I just noticed I haven't been posting much lately (save for the Feminist Theories responses, which are, as you guessed, coursework). That's because any writing time I've had, I've been working on my script.

It's called "It Adds Up" and it's my senior project. Well, part of it. The other part is to direct it. It's a 10-minute play I wrote almost a year ago that I'm developing into a one-act (30-50 minutes). You can read a little bit more about it in the senior profile I posted earlier this week and in the blog I'm keeping as the reflection part of the project.

Here are some parts of the script. Some I think of as done, others as draft. Let me know what you think!

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It's the first time in her life she's been able to say it: No one knows where she is. If she were lost they wouldn't know where to look for her.

Running, running like this, running offers her a great escape. A lightness of being that she hasn't felt since she used to get high all the time. She'd run all the time, too, if only her weak heart would let her. Instead she sprints, walks, walks, walks, sprints, walks, walks, walks, sprints.

The cool, heavy dark air swirls about her until a bit of it enters her, causing her to lose a breath and stop. When she can go again is what she waits patiently for, for that moment she can take off. It's in that moment that all the beauty happens. The weightlessness before her weaknesses get the better of her. The moment of flight before inevitable crash. She thinks about how her entire life revolves around this principle, that maybe she's just always letting things pass her by in favor of those quick fixes which may or may not come and which may or may not be worth it. But then she stops thinking about that because it feels really cliche.

No one knows where she is. Relishing her melancholy, quiet and happily lonely she stares up at the sky, heart palpitating from the run from which she has just collapsed. She can feel her back and bottom wet from the moist grass, but her head is kept dry by her folded arms so that's ok.

The stars just above her are brilliant- not so much around the rest of the sky, but just above her. It's as though they were collected there for her own private viewing. She can see shapes but recognize no known constellations. No one knows where she is and she could very well be the last person on earth.

Her fantasy of running wild through empty city streets is interrupted by the sight of a plane- or rather, of a light no bigger than any of the stars moving steadily in a single line- and for a moment she feels like Cillian Murphy in "28 Days Later" when he saw his own plane in his own zombie-like non-zombie-infested world. Salvation, he thought. Salvation, she thinks.

She follows the plane, and when it is out of her periphery, she continues her mindless star-gazing.

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Contents

Angels That Drive Me To Drink
Vanya's lovesick over Angel and so her friends Catch and Scole take her to a club to dance/drink it off. Mild chaos and distracting memories ensue. This deals with an issue very close to my heart, because I fall for straight girls all the time. It's chronic. I've known a lot of queer girls who suffer from this pathology as well. So I thought I'd write a bit on the subject, while also giving a taste of my experiences in the San Francisco queer club culture and how the worst of times can be easily and irrevocably intertwined with the best of times.

Vanya Goes To Scotland
What a small handful of Scots (plus one ex-patriate Englishman) find to be distinctly American qualities: Americans are louder; you can always tell when an American comes into the room (you can only tell with Scots when they're drunk). Americans need everything perfect, just so. Americans need everything bigger, better. Americans use more words to describe things. Americans have no sense of humor and are too uptight (usually blamed on political correctness). Americans are not "worldwise".

A poem of mine, "Hassle-Free Sex!", was published in former-fellow-student Gina Abelkop-aka-lovebettie's brilliant and beautiful omnibus, "Finery".

Click on that link to purchase or trade a copy. Really. You should. Not just for my poem, but for everyone else's stuff plus the gorgeous design of it. I'm listening to the "Amélie" soundtrack right now and it and this omnibus go together really well. The finer things in life... sigh... :)

Oi! You! Get out now!
You dirty English bastards!
We’ve fucking had it!

*

Secondary Definitions Of 'Irish'

fieriness of temper or passion; high spirit
- Dictionary.Com

offensive illogical or apparently so
- Those English Bastards Again (Oxford University Press)

Ah... Cute Little Queer Girl.

Cute Little Queer Girl wants you to know she’s queer.
But Cute Little Queer Girl doesn’t know how to say it yet.
Cute Little Queer Girl fancies you.
And she really wants you to know she’s queer.

You know the type. They beat around the bush.

Have you ever seen ‘The L Word’?
I just saw it for the first time.
They just kept talking about boys. It was awful.

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Actual headlines and opening words from January 2005’s British GQ Magazine

Hassle-Free Sex!
How To Steal
Another Man’s Mistress

Business Special!
Trade Secrets,
Travel Tips
And
Out-Of-Office Sex

‘Drugs Right Hookers Left’

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the color pink
is a powerful color
stripped of its potency
by a society
that cannot stand
the stereotypically feminine

From the moment we are born
We are taught what it means to be clean.

Our skin is stripped and we are sterilized
Countlessly scrubbed until we shine
And our mothers can see themselves in us.

Antibacterial this
And astringent that
We are taught what is clean
And what is not.
Keep away the grime with 409!
Kill all the germs with Lysol!
Vanquish the odor with Fabreeze!

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I inhale through a stuffy nose...

smell nothing worth smelling
nothing that will clear my nasal passage
before entering my brain
turning neutrality into euphoria

nothing that’s the scentual equivalent
of snow turned blue by twilight
soft beauty that refuses to let itself be named
instead, just infiltrates my pores

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“Scotland!?” Jekka inquires in her Nashville lilt, still a bit evident after all those years in New York. But maybe it’s just me.

“That’s what I said,” I say.

“Christ, woman. That’s a little random.”

“Not really.”

“What?”

“Johnny’s here. My third cousin? I’m staying with him.”

“I thought he was Irish.”

“He is. He just lives in Scotland.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to get away from Ireland, this was as far as he got.”

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We sit there in silence, while that which we once had crumbles before our eyes. And then we part, and often I cannot even remember you fondly, as our final awkward encounter clouds my memory.

*

"You know what green eyes do to me?"
"Yea."
"Then shut up."

"Sweet on a green-eyed girl..."