Thursday, September 25, 2008
The Living Age
The Living Age: "We do not expect people to be deeply moved by what is not unusual That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life it would be like hearing the gross grow and the squirrel's heart beat and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence As it is the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity Vol i p 351"
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
another post: super-sad in its delayedness
Dedicated to K-roll.
I feel old this morning (I almost phrased it "I'm having one of those mornings where I feel old," but I'm 22, and frankly, I actually feel old quite infrequently).
I started out my morning internet routine by looking up as much as I could on The Signature Theatre Company, where I have an interview this afternoon for an internship. That quickly turned into a sprawling bout of Wikipedia exploring, specifically playwrights. Then, Arthur Miller. Avid readers will remember that I met him freshman year of college (prior to his death in 2004). More avid readers will actually be checking this blog after three months of silence.
And reading about Mr. Miller reminded me that I was yes, once enrolled in Dramatic Writing as a course. And that, no, I didn't take full advantage of that situation. In fact, until a couple minutes ago, I couldn't remember my professor's name.
Arnold Weinstein.
He has a Wikipedia page. And rightfully so, he was accomplished and fascinating. Stupid 19-year-old Carly had no idea of this fact, though, and therefore often dozed off during class (which had 3 other students total).
So that's one reason I feel old, if not just significantly wizened.
Another is that, to remember my professors name, I had to sift through the archived entries of my now extinct blog. Now, I had this thing and updated regularly for seven years (sophomore year of high school to senior year of college). And re-reading it is exhausting. (Kind of like reading large portions of any stranger's blog is.)
But hey, I wasn't bad. I stopped blogging for a year and going back now, I think that may have been a mistake. In my non-blogginess, I think I began to believe that blogger-Carly only wrote about retarded and meaningless things. Which, to be fair, I did, but not exclusively. If anyone wants to mine for gold, be my guest.
I feel old this morning (I almost phrased it "I'm having one of those mornings where I feel old," but I'm 22, and frankly, I actually feel old quite infrequently).
I started out my morning internet routine by looking up as much as I could on The Signature Theatre Company, where I have an interview this afternoon for an internship. That quickly turned into a sprawling bout of Wikipedia exploring, specifically playwrights. Then, Arthur Miller. Avid readers will remember that I met him freshman year of college (prior to his death in 2004). More avid readers will actually be checking this blog after three months of silence.
And reading about Mr. Miller reminded me that I was yes, once enrolled in Dramatic Writing as a course. And that, no, I didn't take full advantage of that situation. In fact, until a couple minutes ago, I couldn't remember my professor's name.
Arnold Weinstein.
He has a Wikipedia page. And rightfully so, he was accomplished and fascinating. Stupid 19-year-old Carly had no idea of this fact, though, and therefore often dozed off during class (which had 3 other students total).
So that's one reason I feel old, if not just significantly wizened.
Another is that, to remember my professors name, I had to sift through the archived entries of my now extinct blog. Now, I had this thing and updated regularly for seven years (sophomore year of high school to senior year of college). And re-reading it is exhausting. (Kind of like reading large portions of any stranger's blog is.)
But hey, I wasn't bad. I stopped blogging for a year and going back now, I think that may have been a mistake. In my non-blogginess, I think I began to believe that blogger-Carly only wrote about retarded and meaningless things. Which, to be fair, I did, but not exclusively. If anyone wants to mine for gold, be my guest.
Monday, April 14, 2008
art is expensive, yo
So I've been trying to manufacture some colorful clutter in my little basement abode lately. Which means going to flea markets and thrift stores around New York, keeping an eye out for interesting art work. Paintings, prints, stuff in frames. It sounded easy. I thought it would be.
But then I realized.
People want MONEY for their art!
Like a lot. Not twenty bucks, which is what I wrongly assumed the going rate was for a framed print or a canvassed painting. The worst part is, I assumed I would find some cool shitty art that just happened to strike a meaningful chord. NOPE. Shitty art is shitty and it only truly succeeds in striking a shitty chord.
I went to a flea market in Chelsea yesterday that was RIFE with prints and paintings and the good stuff. I found a painting of a ship and a painting of Don Quixote, both of which I would have bought if the going price on both hadn't been fifty bucks (literally five bucks shy of what I actually had on me). The stuff I could have afforded was either moth eaten or just really really ugly.
