three in the morning productions

this on for size

Your happy ending begins when you come to understand that nothing you do matters--and that's when you'll walk out, gaze up at the infinite spaces and find yourself staring back.

But--but Kareen, I don't understand!
Neither do I, but damn, didn't it sound good?

"Because I'm a poet, and you didn't know it. Sink me!" - Sir Percy Blakeny, the Scarlet Pimpernel

The week has been a whirl. You'll find, in the following, disjunct thoughts that reflect the cluttered disposition I am in.

Yesterday was Cassandra's birthday. It's rather odd to think of her as younger than me since I'm the biggest small kid in the crew. I wanted to get her something extra extra special, so on Wednesday afternoon I skipped Quizbowl practice (and managed to excape the impending flogging from Mrs. Rothstein) to head to Chapel-Hill where I thoughtlessly believed I could get her the frigging present, study for a frigging calculus test, write a frigging essay on Macbeth, and bake the frigging brownies--all in a good afternoon's work. I must have visited every store on Franklin Street before I finally bought her the Norah Jones CD, (that I could have bought back home). No brownie points for originality there--hah, ~brownie~ points *nudge nudge*, get it? Eyahhmm. Yeah.

Well needless to say, I didn't accomplish anything I'd set out to do. Most of my time had been wasted standing in line at K&Ws while my big toe bled to death. It was not a pretty sight, especially to those who were waiting for their food. I finally got back home about midnight to bake the brownies and finish writing the essay--only one of which I got around to before human limitations got the best of me. At lunch we had a surprise covered dish for Cass (that was anything but a surprise). I only wish we could have made her birthday a more special occasion, but I did bleed trying.

Later that night, the crew went to see the Carmen ballet in Raleigh. Here was a typical event in the life of Kareen where panic, chaos and lack of money seems to be quite large on the scene: Arrive home around three in the afternoon, finish the same friggin essay by five-ish, rush to the hospital to beg mum for money, collect -three- frigging dollars (in quarters), rush to the library to borrow a book with a report due -the following day-, nearly get into a wreck whilst talking on the phone and pleading for forgiveness over the lack of punctuality, turn around and head for plan B's rendezvous spot while nearly getting into -yet another- wreck, only to arrive and be berated by unsympathetic crew members. No--no, save your pity for the weak.

And behold, there's more. I didn't actually get the book at the library. You see, my English teacher thought she was doing us a favor by assigning us with leisure reading. Now as you can imagine, "mandated leisure reading" doesn't fit well on my planner. So on the week that the book report was due--I was still considering the buying or borrowing of the book. Well then, I cleverly thought I could save time and money if I lied that I'd read a different book instead of the one I'd originally signed up for. That didn't quite work out because A.) the book that I used in my lie was one that I hadn't read in over three years B.) I didn't have a copy of the book in my possession and C.) I neither saved time nor money. Last night, while everyone sat around relaxing and enjoying their dinner, I had to trek to Barnes and Nobles to find a copy of my book of lies. I could only find a pricey, fancy but pricey, hardbook copy of my book of lies-- for which I would have paid the arm and the leg, but they only accepted legal tender. I had my very own annotated copy of the book of lies, but I never got it back from the Ex so I've become ever so wary about lending out my precious, precious books. Then I had to trek back to the restaurant, eat a fairly pricey dinner in a matter of minutes and then stuff myself in the Bug and hope to goodness we weren't going to be lost and shot in the ghettos of Raleigh-- since that always seems to be a constant fear of mine. And this book, this fantastic book for which I would have paid an arm and a leg, and another leg (anything that would have kept me from going to school the following day, because I was totally and utterly destined to Doom) was none other than Frank Herbert's Dune (Doom and Dune, hah, assonance in syntax, can ya dig it?).

Well then, we finally got to the opera house in Raleigh without getting lost and shot in the ghettos (but there was still the possibility of that happening on the way back, mind you). The show was wonderful--although I could hardly pick Carmen out from the other women. I didn't think she was portrayed as fiercely passionate and free of spirit entitled to her character. I was a bit bothered by Carmen's lack of sensuality. And I think I would have enjoyed the show much better had not certain people persisted on making comments about the men in tights. I took ~aesthetic~ pleasure in the beauty of the human body. Poignant expressions of the body that cannot be imitated by words, I understand now Degas' fascination with ballet dancers. And this is really sad, I'll admit, but I did cry... and on more than one occasion. Especially when Micaela returned to beg Don Jose to come back with her--man, there mustbe large irritating particles floating in the air again because I think my eyes are watering. Throughout Carmen though, I couldn't get it out of my head that as I sat through the show, all I really really wanted was to see it as an actual opera. But we've already made plans to see Phantom of The Opera when it comes to Raleigh. Lov'erly.
Mon dieu, mais j'aime le thęatre!

