually alive human being began immediately. I did not resent my earthly constraints ever again, but instead praised that I might have the chance to live. I felt as if I truly had died and been resurrected, given a second chance at life by some higher power. I did not waste it.

Liberation Day

I always feel so arrogant when I sit down to write these "Things I've Learned" posts. It seems ridiculous that I, some mixed-up and fatally flawed eighteen-year-old kid, should have "lessons" to share with others. Who am I to think I can teach total strangers?

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." — from A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson

This is a tough lesson to learn. It's something I know in words, but don't understand, as my old Physics teacher always asked us to, deep in my gut. It's not intuitive in our culture. We thrive on self-depreciation and shrinking. Confidence is arrogance and egotism. To love oneself is to be selfish.

Who am I to think I am so great that others may learn from me? Who am I to believe I possess any desirable qualities?

Lately, I've been getting a lot more views a day. It was exciting for one day, and then it started becoming scary. Who am I to have so many people read what I write? Who am I to believe that I deserve the attention? I've been feeling a bit paranoid. Like maybe this is just some prank. Or maybe people will figure out that my blog is not worth reading, and my views will drop back down.

Our culture perpetuates this problem. Our culture embraces and encourages fear. We live in a world full of terror and immobilising fear. And I don't like it. I don't want the world my children grow up in to be one governed by fear. I want my children unafraid of their own greatness. "And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

You know what? Who am I not to teach? Who am I not to share my thoughts, my ideas, the things I learn and find valuable? I let go of my fear, started this blog, and made it as easy to find as I could. And you know what happened? Other friends of mine started to do the same. As I was liberated from my fear, so were those around me.

I want to liberate the whole world from fear. Help me? All you have to do is liberate yourself.

Godspell

Okay, as I mentioned before, Centre Stage's Godspell was this past weekend. It was absolutely amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I just have to use up an entire post just for it.

It's no secret that I love Centre Stage. I found Centre Stage through Juliette and Alison who run the dance program, and they are two of the most incredible people I know. I shouldn't have been surprised to find that everyone in their dance company was also incredibly incredible, but I'm not sure it's possible to ever be prepared for the level of incredible that Centre Stage is at. It's just beyond expected human capabilities.

So I go to all of their shows, schedule willing. Godspell was no different; I went Saturday night, ready for another incredibly Centre Stage production. What I got, however, was far from what I expected.

The show was already "in progress" as the audience members found their seats and skimmed their programs. There aren't any curtains in this particular "theatre" (it's actually a church chapel), so you could see the coffee house set right away, along with the actors on stage doing ordinary things like arguing on cell phones; chatting; typing on laptops; playing ping-pong; battling each other on the Wii; or (my favourite) walking into the audience, hugging you, and sitting down to talk.

The word "Godspell" means "good story"; Godspell, however, was much more than just a good story. From the initial intimacy and "real" feel established from before the house lights even dimmed, Godspell was not just a performance, but an interaction, a conversation. As the patrons of the coffee shop journeyed and learned their individual lessons, so did the audience. The anxieties, hopes, fears, dreams, and emotions of the characters were shared by everyone in the theatre.

These kids weren't acting though. There were no characters, just real people with real emotions. The penultimate scenes were excruciating for the "characters", actors, and audience alike. It was horrifyingly painful. I was angry. I didn't come to watch this misery; it was like watching all hope just burned away to nothingness. I felt empty.

I can't remember what the last scene was like, really. I was so torn up from the scenes before that, despite the sort of "happy ending" that Godspell has, it didn't leave me feeling bubbly. Instead, I felt stronger. Hurt, beaten up, and aching, but stronger. Like after a really good run, when your body is exhausted, but it's a good kind of exhausted; you're becoming stronger, faster. My heart was exhausted, but it was a good kind of exhaustion.

I've never seen any other version of Godspell before, but it was the best I've seen from Centre Stage so far. Each production they do seems to only be an improvement from the last. The pick good shows to begin with, and then the direction, the choreography, the sets, the lighting, the costumes, the acting, and the sheer volume of dedication that is obviously put into their productions all make for incredible shows.

I'd rather see a Centre Stage performance than a Broadway performance.

Re: Perfect Imperfections

This blog post was inspired by this blog post, written by my friend Jeremiah. I mentioned his blog yesterday in the post script.

