tavie.com

I've been tending to my sick heterosexual lifemate (as much as she'll allow people to tend to her) but I must return to the city early to tend to my sister. Call me Florence Nightingale. Or, better yet, call me Tavie-- they say I'm pretty hot stuff in the Navy!

I did stare straight at Superwoman during the slow, moving quartet at the end. I couldn't tell if she noticed. (And I really want to know who she thinks did not deserve a solo. Perri the lounge singer? Claudia the ingenue? Lee the abused fiancee?)

I did notice, and the song almost made me weep, which I think is pretty pathetic since it isn't even my high school career that is ending-- but it is poignant and sappy enough just being a friend to those ending an era (and beginning a new one.) I can be sad-by-proxy. And it was almost more thrilling than McKinney eye contact, besides!

As for the recipient of my negative review, it's rather mean and she's probably a lovely, sweet girl. (You've probably even told me as such when I've panned her in the past. I'm just a nasty, snarky excuse for a human being. But it was lounge-singer girl. I thought abused-fiance did a splended job; lounge-singer girl made me cringe. Ingenue was fine, a little rough on the ears at times, but fine. And, damn, I can't sing that high, upside-down or not, so I need to shut up.)

Why are you in Tavie's head? 5:56 PM | shower me with attention

I enjoyed the F.S. production of On the Town very much, despite the back-cramping pews and poor Gina's illness. Matt was dazzling beyond all measure, Daoud was a dreamy, dreamy rock star and Anika was radiant. Those other kids whose names I don't know were also excellent, except for that one girl who still sucked very badly and oughtn't to have had a solo. (I am a mean, mean high-school-theatre critic.)

I also enjoyed intermission immensely, because a group of young children in the balcony above me noticed my Superman shirt and started waving to me ecstatically.
"Hi Superwoman!! Hi Superwoman!!!" they cried. "Can you fly???"
"Yes!"
"Where's your cape?"
"I left it at home!"
"Why is your hair in a ponytail?"
"So it doesn't get in my face when I fly!"
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two and a half!"
"Are you married to Superman?"
(I hesitated. My first instinct was to reply that Superman and I tried to make it work out but that we had too many differences and had been separated for some time. "Say yes," whispered Gina.)
"Yes!"
"Can you walk on water?"
(My favourite question.)
"That's JESUS!!!"

What I did not enjoy was the nasty trick played be by Goose afterwards. I wormed my way through the crowd to return the tie she'd loaned me (part of her stage-hand get-up, for some reason; she let me wear it because I liked it; Erica suggested that it looked like Clark Kent was in too big of a hurry to get completely changed) and she tugged me onstage to say hi to her winsome boyfriend.
"Oh, but," I protested.
"Say hi to Daoud," she insisted.
Daoud was surrounded by friends on this, the last theatrical performance of his high school career.
"But," I tried again. Goose was very intimidating, however, so I stayed.

It was a bit like waiting around to meet Sting or something. There were crowds of fans, Daoud was deep in conversation. I stood around awkwardly, clearing my throat. Finally, with the help of Mean Mistreater, Daoud looked up.

"Hi, Daoud," I said.
"Hi, Tavie," he said.

I would have done better with Sting, I think. He melted immediately back into conversation, and Swamp Witch cackled with glee as I fled the auditorium in tears.

(It's all true except for the fleeing in tears part. But that sounds better than "I found Gina and Erica and we went to the Bendix for some chow.")

I feel a little sad that tonight was the last time I'll see my bunny perform at that school. It's such a lovely school, although it always makes me feel a little wistful when I'm there, for reasons best left alone.

Oh, well, maybe he'll do drama at Yale.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:39 PM | shower me with attention

Friday, April 26, 2002

The King of Hearts: Young Lady, look along the road and tell me: whom do you see?
Alice: I see nobody on the road.
King: I only wish I had such eyes. To see nobody at such a distance, too! It's enough for me to see real people by this light. [sees March Hare] Who did you pass on the road?
March Hare: Nobody!
King: Quite right, quite right-- she saw him too! So nobody walks slower than you.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 4:00 PM | shower me with attention

I remember that diner well, and the Pepto Bismol, too. I'm much better about new people now. Well, a little better. For some reason in my head it's called Mel's but that's probably not its real name. It had a disgusting bathroom. WAAT was fun there; all of Gerard's words had to do with sex. Was that the night he read Tarot cards for us and you put on Into the Woods to put me at ease? That's the memory that makes me love you most because it worked; I started out shy and ended up belting "Giants in the Sky" along with Jack. That's an impressive transformation.