Right now I'm sitting in Think Coffee (this cafe near NYU that is hip, artsy and no doubt environmentally conscious). There is art ALL over this place, and some of them have price tags. A quick glance over my shoulder informed me that for only $300 I could be the proud owner of a black and white series of animal sketches.
Recently, I've been thinking about amassing a series of my own paintings. (That's right! I paint now!) If I could get together like 20 little guache pieces (of harmless kitschy subjects like "dogs and their owners") I could totally set up a table in Union Square. If I charge $30 for each painting (i.e. what people actually WANT to spend on a harmless piece of art) I might make some money.
Sometimes I get too high-falutingly bohemian for my own good. The day I set up an art table in Union Square is the day I start working on my dreadlocks. (Something I've always secretly considered...)
But then I realized.
People want MONEY for their art!
Like a lot. Not twenty bucks, which is what I wrongly assumed the going rate was for a framed print or a canvassed painting. The worst part is, I assumed I would find some cool shitty art that just happened to strike a meaningful chord. NOPE. Shitty art is shitty and it only truly succeeds in striking a shitty chord.
I went to a flea market in Chelsea yesterday that was RIFE with prints and paintings and the good stuff. I found a painting of a ship and a painting of Don Quixote, both of which I would have bought if the going price on both hadn't been fifty bucks (literally five bucks shy of what I actually had on me). The stuff I could have afforded was either moth eaten or just really really ugly.
Right now I'm sitting in Think Coffee (this cafe near NYU that is hip, artsy and no doubt environmentally conscious). There is art ALL over this place, and some of them have price tags. A quick glance over my shoulder informed me that for only $300 I could be the proud owner of a black and white series of animal sketches.
Recently, I've been thinking about amassing a series of my own paintings. (That's right! I paint now!) If I could get together like 20 little guache pieces (of harmless kitschy subjects like "dogs and their owners") I could totally set up a table in Union Square. If I charge $30 for each painting (i.e. what people actually WANT to spend on a harmless piece of art) I might make some money.
Sometimes I get too high-falutingly bohemian for my own good. The day I set up an art table in Union Square is the day I start working on my dreadlocks. (Something I've always secretly considered...)
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
to update the impossible update
Hunh. A month has gone by and I haven't written a word on this guy. I officially have a blog again!
I promise I'll try to really exhaust the inexhaustible amount of shit there is to update you guys about. I've gone on a fair amount of adventures and gone through a fair amount of mood swings since I last wrote (I'd say at least 2 peaks and 1.5 valleys).
Maybe one explanation for why I've been writing so little is that I've been reading like a friggin maniac lately. In keeping with my constant desire to culturally enrich myself, I've been a regular Pagemaster (starring Macauley Culkin) lately. It's been mostly plays, since as soon as I'm done being fascinated by one playwright I realize there's someone else I have literally never even heard about who is totally worthwhile (Sarah Kane and David Greig fall into that category with a vengeance). Including those two, I've gone through phases of obsession with Wallace Shawn, Steve Martin, Chuck Mee and Sarah Ruhl. And those are just the ones I've liked.
Allowing for this sudden surge of curiosity was my rediscovery of the New York Public Performing Arts Library (cue heavenly fanfare). Seriously. Free plays. Free DVDs of plays. And every play or musical ever recorded, available for viewing. It's the kind of overwhelmingly expansive resource that makes you feel lazy any moment you don't spend reading a book.
That being said, I'm excited about spearheading my own development as a playwright given the likelihood of not spending next year in Graduate school. Actually, to be totally upfront in light of really recent events, the battle was half lost this morning when I got my Columbia rejection letter in the mail. (Oh well, I figure. They accepted me once.) I'm not totally discouraged, though, since my big push was for NYU and since perseverance in the face of failure seems to be a useful skill in this particular line of work. I might as well start developing my thick skin now. (God grant me the grace to cope without resorting to apathy or bitterness. God also grant me a kickass day job for next year.)