The post brought up something I've only vaguely put into words before, remaining mostly floating thoughts in my head rather than actual communication of ideas. But I think it's something important, at least to me. In discussing principles of design, he wrote: "While one may be able to say from either an artistic or engineering point of view the the finished product has several imperfections, one can also say that, being balanced, it's the perfect product."

I think our definition of "perfect" is wrong. I think we need to re-think "perfect." Perfect, in our society and our language, is mathematical: there is only one solution and all other possible answers are wrong. Broken. Inadequate. Flawed. But we think of "perfection" in romantic and abstract ways, not concrete and un-malleable ways. We can't even all agree on what "the ideal" is we set our standards at.

To debate, you must start by defining the terms in the statement you are arguing. If you don't, you're just arguing nonsense. Everyone needs to be on the same page for a debate, understanding the terms correctly, though differing in interpretation of what may be inferred by these definitions.

So how should we be defining "perfection"? If it's not a mathematical formula for the ideal, what is it? This is where design comes into play. To keep it simple, let's say I'm designing a flyer:

It's for a hardcore band, and they want flames all over the place. Flames are awesome, right? I could fill the background with flames and even make the text on fire. But wait, you say, no one can read that! Okay, so I make the word-flames a different colour. Happy now? Of course not. The texture still makes you strain to read. I have to use less flame. So I redesign it to be super easy to read, but now it's plain black text on white paper. No one's going to even stop to read.

From a hardcore, flame-loving perspective, the first version is the pest, is perfect. But from a reader hoping to find information about the band, the last is the best: simple, clear, and nothing unnecessary. Each of these, as Jeremiah points out, could be considered "perfect" on their own, but in the world of design, this is no longer enough. Perfect instead comes when compromise is made and balance is reached.

So let us define "perfect" not as a mathematical constant, but as a symbiotic relationship between opposing forces in which strengths and weaknesses unite instead of fight. Let us define perfection as the fearless embracing of such concepts and acceptance of supposed flaws. Let us define perfection as ever-changing and indefinable.

Out of Control

I was driving to school this morning when "Little Girls" by Oingo Boingo came on. Anyone who knows anything about my musical loves should know that "Little Girls" is probably one of my most favourite songs ever, by one of my most favourite bands ever. I was ecstatic.

I got to my parking spot, pulled out my headphones (for the first time in, well, a very long time), and walked to class listening to Oingo Boingo. I was in heaven. I hadn't listened to Oingo Boingo in I don't even know how long. Boy, do I love me some Oingo Boingo!

But that's not the point of this post. See, Oingo Boingo has this song called "Out of Control." This is better than "Little Girls," though not as hilariously creepy. This song, as most don't know, is where the title of Without Direction came from.

It's a not-so-well-known tradition of mine to use lyrics from songs as titles for things like plays. There's a line that says, "You're out of control, and you move without direction, and people look right through your soul." The song's always touched me, but I really felt, after writing Without Direction, that it was the right song to get the title from.

Oingo Boingo's songs tend to be pretty funny, but underneath the wit and charm, there's this small hint of profound messages in a lot of their music. I felt like Without Direction took a similar approach: it was pretty much entirely a comedy, every dramatic moment was so overdramatised that it became parody rather than a serious representation of life. But underneath all the comedy, the characters, to me, all fought horrifying internal battles.

And so "Out of Control" became this sort of unspoken theme of Without Direction to me. There's a "theme song" for Where the Wild Berries Grow too, and a whole story behind it, but I'll save that for after the show is first performed and then closed.

To me, the "theme songs" are just this really personal thing between me and the play, between me and the characters. It's not the driving force behind it or anything, but more of a something that months, maybe years, later will bring me right back to the play and the characters. Like an "our song" almost.

Yeah, I think my characters are real. So what? :P

P.S. Two good writer friends of mine just started blogging too, apparently influenced in part by me! Way super cool. Check them out: Aimee and Jeremiah.

Monday and a Half

Third week of school already! Wow. Also, have a good first day of school tomorrow, PHS kiddos! I am wonderfully NOT sick this week. Hurrah!

Another PHS play update: Yep, I went on Wednesday, talked with Mr. VL, and confirmed what I already knew: the only person who will make sure this program happens the way I want it to is me. I returned on Friday with new resolve: to talk with the new principal and make this happen myself. He wasn't there, but his secretary had me email him, to which I got a positive, "Yes, let's meet and talk more!" sort of response.

