back.

I'm getting feisty in my old age.

 I am very quickly irked, it seems, by everything. Racism, sexism, general rudeness, road rage, people who scam elderly people, genocide, my own intellectual limitations, everything... zero tolerance. And it gets to the point where it makes it very hard to be happy about anything because pretending to be Little Susie Sunshine when everyone else seems to be hurting feels insensitive and fake. I vowed to never use my acting skills to be someone I'm not. There are just so many things to care  about everywhere. So many injustices.

Sooo...what right have I to go on a lovely little bike ride in the sun and read some poems and just feel all lovely and tickled and ignore all the disgusting pride and arrogance and cruelty out there????

Well. It also seems like a disservice on my part to be Little Susie Raincloud all the time, you know? I'm not contributing anything by just caring and getting pissed and being rude to everyone because I think they are just preserving their comfort by ignoring important human rights violations. Oh dear. Listen to me! 

I decommissioned this blog for a while because I was disgusted with myself. I do NOT want to be another post-pictures-of-myself-every-day-so-I-maintain-a-carefully-constructed-illusion-of-what-my-life-is-like-and-everyone-can-envy-me-and-validate-me-with-their-comments-and-giveaway-entries blogger. And since I began to sort of lean that way I pulled the plug. Straight up.

BUT. Here's the point of all this ranting. No matter how much I care, I can't solve the world's problems. No sirree. And by  acting all put-out all the time about things that really are awful, I'll just become a negative person and you just can't keep friends that way, not even the ones that really love you.

What to do then? Well, I've decided to keep caring. Stay human. But a big part of being human, I've decided, is also loving despite things. Not just loving the underdog, but loving everyone. Loving women who PREFER to be controlled and don't want to think about the alternative. Loving grandparents who were raised in the 30's and 40's and really didn't have much of a chance to not be racist. Just loving.
Because, as I discovered, being intolerant of intolerant people is still intolerance. And probably worse since I consider myself so "enlightened." Being narrow-minded about narrow-mindedness is the ultimate hypocrisy, I think. I am going to change.

I am going to keep blogging because words and pictures and pretty things are my life force, and that's okay. If I can make the world a teensy bit prettier by dwelling on the beautiful things I discover, there's no shame in that, is there? Sharing is caring. Or so my childhood taught me.

So. The point is... I'm back. Come back with me?

banana

type cast?

Why is it exactly that I always play the ill-fated sex symbol?
For example:

 

 Susannah in Joyful Noise back in Hawaii...

 Sibyl Vane in The Picture of Dorian Gray this spring...

And, a week or so ago, I finished being Constance in The Three Musketeers.

Just to name a few.
Well. 

I'd understand if it was just a few times. But I'm all set to play Susannah again this Christmas at the Covey Center (hopefully as a brunette this time). I am honored, of course, but it still makes me wonder...

do directors know something about me that I don't?

You know, Marilyn Monroe said: "Being a sex symbol is a heavy load to carry, especially when one is tired, hurt and bewildered."

Not that I'm really any of those things. But in all these plays I'm always the one loved, left, bruised, abused, used, and, frequently, killed. But at least it's because they think I'm pretty...

um.

Hopefully I'm just a good actor? 

Unfortunately, I know that I'm not, really. 

And that I am a little self-destructive in my love habits. And just sort of generally unlucky. And I keep gravitating towards these things that hurt me so bad and then, well, basically kill me.

And sometimes all it takes is a small tidbit of new information. 
And I'm dead.

Oh well. At least I'm pretty.

Pff,

Banana

I had a dream Bunny came home, but she looked like a cat.

Bunny and our good friend, Orson.

I have a sneaking suspicion that it 's due to learning about Hinduism right now in my Humanities of Asia class. My diligent little unconscious was applying academia to real-life situations!

Bunn Bunn was either reincarnated as a kitty, or she had had to alter her appearance in order  to survive on the harsh streets of South Provo.
But either way, she came back! And the longer she was with us, the less she started looking like a cat, and the more like a rabbit. 
It was actually strikingly similar to  someone recovering from Polyjuice Potion, now that I think about it. We discovered a fluffy bunny tail under her kitty tail, and her ears started growing and flopping. We were so overjoyed. We ate carrots and sang a  song of tear-filled reunion and blissful hopes for the future.

It just felt so real, you know?

I had a dream  I met my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend (not me, someone else) in a public restroom. I recognized her from Facebook stalking (don't look down on me, you do it too), and sort of followed her into the bathroom stall. We had a joyful meeting once she recovered from the shock, but then we realized our shared ex-boyfriend was standing outside the door. We both took extreme pleasure in making him wait for us for once.
It was beautiful.

I had a dream it was time to wake up, but it wasn't yet.
But then it was.

I feel a little visionary. I feel like today's horoscope, tomorrow's fortune cookie, and last night's dreams alike would tell me to look for answers in unexpected places. I feel like it's time to wake up and to put some things to rest. 

Love, clarity, and karma,
Banana

"Where's Your Dog?" and other pleasures of the Paris Metropolitan

Matching buns near the entrance to the Opéra metro stop.