Speaking of jobs, I recently decided to go back to camp. Which is funny, since a year ago I'm pretty sure I said (and I quote), "I'm never going back to Camp Shane." Isn't it funny how eight months of boring stresslessness and ample free time will cause one to throw themselves back in the lion pit? I've thought of a million reasons to look forward to camp. They are:
* I actually miss working with kids. It was hard, but I think I actually might be good at it. And directing the development of little brains caters to my more power hungry sensibilities (say that at a babysitting interview).
* People, some of the. I had a conversation with my friend Carol this morning, who despite being in the Netherlands for another year I am determined to convince to return to camp. It's probably impossible. Or is it IMPOSSIBLY PROBABLE!?!?! (I'm so awesome, it might just work.)
* I get to do more theater stuff.
* I get to be creative.
* I get to be self-directed.
And those last three... wooh. They are doozies. I looked at pictures of Seussical from last summer and got all tingly thinking about doing sets and costumes and choreography again. That being sad, I'm open to suggestions for kid-friendly musicals you folks think a ragtag group of pudgy starlets could put together in three weeks.
I promise I'll try to really exhaust the inexhaustible amount of shit there is to update you guys about. I've gone on a fair amount of adventures and gone through a fair amount of mood swings since I last wrote (I'd say at least 2 peaks and 1.5 valleys).
Maybe one explanation for why I've been writing so little is that I've been reading like a friggin maniac lately. In keeping with my constant desire to culturally enrich myself, I've been a regular Pagemaster (starring Macauley Culkin) lately. It's been mostly plays, since as soon as I'm done being fascinated by one playwright I realize there's someone else I have literally never even heard about who is totally worthwhile (Sarah Kane and David Greig fall into that category with a vengeance). Including those two, I've gone through phases of obsession with Wallace Shawn, Steve Martin, Chuck Mee and Sarah Ruhl. And those are just the ones I've liked.
Allowing for this sudden surge of curiosity was my rediscovery of the New York Public Performing Arts Library (cue heavenly fanfare). Seriously. Free plays. Free DVDs of plays. And every play or musical ever recorded, available for viewing. It's the kind of overwhelmingly expansive resource that makes you feel lazy any moment you don't spend reading a book.
That being said, I'm excited about spearheading my own development as a playwright given the likelihood of not spending next year in Graduate school. Actually, to be totally upfront in light of really recent events, the battle was half lost this morning when I got my Columbia rejection letter in the mail. (Oh well, I figure. They accepted me once.) I'm not totally discouraged, though, since my big push was for NYU and since perseverance in the face of failure seems to be a useful skill in this particular line of work. I might as well start developing my thick skin now. (God grant me the grace to cope without resorting to apathy or bitterness. God also grant me a kickass day job for next year.)
Speaking of jobs, I recently decided to go back to camp. Which is funny, since a year ago I'm pretty sure I said (and I quote), "I'm never going back to Camp Shane." Isn't it funny how eight months of boring stresslessness and ample free time will cause one to throw themselves back in the lion pit? I've thought of a million reasons to look forward to camp. They are:
* I actually miss working with kids. It was hard, but I think I actually might be good at it. And directing the development of little brains caters to my more power hungry sensibilities (say that at a babysitting interview).
* People, some of the. I had a conversation with my friend Carol this morning, who despite being in the Netherlands for another year I am determined to convince to return to camp. It's probably impossible. Or is it IMPOSSIBLY PROBABLE!?!?! (I'm so awesome, it might just work.)
* I get to do more theater stuff.
* I get to be creative.
* I get to be self-directed.
And those last three... wooh. They are doozies. I looked at pictures of Seussical from last summer and got all tingly thinking about doing sets and costumes and choreography again. That being sad, I'm open to suggestions for kid-friendly musicals you folks think a ragtag group of pudgy starlets could put together in three weeks.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
AND we have a new project runway winner
Only on a Wednesday (I really gotta cut this shit out; I'm starting to sound like a reverse of Garfield's lame Monday obsession).
This glorious day began with a hearty (vegetarian, still) breakfast with my roommate. The matinee I picked this week was "Passing Strange," a musical that got it's start at the Public Theater and was such a hit that it moved to Broadway. And THANK GOD, because it might be my new favorite musical currently running.