Band stuff is band-y. We did record, and my bandmates have been emailing with quite frequency with song ideas while I quietly don't respond much because I'm very focused on this play right now. I will have to pay attention to them again soon. Not that I don't want to, of course. But the play is quite the time-sensitive matter, whilst band things have not yet reached any sort of "OH MY GOD TICKING CLOCK" sort of phase.

I've been reading Hyperbole and a Half, so I feel like my writing for this post has taken on a very sarcastic and ridiculous tone in comparison. Is this good? Do we like the sarcasm and ridiculousness? I'm sure I'll be embarassed by my lack of maturity when I re-read this later.

Godspell was amazing, by the way. I think I shall post about it this week. Maybe. I'll be seeing my friend Daniel perform once again this Tuesday, so it's probable that I'll blog about him again. Then again, I may not have anything new to say. We'll see.

Have a very splendid Monday and a super splendid week!

P.S. If you haven't seen yet, I'm giving away stuff for free. Yes. Do it. Enter. There's going to be a wonderful surprise for everyone who enters. I'm quite sure you'll like it. :)

Goodbye Sundays

I've decided, after a month of daily blogging, that I'm going to do away with regular Sunday blogs and spend my time a little more freely and a little less scheduled-y. Some Sundays, I might post, but those will be extra posts. Added bonuses. So while I go enjoy life with a little more spontaneity on the weekends, I suggest you do the same. Take one day out of the week to do whatever you want, and not what you have to do. Google's 20% time, real world style! Or something. I'm exhausted from a great (and not yet over) weekend. See you tomorrow!

August Symphony

It was a long day. The longest day of the year. The air conditioner broke that morning, and so the hot, August Sun mixed with the heat of the flames from the smoldering, greasy grill made the day unbearable. The food must have tasted like sweat that day from all the sweat which dripped off of one, dirty, underweight cook from open to close.

He was miserable. The most miserable day of his life. His parents had kicked him out, too drunk or high or just plain dicks to care for their only son. He couldn't really think of any friends he had; it seemed everyone he knew only cared about themselves. Today, his boss yelled at him for sweating too much. "Don't drink water!" the boss spat.

He wanted nothing more than for the day to end. He would leave work at last, the sun would be gone, and he would ride his bike until he found a comfortable bench to sleep on for the night. Maybe tonight, one of his so-called friends would let him take a shower and wash away the sweat for only part of his day's wage.

The hours passed slowly. He clung to the idea of a nice, cool shower. It was all he thought about all day. His throat scratched painfully, dreaming longingly of cold water. His muscles screamed for hydration. His skin prickled with hope of cleanliness, of escape from the grease and sweat which suffocated his every pore.

But at last, he was free. The sun set. He clocked out, got his bike, and rode a block before his muscles refused to work any longer. He collapsed. His bike smashed his right leg. His head spun. His only thought was to get out of the street, but the thought was soon overpowered by the desperate need for water, for rest, for basic survival. The world blurred into darkness. He blacked out.

He awoke to humming. It was only later that he realised the strangeness of what had awoken him. A girl, perhaps a bit younger than he, was gently cleaning his face, but what awoke him was not the chill of the water but the softness and beauty of her gentle voice. It was a peaceful song, a lullaby. He didn't really wake up, but instead found himself lost in a dream.

He dreamt of a pleasant place. Soft grass, bright flowers, rolling hills. The sound of running water could be heard. The stream was singing something beautiful and sweet. He decided to go to the stream and bathed himself in it. It was the most amazing feeling in the world. Birds sang. A gentle breeze blew through the trees, adding the voices of the trees to the symphony.

He woke up on a swingset. He couldn't remember how he got there, only that he had had the most wonderful dream. Then he noticed something in his hand: it was a piece of paper. On it was written, in delicate handwriting, one word: "Smile." Confused, he turned it over. There was nothing on the back either. He scratched his forehead, and in doing so, unintentionally touched his hair. It felt clean. He ran his hands through his hair suddenly. Yes, his hair was clean. He touched his face; clean too.