Some things you might see while aimlessly following Line 6 of the Metro:

• A person in a giant bunny costume chatting nonchalantly with friends
• A world-class accordianist playing "Carmen"
• An American tourist couple panicking as the husband's backpack is caught in the ruthless automatic doors
• A small boy, old African woman, and middle-aged businessman all sneaking glances at you through the reflection of the door.

My personal favorites are the "metro crazies" who inspire Alyssa to ask me "Where's your dog?" when I act particularly strange. These lovely persons mumble (or yell, accordingly) throughout your underground sojourn -- to themselves-- and are almost always accompanied by an adorable pooch.

There's so much to see inside any metro train to make you die laughing or to clutch your purse in terror.

So much, that once you finally take a breath of fresh air at the top of the stairs, you forget the outside world has anything to do with the circus of sights, sounds, and smells below. 


So when I followed line 6, dutifully getting off at every stop, I made a discovery. Had an epiphany.

There are metro crazies everywhere.
Above and below.

In fact, the city is teeming with tourists, musicians, and limitless people to watch and admire and run from. And though I was supposed to learn about metro history through this project, I think I made an equally important connection:

The metro is a beautiful, smelly place where we're all squished together and allowed to admire one another's insanity.

Chouette. Groovy.

oh, the horror!

I suppose this is my annual post on fear.

Last year I took a slightly humorous approach regarding nonsensical phobias. 

That seems to be my idea of defensive coping skill.

You see, during my most intense moments of heartache, hurt, or panic I have always found myself satirizing the whole ordeal. Describing it as a tragic farce; a clown with a painted purple tear on his cheek. Morbidly funny. Self-deprecating. I find that if I make someone else laugh when telling them of the things that truly strike fear into my heart making my knees and chin tremble and lightning flash and the walls cave in all around me in a cloud of nasty black smoke and charred ruins of life ambitions, well then, it can't be that bad. That way I've (sort of) vented, and am justified in keeping the rest in. To fester, probably.

But the new me won't allow it, I keep telling myself. Someone wise probably said once something along the lines of, a life lived in fear is no life at all. Yes, I'm sure of it now. Maybe it was Dumbledore or someone.

So... what am I afraid of, you ask?

Well, the problem is that the answer is probably everything.

Uh oh. I'm afraid of EVERYTHING?

yeah, kind of.

Here's the thing. I've never successfully explained to anyone the world in which I live. It's just... so personal. Its borders are completely within my own mind and idiosyncratic tendencies.

But people have definitely made attempts at describing it.

"spacey" "reclusive" "creative" "silly" "private" "shy." I've even got "inconsistent" at worst ["bi-polar" at very worst] or "dynamic" at best.

no, no, no people. the truth is I'm just terrified of being ripped out of the very deliberately crafted existence within my brain.

I surface on my own from time to time, just long enough to apply to college or get a job or feed myself or whatever else I figure must be done. But, honestly, I feel very much detached from most of those lifely duties.

Sometimes I feel like my dreams (day or night) are more tangible than my waking hours. Which is weird, I suppose.

Yeah, probably really weird.

I've always had this talent of falling asleep as soon as I decide to. As soon as my head gets anywhere near the pillow (sometimes before). I feel like an inability to sleep is for people who are involved in this world. Whereas I am just slipping naturally back into my own.

Anyway.

That may or may not explain why getting out of bed in the morning gives me the heebie jeebies from time to time.

let alone becoming the grown-up I'm supposedly supposed to be becoming.

or the fact that, as tough as it has been to be living at home much of the last two months,

I'm a little scared of the move I'll be making on Sunday.

With friends, fun, summer delights, and an adorable lovefriend waiting for me,

it still scares me a bit.

Now that's just silly.

...right?

Banana

I Think I Figured it Out

journalism is my occupation
Writing is my passion
Acting is my outlet
and
Music is my life force.

or

I'd be a musician, but I don't have the talent or discipline.

I'd be an actress, but I don't have the perserverance.

I'd be a writer, but I don't have the patience.

So...I'm going to be a journalist.

wellll...a broadcast journalist.

Love, sighs, and lists unceasing,

Anna

Getting High

So I was walking through the forest yesterday and as I was passing a particularly lofty evergreen tree (Quite common in the "Evergreen State," dontcha know), I thought, I shall climb that tree now.

...And up I went.
The branches became a sappy, majestic ladder and I noticed my limbs were tree limbs. We entwined and folded into a wild structure of piney scent, dirty pants, and exhileration.


About 45 feet up I called my dad to,"Daddy, come look!" as I had countless times in my jungle gym days.

thanks for the photo (I'll fix my camera soon, I promise!)

I'm down now, but I keep climbing, keep aspiring, and keep looking for new breathtaking vistas. Maybe not always serene cows and lazy fields. Maybe not hazy mountain sunsets and distant thunder. But I promised myself, perched precariously up in my sister tree,
That

I'm going to make something of myself, by
George!

(The monkey, not the King)
A bajillion paint thinner baths won't remove these sappy convictions.

-Banana

I Just Realized How Cool I Am

Milly and I had a bit of an epiphery while driving:

" (sigh) We don't have jobs and we live with our parents."
" (sigh) And we're eating mashed potatoes at 9:30 on a Tuesday."

That's how cool I am.