First, it had a concept that, while not shouting "oh my god come see this musical RIGHTNOWGODOIT," I found intriguing. It's a pretty simple plot as a whole-- a boy ventures far from home in the all-too-relatable search for "the real." Marsha Norman said it best last week when I snuck into her playwriting class: "Write a good story about the search for home [identity/understanding/love], and you've got GOLD on your hands." I personally stick to the credo: "Write a good story about learning important life lessons from pharmaceutical experiences, and you've got GOLD on your hands."
I honestly can't say that I remember being so simultaneously intellectually and emotionally stimulated by a musical. The narrator, a rockstar named Stew, might be a total genius. Nay, IS a total genius. The music was exuberant and the lyrics were brilliant. I realized partway through that I couldn't just buy the soundtrack. I have got to see this musical again. And I need to start a grassroots campaign to keep it on Broadway long enough for everyone I know to see it too.
This glorious day began with a hearty (vegetarian, still) breakfast with my roommate. The matinee I picked this week was "Passing Strange," a musical that got it's start at the Public Theater and was such a hit that it moved to Broadway. And THANK GOD, because it might be my new favorite musical currently running.
First, it had a concept that, while not shouting "oh my god come see this musical RIGHTNOWGODOIT," I found intriguing. It's a pretty simple plot as a whole-- a boy ventures far from home in the all-too-relatable search for "the real." Marsha Norman said it best last week when I snuck into her playwriting class: "Write a good story about the search for home [identity/understanding/love], and you've got GOLD on your hands." I personally stick to the credo: "Write a good story about learning important life lessons from pharmaceutical experiences, and you've got GOLD on your hands."
I honestly can't say that I remember being so simultaneously intellectually and emotionally stimulated by a musical. The narrator, a rockstar named Stew, might be a total genius. Nay, IS a total genius. The music was exuberant and the lyrics were brilliant. I realized partway through that I couldn't just buy the soundtrack. I have got to see this musical again. And I need to start a grassroots campaign to keep it on Broadway long enough for everyone I know to see it too.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
22 good to be true
I totally settled with that title. But it's late and I've been meaning to write for a day and a half now. I came really close this morning, but being a wee bit hungover I opted for spooning with my dog on the couch for a couple hours instead.
I have enjoyed a very good past couple of days. I'll work backwards, like Memento.
At work tonight, I didn't have to do anything. So I read and tried not to look to hungover.
This afternoon, I gave myself a grace period in which I generally lazed about the house, accomplished nothing and felt superb about it.
This morning, I woke up in time to see my roommate off to work and promptly fell back asleep on the couch with my dog (who is soft and smells better than ever after getting all her hair buzzcut off recently).
Last night, I had a dance party at a neighborhood bar with friends. Much credit is due to alcohol, but the dancing was really absurd, completely out of control and oh so much fun. Birthdays are a nice excuse for friends to remind each other constantly why and how much they love one another.
Yesterday evening, after skipping out on class after an hour, my mother took me bowling. We had had a big day, and while the bowling was fun, we were a bit cranky.
Yesterday afternoon, I took my mom to see "The Farnsworth Invention" after a crisis of Broadway faith in which we almost saw "August: Osage County." Being that my mom is the Aaron Sorkin fan that she is, I came to my senses and we got TKTS for the history-laden (but still dramatic and funny) play. We both enjoyed the hell out of ourselves with the play alone, but as we were leaving we were in for a humongous surprise that I'll probably always associate with this birthday. Aaron Sorkin was giving a Q&A session with some high schoolers, and being that we are slow ass theater leavers, my mom and I got to hide out and listen. Afterwards, emboldened by my birthday adventure seekingness, I went up to Sorkin and said a bunch of words I don't even remember. My heart was beating and I was visibly shakey, but unlike my mother I was able to come within 10 feet of the guy. Honestly, he was really cool and the whole experience smacked of good luck. Afterwards, between our frustrated realizations of "what we should have said," mom and I came to the conclusion that we just couldn't believe that we didn't ask him to dinner.
Yesterday at lunch, we went to John's Pizzeria and had a killer lunch. I sorted through the dozens of fabric swatches that I had collected for my fashion design class (a hobbie I might continue even when I don't go into making clothes). In Wednesdays past, I'd really always missed my mom the most during lunches by myself. So free of spectacle as it is, lunch might have been the nicest part of my day.