He remembered his dream more now. There had been a pretty girl cleaning the dirt and sweat and grease off of him. Only she wasn't a dream. Perhaps she was an angel. I was sent an angel, he thought in awe. It was the greatest day of his life; he smiled.

Blog Records! Free Stuff!

In honor of today breaking records for most views in a day, I am announcing an exciting contest! It's super easy to enter and win; all you have to do is Tweet something with @elizabeththraen in it or post on my facebook fan page, and you're entered! That simple.

So what on earth can you win? Well, here's what: I'm giving away FREE artwork. And not just silly character sketches or comic pages, but full-colour, inked, personalised graphic design. This stuff is bright, colourful, exciting, bold, etc. And it's absolutely free.

But HOW do you win? Well, when you FB/Twitter me, I'll assign you a number. Then, in one week, I put all your numbers in a hat (literally!), and draw a few random numbers. The winners will be announced, and I'll will get to work on the personalised artwork right away. Then I'll mail them off if you live far, or drive and deliver them in person if you live close and you'd like me to. And there's absolutely no cost whatsoever to you. I'm just really excited about having so many blog views today and wanted to share my joy with you!

Old Friends

Hello, friends! Happy Friday! Has it been a good week? It's been a great week here!

What have I learned this week? Maybe some appreciation for keeping this blog, actually. It's such a pain just about all of the time, but it teaches me a lot every day.

But that's not my lesson today. I think the biggest thing I've learned recently isn't so much a lesson, but just a conclusion I've come to: nothing beats old friends.

I love new friends. You need new friends from time to time. But still there is nothing like an old friend. An old friend knows you. With an old friend, there's no need to count off your siblings, pets, favourite colour, or childhood dreams. That's the best thing about an old friend. No backstory necessary. No need to take up precious time explaining why something is or isn't important to you. Old friend don't need you to tell them who you are; they already know.

But still, new friends can become old friends. And new friends give you new opinions, new insight, new perspective. New friends let you reinvent yourself. New friends allow you to be an entirely new person if you want.

I like my new friends and my old friends both, but it's been really nice to have old friends amongst all the new that comes with beginning a new chapter if my life: college. It's not much of a lesson, other than "appreciate your friends," but it's all I've got other than all this art history fogging up my brain.

Have a good weekend!

Article from a Multiverse

After my post about automated blogging, I'm going to be kind of lame and use an article I read as the main content of my blog post today This article, to be specific. "Are we living in a designer universe?"

I didn't read it entirely. I plan to later this week, but I wanted to share it. I don't know how to wrap my head around it, really. (For those of you who didn't read at all, it's basically about the theory that our universe was created by something near-human, and that we're getting very close to being capable of creating universes too.) I can't take a stance because my mind just won't process it at all. It alludes me.

What really interests me though is that humanity could be close to creating actual, fully-functioning universes. That idea is crazy. As an artist, a writer, I feel compelled to create. It's like the ultimate dream sort of thing to create an actual, fully-functioning universe. I feel like I spend my whole life building pieces of little universes, but never complete ones. Just imagine having a complete one!

But then how would we feel about having created an entire universe? How big would it be? Would we feel parental towards it? That said, suppose the theory about our universe is true: how does our creator really feel about us? And how many universes are there right now?

This just opens up a whole new wave of questions and thoughts. Boy, do I love thoughts.

What are your thoughts on the article and the ideas and concepts it presents?

P.S. Yes, I got the link from Jon Rosenberg's wonderful comic Scenes from a Multiverse

Automated Blogging

This shouldn't have surprised me, but it did: automated blogging.

So I saw on some person who followed me on Twitter's little sidebar something about making a 6-figure income via blogging without doing anything. I laughed. "You call writing not doing anything? Hell, writing can get utterly exhausting." And then I clicked and realised I was having a moment of naiveté.

Apparently, automated blogging has you come up with a few keywords fro your new blog, and then it scours the internet, RSS feeds, etc. and piles content together and posts it for you. Then it also has traffic generating features like lying to Google. In other words, it takes other people's work and calls it yours and it slaps Google in the face. Funny thing about other people and Google: they like their work and dislike slaps in the face.

I don't understand how someone falls into this "automated blogging" scam. Are they so devoid of shame and creativity that automated blogging just seems like the perfect way to go? Or do they have such a lack of self-confidence that they think a computer is more interesting than themselves?