Japan is so far away. Come back and I'll move to L.A. and we'll form a band called Ass-Pink.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:54 PM | shower me with attention

Woke up with a bellyful of restlessness. Had to take it outside, take it outside. Sister and I got dressed all spiffy (because, why not? And may I add, I looked hot. For me, I mean.) and went to dinner. Some Japanese place. Was good. Then went and saw some bad improv followed by some good improv. I can't believe how much money I ended up spending. No more pricey Japanese dinners for me, please. But the comedy was cheap and filling. (The good was by a troupe called Respecto Malteban. They were highlarious.)

Tomorrow night is pumpkin's play and then! And then! I was given leave to go home!

My sister is watching old Warner Brothers cartoons. I may join her. This isn't so bad. She's pretty good company, she is.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:00 AM | shower me with attention

Thursday, April 25, 2002

Aggie today rescued me from another drowsy evening of dust mites and internet-surfing by allowing me to invade her pretty Bohemian cave and share her company. The smallest change in routine helps. She allowed me to unload.

I am dreading the coming weekend of being stuck in the mire of this apartment, which swallows us like it was a Venus flytrap and saps us of the energy to fight for escape. We want to go out and enjoy the world but the clutter and dust bogs robs our will to dress and escape and do anything much but sit in front of the computer or the tv in crappy, falling-apart furniture.

Sister is having a tough time of it and I promised my parents I would not abandon her every weekend. She is welcome at Mint Manor but does not this time wish to go, for some reason. She has much studying and many cramps and much depression and I must be here to share in her discomfort. If this sounds like a complaint it's because it probably is, but I do not wish to complain about it. It's unsisterly. I am worried about her and try to tempt her with her favourite foods and promises of amusing activities we can do together. We must take care of each other in our parents' absence but I fear I am not doing a bang-up job of it.

I am so glad we are done with Ezra Pound. I was reading from Wallace Stevens instead of paying attention today and found I have scribbled on my hand, "I am too dumbly in my being pent."
Ah, resonance in a Stevens poem! I am finally relating! I will relate:

The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad

The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know.
I am too dumbly in my being pent.

The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.

The malady of the quotidian...
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze,

One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.

Yes, that works for me now. I am tired of being bored and angst-y, but as long as I am I'll enjoy poetry that reflects it.

I think Erica will come with us this Friday to see my little love in On the Town. I will be strong and
not follow Gina home afterwards, because I promised.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:07 AM | shower me with attention

Wednesday, April 24, 2002

Spring is here, spring is here
Life is skittles and life is beer

Tavie's singing from old Tom Lehrer
Pollen's causing her eyes to tear.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:43 PM | shower me with attention

If every anecdote I were ever to hear for the rest of my life had to do with Golden Girls, I would be perfectly happy. I laughed so hard at this.

I have this false, idealistic, naive, sort of sad idea that there must be one thing in my life that I am very good at, and this one thing is the thing that I am meant to do, hopefully as a vocation, but even as a passionate avocation on the side of some tedious (yet lucrative) career. I keep hoping I'll find it. I'll take the right class, meet the right guru, read the right book, and I will just know what the goal will be.

It is just beginning to occur to me that this is the kind of thing that keeps adults living in their parents' basements when they're in their 30's.

My parents don't even have a basement.

But no, no, no, I will not, I will not ever succumb to civil service.

(My biggest fear? Oh, I just might. Eventually. Just please let me have some sort of college degree first.)

Anyway. Some women are born great, some women become great, some women have greatness thrust upon them, and some women have great hair. I'll get by.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:14 AM | shower me with attention

Tuesday, April 23, 2002

I want to flirt with Curly right now, but I don't think it will make her feel any better. So I guess I'll refrain.

She's such a cutie-patootie, though.

Am I giving off a Rosie O'Donnell vibe? God help me. It's the food poisoning.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 6:09 PM | shower me with attention

Because I haven't said it lately, I wish I was you.

I caught my sister reading Missy Shmardilla's blog the other day. She was just sitting there reading backlogs, old, old archives, and laughing and laughing.

I'm so proud of her sometimes.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 6:04 PM | shower me with attention

Ha ha ha!!

Why are you in Tavie's head? 6:01 PM | shower me with attention

I just paid a diner $25 to give me ptomaine poisoning.

I will be dead soon.

No, but really, avoid Eat Here Now on 64th and Lexington. The food is awful. Kirsten was right. She said "Let's go to Hale and Hearty, let's go to Hale and Hearty" but I had to insist on the crappy diner. The lesson to be learned: never settle for crap. Just don't. There's no need; there's none.