Yesterday morning, I woke up much earlier than my BAC the night before could have predicted. Mom and I got Starbucks and confirmed that no, my debit card hadn't been stolen.
Two nights ago, I met up with my roommates to celebrate the countdown to CJBday (I just made that up now... keep it in mind for next year). We had had a couple of birthday shots and by 1am I was absolutely convinced that I was getting a tattoo. (The bar was on St. Marks and it would have been entirely possible.) Adding to the debauchery, the bartender was a bit of a "cute guy" (as they say) and I was having fun flirting with him. Now, there's no element of surprise to this post because I don't even want to try to build suspense to satisfy the UTTER bewilderment I felt when my mom showed up at the bar.
I had absolutely no idea that she was coming or what was going on. All I knew was that that night was the most pleasantly surprised I have ever felt (it continued when we cabbed home and I discovered presents and a cake which my roommate had set up).
So, to end a long descriptive post I will say this: Good birthday. Things are looking good. Goodnight.
I have enjoyed a very good past couple of days. I'll work backwards, like Memento.
At work tonight, I didn't have to do anything. So I read and tried not to look to hungover.
This afternoon, I gave myself a grace period in which I generally lazed about the house, accomplished nothing and felt superb about it.
This morning, I woke up in time to see my roommate off to work and promptly fell back asleep on the couch with my dog (who is soft and smells better than ever after getting all her hair buzzcut off recently).
Last night, I had a dance party at a neighborhood bar with friends. Much credit is due to alcohol, but the dancing was really absurd, completely out of control and oh so much fun. Birthdays are a nice excuse for friends to remind each other constantly why and how much they love one another.
Yesterday evening, after skipping out on class after an hour, my mother took me bowling. We had had a big day, and while the bowling was fun, we were a bit cranky.
Yesterday afternoon, I took my mom to see "The Farnsworth Invention" after a crisis of Broadway faith in which we almost saw "August: Osage County." Being that my mom is the Aaron Sorkin fan that she is, I came to my senses and we got TKTS for the history-laden (but still dramatic and funny) play. We both enjoyed the hell out of ourselves with the play alone, but as we were leaving we were in for a humongous surprise that I'll probably always associate with this birthday. Aaron Sorkin was giving a Q&A session with some high schoolers, and being that we are slow ass theater leavers, my mom and I got to hide out and listen. Afterwards, emboldened by my birthday adventure seekingness, I went up to Sorkin and said a bunch of words I don't even remember. My heart was beating and I was visibly shakey, but unlike my mother I was able to come within 10 feet of the guy. Honestly, he was really cool and the whole experience smacked of good luck. Afterwards, between our frustrated realizations of "what we should have said," mom and I came to the conclusion that we just couldn't believe that we didn't ask him to dinner.
Yesterday at lunch, we went to John's Pizzeria and had a killer lunch. I sorted through the dozens of fabric swatches that I had collected for my fashion design class (a hobbie I might continue even when I don't go into making clothes). In Wednesdays past, I'd really always missed my mom the most during lunches by myself. So free of spectacle as it is, lunch might have been the nicest part of my day.
Yesterday morning, I woke up much earlier than my BAC the night before could have predicted. Mom and I got Starbucks and confirmed that no, my debit card hadn't been stolen.
Two nights ago, I met up with my roommates to celebrate the countdown to CJBday (I just made that up now... keep it in mind for next year). We had had a couple of birthday shots and by 1am I was absolutely convinced that I was getting a tattoo. (The bar was on St. Marks and it would have been entirely possible.) Adding to the debauchery, the bartender was a bit of a "cute guy" (as they say) and I was having fun flirting with him. Now, there's no element of surprise to this post because I don't even want to try to build suspense to satisfy the UTTER bewilderment I felt when my mom showed up at the bar.
I had absolutely no idea that she was coming or what was going on. All I knew was that that night was the most pleasantly surprised I have ever felt (it continued when we cabbed home and I discovered presents and a cake which my roommate had set up).
So, to end a long descriptive post I will say this: Good birthday. Things are looking good. Goodnight.
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