As much as I'd love more traffic, I want traffic reading my blog because what I have to say seems worth their time. I want to know that my words are reaching someone, somewhere. Whenever I write here, I try to be sure to stay 100% true to myself and exemplify what I wish the world could be. And in being honest, I try to own up to my fallings too. So when someone reads my blog and then keeps coming back, they're here for me, for the things that I believe in. I don't think my ego could stand competing with an automatic blogger. (My ego thinks it's more interesting than a computer.)

What are your thoughts?

Harry Potter

I love Harry Potter. There. I admitted it. It's out there. No more hiding in the cupboard under the stairs about it. I am a Potterhead. I don't just like Harry Potter, I love Harry Potter.

Now that I've lost all the non-Harry Potter fan readers, I'd like to lose all the Harry Potter fans by saying this: I don't think J. K. Rowling is the greatest writer ever. In fact, I don't think her writing really is all that particularly amazing.

At this point, my mother is the only person still reading. Mom, let me tell you why I love Harry Potter, despite my above statement about the very woman who made Harry Potter happen's writing. I love Harry Potter for the fans. Though I tried to lose 'em all, I know they're all still reading. After all, this post is titled, "Harry Potter," and if it has to do with Harry Potter, a Harry Potter fan will keep reading whether they like what's being said or not. (If not, they're getting ready to pull a Gryffindor and heroically prove why Harry Potter is the best thing ever.)

"Wizard rock fans are the sweetest bunch of fans." Thank you, Matt Maggiacomo (The Whomping Willows)! It's true. And I don't mean to sound arrogant; I'm not really including myself in the legions of amazing Harry Potter fans. See, there are these people who make music about Harry Potter called wizard rock, or wrock, and they are so ridiculously passionate and talented alike, that it's hard not to love them. They are true fans.

And then there's fanfiction. Comics. Stories. Quidditch matches. Huge festivals. Theme parks. Gatherings of all sorts. And no matter how uncool and nerdy it is to love Harry Potter to the extent that many fans do past the age of fourteen, they do. And they don't care one single bit if anyone thinks they're nerdy or uncool; they're too busy having fun. That's why I love Harry Potter fans. And that's where my respect, adoration, and awe for J. K. Rowling comes in.

I wish I could create something which could inspire so much love, so much passion, so much good. These fans donate time, money, and energy to causes all the time, trying to spread the love and joy that they've found in Harry Potter. It's just . . . crazy.

I was listening to some Ministry of Magic today, and I couldn't help hearing how much the music relates to everyday life. It's like this way of communication for fans. "A Pheonix Lament" is among one of the most powerful songs I've ever heard, and it's Harry Potter music. But that's exactly where it gets it's power from. Harry Potter fans have journeyed with these characters, have literally grown up with them, and it becomes such an integral part of their very existence, that when you write words like, "In the sacred space behind the lids of my eyes, Mad-Eye darkly holds my gaze, and I can still see Fredrick's laughing face" it reaches into that deep core and does something no other song can: it speaks directly to you personally.

If J. K. Rowling had written exceptionally, if she had used elaborately poetic prose like, say Nabokov, this would not have happened. The beauty in Harry Potter is not its complexity, but its simplicity. Despite the many elaborate plot details which made it so realistic, the story boils down to one simple idea: love conquers. That is the idea which possesses fans, which fills wizard rock, which makes me love Harry Potter.

People like Luke Conard, Alex Hinksman, Jason Munday, Kristina Horner, Matt Maggiacomo, Alex Carpenter, Jace "Catchlove", Joe and Paul DeGeorge, and so many others give Harry Potter fans so much incredible music to come together under. And that's not even to mention all the Harry Potter sites like Mugglenet, Leaky, and HPLexicon, and then all the visual artists and writers and so many other people who all make being a Harry Potter fan such an amazing experience.

"This is your chance to see with your own eyes that justice can be done, that good triumphs over evil, that bravery, courage, loyalty, friendship, hope, and love make us all wizards and witches!" - "The Flaw in the Plan" by The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, Alex Hinksman

Late Monday

As mentioned yesterday, I'm sick. I've been a groggy mess, but I plan to be back to normal, including regular 5AM PST blog posts, by tomorrow. Anyway, onto our regularly scheduled Monday stuff:

First, last week's riddle hasn't been solved yet, so go here to read it and see if you can solve it. The prize is still the same: "an unreleased (even to my closest friends and family) free-verse poem called "Step," hand-written, decorated, and signed on plain 8.5" by 11" paper."