I feel sick. This may be my last communique. I love you all.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 6:00 PM | shower me with attention

Monday, April 22, 2002

There was a very localized earthquake at some point this weekend that affected only our apartment. Nothing else explains why everything once resided on shelves or in closets is now on the floor.

The bathroom was hit particularly hard. The mounds of clothing are now higher than the toilet.

Make it all blow up!
My indifference is frightening
And if you want me to see it
You'd better write it in lightning!

Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:53 PM | shower me with attention

Sunday, April 21, 2002

I can't remember which Ezra Pound poem I was supposed to read for class Monday. I do remember that I was supposed to have read T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, so I'm trying to read it, but it is both incomprehensible and scary. Scary. It makes me scared. I'll finish reading it in a minute. Honest.

Why does so much of the poetry I have to read have to be so incomprehensible? What am I supposed to be getting out of this? I'm going back to the social sciences. At least some of that is understandable in some sort of concrete way.

Wallace Stevens' first book was called Harmonium. I went through the compilation and discovered that it contains about 80% of the poems originally published in Harmonium. That will be enough for me. Let's call that a volume. So, there, I've done something. What's left? To actually read the poems? No, I think I'll go watch reruns of Three's Company and wait for my sister's CD of Japanese pop music to finish burning.

Thirteen Ways of Watching Three's Company

I.
Among Chrissy Snow's mountains
The only moving thing
Was the eye of Jack Tripper.

II.
I was of three minds,
Like an apartment
In which there are three roommates.

III.
John Ritter whirled in the Reagal Beagle.
His physical comedy resembled pantomime.

IV.
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and another woman
are a premise.

V.
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of Suzanne Somers
Or the beauty of Priscilla Barnes,
Or Jenilee Harrisson's ridiculous antics.
Why was she there?

VI.
Mrs Roper filled the apartment
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of her caftan
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Of Mr Roper
Was not affected.

VII.
O producers of bad 70's television
Why do you bring in Don Knotts?
Do you not see how Norman Fell
Mugs at the camera and makes us laugh?

VIII.
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms.
But I know, too,
That none of these are involved
In the opening theme.

IX.
When the program flew off of prime time,
It marked the beginning
Of a short-lived spinoff.

X.
At the sight of Ritter
Making a fool of himself
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI.
He rode over California
In a metal airplane.
Once, a fear pierced him
That he mistook the success of his sitcom
For talent.

XII.
The ratings are jumping.
The sitcom must be flying.

XIII.
It was evening all morning
It was early
And Family Ties was ending.
Tavie sat
On the futon watching reruns.

My apologies to Wallace Stevens.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 4:23 AM | shower me with attention

Spanish appetizers. Tapas are Spanish appetizers.

And very good they were too, the few I could eat. A distressing amount of them were either breaded/encased in dough (nope!) or contained shellfish/seared fish/raw fish (nope!). But some of them were edible, and yummy. And I do so love sangria.

Now to address this:

How sad that I enjoy staying home on Saturday night. I used to love to go out. I used to see all the movies, go to clubs, go shopping, do anything but stay home. Now I'm just as happy to be curled up on the tufon with the cat curled up by my feet. I don't feel like I've gotten old or anything like that. I'm just too comfortable in my messy little house, which I should be cleaning.

Is it a coincidence that this laziness/homebody lifestyle started around the time that I started weekending here? No, it is not. I am a disease. I am Lethargy, personified in one large, rumply body. I make you sleepy. I make you complacent. I make you want to watch tv and never get dressed. But, on the plus side, I occasionally do the dishes.

I was never a party girl. I could never be a party girl. I was raised by nerds; but so was my sister, and my sister is a party girl. So... explain to me what happened.

My theory is that a large part of my brain is fuzzed out all of the time. There's just a grey buzzing where there used to be activity. In my imagination, the chemicals I take that fuzz out the part of me that is depressed and suicidal also fuzz out the part of me that likes to go out and do things. I do know that I never, ever feel fully awake, even at my sharpest. I am always in some state of cloudiness, and I was not always like this. Of course, to take away the grey buzzing would also lift the curtain on the will to die, and it's better to be partially alive than not alive at all, so I just walk around half-awake, always.

Best not to dwell on this. Not without the help of a professional. Which I haven't gotten for the same reason I haven't picked a book/topic for my poetry paper. (She knows why.)

I will say that I feel dandy right now and there is no need for concern, you worriers. And I would never stop taking my medication, not even to experiment. So worry not.

Now, guru lent me his copy of the complete works of Wallace Stevens. I have started to go through it, and I find it pretty but difficult. But it's the only lead I have right now...

Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:15 AM | shower me with attention