What are my plans for this weekend? Homework. Catch up work. Which doesn't seem to catch up to my To Do list, whichsofar entails this:

To Do:

1.) Bond with Chou-Chou
2.) Write a musical
3.) Dance the flamenco

09.27.02 - 10:47 p.m.

	this on for size Your happy ending begins when you come to understand that nothing you do matters--and that's when you'll walk out, gaze up at the infinite spaces and find yourself staring back. But--but Kareen, I don't understand! Neither do I, but damn, didn't it sound good? "Because I'm a poet, and you didn't know it. Sink me!" - Sir Percy Blakeny, the Scarlet Pimpernel The week has been a whirl. You'll find, in the following, disjunct thoughts that reflect the cluttered disposition I am in. Yesterday was Cassandra's birthday. It's rather odd to think of her as younger than me since I'm the biggest small kid in the crew. I wanted to get her something extra extra special, so on Wednesday afternoon I skipped Quizbowl practice (and managed to excape the impending flogging from Mrs. Rothstein) to head to Chapel-Hill where I thoughtlessly believed I could get her the frigging present, study for a frigging calculus test, write a frigging essay on Macbeth, and bake the frigging brownies--all in a good afternoon's work. I must have visited every store on Franklin Street before I finally bought her the Norah Jones CD, (that I could have bought back home). No brownie points for originality there--hah, ~brownie~ points nudge nudge, get it? Eyahhmm. Yeah. Well needless to say, I didn't accomplish anything I'd set out to do. Most of my time had been wasted standing in line at K&Ws while my big toe bled to death. It was not a pretty sight, especially to those who were waiting for their food. I finally got back home about midnight to bake the brownies and finish writing the essay--only one of which I got around to before human limitations got the best of me. At lunch we had a surprise covered dish for Cass (that was anything but a surprise). I only wish we could have made her birthday a more special occasion, but I did bleed trying. Later that night, the crew went to see the Carmen ballet in Raleigh. Here was a typical event in the life of Kareen where panic, chaos and lack of money seems to be quite large on the scene: Arrive home around three in the afternoon, finish the same friggin essay by five-ish, rush to the hospital to beg mum for money, collect -three- frigging dollars (in quarters), rush to the library to borrow a book with a report due -the following day-, nearly get into a wreck whilst talking on the phone and pleading for forgiveness over the lack of punctuality, turn around and head for plan B's rendezvous spot while nearly getting into -yet another- wreck, only to arrive and be berated by unsympathetic crew members. No--no, save your pity for the weak. And behold, there's more. I didn't actually get the book at the library. You see, my English teacher thought she was doing us a favor by assigning us with leisure reading. Now as you can imagine, "mandated leisure reading" doesn't fit well on my planner. So on the week that the book report was due--I was still considering the buying or borrowing of the book. Well then, I cleverly thought I could save time and money if I lied that I'd read a different book instead of the one I'd originally signed up for. That didn't quite work out because A.) the book that I used in my lie was one that I hadn't read in over three years B.) I didn't have a copy of the book in my possession and C.) I neither saved time nor money. Last night, while everyone sat around relaxing and enjoying their dinner, I had to trek to Barnes and Nobles to find a copy of my book of lies. I could only find a pricey, fancy but pricey, hardbook copy of my book of lies-- for which I would have paid the arm and the leg, but they only accepted legal tender. I had my very own annotated copy of the book of lies, but I never got it back from the Ex so I've become ever so wary about lending out my precious, precious books. Then I had to trek back to the restaurant, eat a fairly pricey dinner in a matter of minutes and then stuff myself in the Bug and hope to goodness we weren't going to be lost and shot in the ghettos of Raleigh-- since that always seems to be a constant fear of mine. And this book, this fantastic book for which I would have paid an arm and a leg, and another leg (anything that would have kept me from going to school the following day, because I was totally and utterly destined to Doom) was none other than Frank Herbert's Dune (Doom and Dune, hah, assonance in syntax, can ya dig it?). Well then, we finally got to the opera house in Raleigh without getting lost and shot in the ghettos (but there was still the possibility of that happening on the way back, mind you). The show was wonderful--although I could hardly pick Carmen out from the other women. I didn't think she was portrayed as fiercely passionate and free of spirit entitled to her character. I was a bit bothered by Carmen's lack of sensuality. And I think I would have enjoyed the show much better had not certain people persisted on making comments about the men in tights. I took ~aesthetic~ pleasure in the beauty of the human body. Poignant expressions of the body that cannot be imitated by words, I understand now Degas' fascination with ballet dancers. And this is really sad, I'll admit, but I did cry... and on more than one occasion. Especially when Micaela returned to beg Don Jose to come back with her--man, there mustbe large irritating particles floating in the air again because I think my eyes are watering. Throughout Carmen though, I couldn't get it out of my head that as I sat through the show, all I really really wanted was to see it as an actual opera. But we've already made plans to see Phantom of The Opera when it comes to Raleigh. Lov'erly. Mon dieu, mais j'aime le thęatre! What are my plans for this weekend? Homework. Catch up work. Which doesn't seem to catch up to my To Do list, whichsofar entails this: To Do: 1.) Bond with Chou-Chou 2.) Write a musical 3.) Dance the flamenco 09.27.02 - 10:47 p.m.