So as far as updates go, I'm going over to PHS on Wednesday to start setting dates and reserving the theatre for auditions, rehearsals, and eventually performance of Where the Wild Berries Grow and work out some some fiscal concerns. Assuming all goes well, I'll be ordering cast scripts quite soon.

In other news, my band is recording music (nothing too terribly fancy; just Garage Band) this week, and we're getting close to deciding on a name, which means photos, Myspace page, website, etc. And which all means we're that much closer to trying to get some shows booked.

Speaking of shows, I highly suggest that if you're in or anywhere near L.A. County, you go to see Centre Stage's production of Godspell. I've only seen one of the numbers in the show, but Centre Stage has never disappointed me before. Despite being "children's" theatre, Centre Stage never fails to put on professional shows. In fact, Centre Stage's productions even go beyond what other "professional" theatres do. Godspell is only around this weekend, and then it's gone, so don't miss out!

And that concludes my update. (First week of college was great, by the way!) Have a wonderful week and see you at our regular time tomorrow morning!

No Blog

I'm sorry to say that there is no way I can write the regularly scheduled blog for today. I had very little sleep Friday night, and then awoke Saturday with a viscious cold, only to be in a constant state of busy from 8AM to 2AM as I write this. In an effort to rid myself of illness as quickly as possible, I am now going to sleep. Regular blogging will resume on Monday (despite being a holiday!). See you then!

Wait.

Creative Writing Saturday! Never been shared before and all, though this is another old piece of writing. I swear I'll have something brand new next week. Anyway, without further ado, here's "Wait":

Wait.

You turn around. Words splutter out of my mouth like a dying motor. I pretend you're smiling, but I can still feel that you're not. I smile-- not out of joy, but out of fear that we may never smile again. Still, you do not smile. I can feel the weight of all the years pressing down against my chest, against my heart, against my lungs. I cannot breathe.

What? you finally ask. Your impatience stings like a fresh cut. Only a paper cut, I tell myself, but even paper cuts become hell after the nine thousandth time or so. It hurts, no matter how much I tell myself it doesn't.

I don't know, is all I can stupidly say. Because I don't.

Is that it? Are you done now? you ask, each word flung at me harder than the previous.

I just want to pretend this isn't happening, I say. And I know you're about to laugh-- but you don't. Somewhere underneath the stinging impatience, I see that I'm stinging you. Good, I want to think, but I can't. Bad, bad, bad!

But it is. Your voice aches.

Why? I want to shout. But I know why. I want so desperately to pretend this isn't. I want so desperately to ignore every glaring flaw, every mile-long misstep, every clear sign. I want so desperately to believe that this is temporary, that, soon enough, everything will, like magic, be fixed and you will be smiling again.

Can I go now? you ask. Your voice is impatient, but I know it is impatience to end the pain, not to begin it. This is the pain-- the parting, the goodbye. The infected limb is being cut off.
Yeah, I say, turning away. And I don't look back. You turn away too, and I know you do not look back. Because looking back would be suicide. Looking back would stop the amputation mid cut. Blood will gush out in floods, and you will be drained. I will be drained.

Each step away aches. But slowly, it will stop aching. This-- I know, you know, we know-- is the right path. This is the only path toward survival.

I do not fear we may never smile again-- I know. I will never look at you again, as tears of delirious joy cloud my vision, and smile. Nor will you ever smile at knowing I am with you either. This is the end, finale, completion. It does not matter why, for why will not change this. Why is useless.

And so I hold onto the last seconds, savour them, and watch the memories slowly die and fade from memory.

On Crashing Classes

We've made it to Friday. Rejoice! Week one of classes (for me and my classmates, at least), is finally at it's end. A sense of regularity and calm is starting to fall over campus, contrasting dramatically with the confusion and chaos we faced at the beginning of the week. Classes are filled, and teachers are beginning to push past their "Don't cheat, plagiarise, or slap each other in my class" and "This class is called Spanish; if you thought you were going to learn how to juggle, now is the time to leave" dummy talk and into the real class. It's exciting.

But today is Friday, and I said I'd talk about crashing classes this week. So I will!

I didn't really end up crashing much. It was actually really easy for me. The classes I was already signed up for were pretty much what I wanted, except that the Wednesday night class needed to go. So I found Women in American Society and, through the Art of Knowing the Right People, I got my add code the first day, avoided the risky lottery, and dropped my Wednesday night class before Wednesday even came about.

So my number one piece of advice for course crashing is this: stand out. And I don't mean just sit around and play the amplified cactus on the street corner every night. What I mean is walk up to your professor, introduce yourself, and let him/her know you want to be in his/her class. Show them.

Don't show up late. I know some schools have it so if you want to add, you come after class, but you know what? Come before class. Get there early, talk to the professor, and if you're told to come by at the end of class, make sure you're there right away. Don't harass the professor, but stand out by proving that you care and you want this class.

Friendliness is such an important trait to have too, and it's something I know I need to work on. But when you can be both serious/determined and still friendly and cheerful, it's not just professors who will remember you. And being remembered (for good qualities, not bad) is beyond value; when someone knows, respects, and likes you, they're much more willing to do favours for you. Like put in a good word for you or recommend you.

You want classes? Prove why you, of all the people fighting for a spot, should have the spot. That, or either get really lucky on the lottery draw or just kill off students until there's room for you.

The Rescues

I promised to write an artist or two this week on Monday, didn't I? Well, lucky you, I don't like to break my promises! So, without further ado, let's talk about The Rescues: Kyler England, Rob Giles, Adrianne Gonzalez, and Gabriel Mann.

It's no wonder I like The Rescues: piano-driven rock, vocal harmonies, ukulele, creative lyrics, and musicians who play multiple instruments. And they're L.A.-based. Their debut album, Let Loose the Horses, was released only a few months ago, so they're (hopefully) just getting started; I am definitely looking forward to hearing more from these guys.

Besides fitting the musical generalisations I find cool, The Rescues stand out to me because they have a unique sound. Each one of them came from a different musical background, and it's obvious in their music that they're not four identical people with all of the same ideas. No, instead of clinging to similarities, they have somehow managed to blend their differences beautifully.

In a way, The Rescues sort of represent my own hopes and beliefs about our society. The idea that four very different people could come together, embrace their differences, and create something beautiful is perhaps one of the most uplifting ideas for me. Losing yourself in order to make peace with others or worse, eliminating differences by eliminating those different from an arbitrarily determined norm is so very far from ideal, but there are times when it seems like our differences could never be reconciled to create something as beautiful as The Rescues. But The Rescues prove it's possible.

Philosophical ideas aside, the music of The Rescues is incredible. Their lyrics are great, their voices beautiful (just listen to their acapella track, "My Heart with You"), and each instrumental note intertwined pleasantly with every other. I'm proud to recommend Kyler, Rob, Adrianne, and Gabriel to anyone cool enough to read my blog. Yeah, that means YOU. I like you; you read my blog! And you're not just my mother.

Knowledge Day

Happy September! And so we begin our meteorological autumn, here in the northern hemisphere. Only 121 (am I the only one who likes that number?) days left of 2010. Three quarters done. Apparently, in Russia, the first day of September is called Knowledge Day. While it's called that because that's when they usually start school, I like the idea of a Knowledge Day. Let's celebrate it!

Whether or not it's the first of September while you're reading this, I'm going to suggest three things you should do to celebrate this wonderful holiday:

First, learn something new today. Make it a priority. Take the time to stop, think, and let the new knowledge sink in. Second, teach someone something. Share your knowledge, and experience the joy of teaching someone else. Finally, talk about it. Spread the word about Knowledge Day, get others involved, and leave comments about your Knowledge Day. I'd sure love to hear all about it!

How will I spend my Knowledge Day? Well, you know how Wikipedia has the "Random Article" feature? I found out the library has that too. You just walk around aimlessly, stop, grab the first book you see, and start reading. I don't know what I'm going to learn about, but I assure you I'll find something interesting there. Maybe I'll even find inspiration for Saturday's and Sunday's creative writing pieces.

I don't know who I'm going to teach what, but I've got a full day ahead of me, full of many, many people to meet and talk to; I'll make it a point to find someone to trade knowledge with one way or another. I'll let you know how it all ends up going; let me know how your Knowledge Day goes too! You can leave a comment on this blog.