Spence suspence

December 11, 2006

Dear Katie,

Hi! How are you? Things here are good. And right now here is the language lab & I’m giving out Greek Mythology tests. As of right now I have 180 tests to give over the next 3 days. Oh joy. It gets crazy in here some days...and not just because I’m crazy in here!

I’m sorry to hear about the boy...but I’m glad to hear that you’re happy about it. I’m trying to figure out a coded way to talk about the boy in my life without cursing it. Yep, anytime I talk about a boy I’m interested in I end up cursing it. How about we won’t call him by name. Let’s call him “Spence” after my sister’s imaginary boyfriend from when she was eight years old.

So, here’s the story:

As you know, I teach Comm 101: Intro to Speech. I love teaching the Tuesday night class, it’s my favorite. Last Spring as people were coming in I was talking with Ben Stellmon (Jade’s husband) because he was in my class & just watching people as they came in. Class started & I was my usual spastic self. Well, there was this guy in the class that has a definite sense of personal style (a trait I admire–I hate the guys who look just like every other guy) & glasses. He has dark hair (as you know I’m partial to). I made the class laugh, which is my instant feedback I crave & he smiled. & do you know what...when he smiles it’s like his entire soul is smiling. I swear it comes all the way down from his toes & comes out as a smile from his whole self. It’s beautiful. & I thought, “He’s cute. But he’s my student. The end.”

This was the year that I was really struggling with where to go to church & one day I woke up too late for the Quail Run ward so I went to the Shingles Ward. In passing in the hallway, I saw Spence. “Hey!” I said. & he said hey back. That was it. The only time I saw him at church but I’d see him on Tuesday nights in class. I’d talk with Ben & goof around with some of the students...the outspoken ones that I knew I could joke with. Spence was very quiet but he did smiled or laughed at my silliness so every once in a while I’d throw in a joke just for him.

The semester was over & I was done teaching. Grades were entered & I was officially no longer his teacher, so I sent him an email that said something along the lines of “now that I’m not your teacher, we should hang out.” He wrote back & said something along the lines of “sounds good to me.” So we got together before I left for the summer. Then we emailed during the summer & when I got back we got together. We’ve got some friends in common, so it’s cool to hang out with them.

Spence is quiet. If we’re in a group, he doesn’t do a lot of talking, but if it’s just me and him we talk together for hours! It’s so much fun. He’s got a great sense of humor & he makes me laugh. We spent some time together during Thanksgiving break to go see a concert in Seattle (which, by the way was AWESOME) & I was filming our trip & you can just hear me laughing at things he says, but the recorder didn’t pick up his voice. He’s great. He’s younger than me (he’s 28), but many people are. He’s studying horticulture, he has an early morning show on KUOI, he’s an artist, & a writer. He’s brilliant. & he’s got this smile that just kills me! & it’s hilariously funny that we have gotten together & have become such good friends, because he’s so quiet & I’m just not.

He’s a Gemini & I’m a Scorpio, which is a difficult combination...but Jade & Ben seem to be doing fine with it!

Oh, & just so you know, irony continues to rule in my life because Spence has so much in common with another person in my life. (But unlike Mr. Cheese, Spence has many things in common with someone I love instead of loathe...so he’s got that going for him!) They have the same name (currently: Spence), they’re both Geminis, Vegetarians, have dark hair, dark eyes, glasses, they’re nearly the same height (Spence is taller by almost an inch), love plants, & they make me laugh. & my favorite thing...they both have an ability to make me feel beautiful. I’m more accepting of myself when around either of them, instead of being so self critical as when I was around the likes of Mr. Cheese & his previous doppelganger.

Well, now the mushy love crap. It doesn’t exist. I really like him. He’s kind, gentle, handsome, wonderful & has been totally raked over the coals by the last girl in his life. He’s very protective of his heart right now. I understand. I mean, I can’t promise him I won’t break his heart. He can’t promise me that he won’t break my heart, either. None of us can promise that to anyone. I can promise that right now I have no intention of breaking his heart & would just really like to see if we could be boyfriend & girlfriend. I’m being patient, though...at least my version of patient...to give him the time & space he needs to heal or to trust or to whatever he needs. It’s maddening & I want to shout out loud that I love him, but I can’t. I’m a bit protective of my heart, too. I mean, one cannot be single for this long without having had many opportunities to build walls around one’s heart.

That’s my story of Spence.

Now in other news:

I was wearing my “Somebody in Nepal Loves Me” t-shirt at work. Dr. Steckle (the oh-so-amusing German professor) walked into the lab and read my shirt. Then he said, “They found him, & shot him.” I said, “So, now I have to change my shirt to ‘Nobody in Nepal Loves Me’?” and he said, “Also take out ‘in Nepal’.” He cracks me up!

You’ll have to check out my blog...read my story about carrying a scythe across campus. Do you have the link to my blog? I think I’d given it to you before, but just in case: http://thesixthminky.blogspot.com/ & I finally posted some of my art on there. Some collages & some charcoals. I haven’t done any art for a long time. Just don’t have the time for it. That’s another reason I’m looking forward to Christmas break.

Speaking of Christmas break, I’m going bonkers deciding what to do! I don’t want to drive home because my tires suck. I can get to Boise with Daniel and then catch a plane out to Idaho Falls, stay for a few days and then catch a ride back to Moscow with a girl named Emily. But the whole trip will cost me over $200.00. I’m too poor for that. So, I decided not to go. But then I was talking to Jeff Beck and he said that I should get new tires for my car because it’ll be safer (for sure) and then it’ll make it easier to sell my car next year. My car’s not worth much, so I didn’t want to put much money into it because I want to get a new one next year. ACK! Sometimes I really hate making decisions and wish that someone would just do it for me. And drive me. But that’s easier to find: a chauffeur verses someone who can make decisions for me. But only when I want them to. I can make most of my decisions on my own.

It’s actually the next day. My printer is out of ink at the moment so I can’t print this letter so I thought I’d just keep going. Spence dropped by last night. He’s thinking of getting a laptop and wanted to see if he liked mine. And he wanted to burn something but we couldn’t get it to work. I think my laptop has achieved it’s maximum life. Why don’t things last longer. Poor computer. I named it “Chesterfield Snapdragon McFisticuffs and it’s lived a good life. If I get new tires, I can’t afford a new computer. ACK! Well, I could use my student loan money to do it, but I really want to use that money to get out of debt. But I really don’t see myself finishing school without a working computer. I’ve fallen victim to one of the classic blunders, the first is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well known is this: never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line...or let your computer and your car both break down at the same time. Does anyone have any Iocaine powder I could borrow? I feel like building up an immunity.

Well, in continuing news:
Since I still don’t have any ink...

I was grading tests for Dennis West and I don’t know how I did it, but I was short one blue book. The girl had handed in the first part of the test so it made no sense that there wouldn’t be a blue book. I looked EVERYWHERE and went BONKERS trying to figure out what to do. Dennis didn’t make it any better by telling me what I “SHOULD” have done. Okay, fine, when they invent time machines you can tell me what I should have done and I’ll go back and fix it, but in the meantime I think that we need to look at where to go from HERE. ACK! It was so bad that I tied myself into knots over it and he made me feel like crap. I had to call him back about it, but I didn’t want to do so alone. I just needed someone in my corner, so to speak. Anyway, I went to where Spence was working and asked him to just stand by me while I make the phone call. He did. It helped. I don’t know why, but I’m much braver if someone just believes in me. And that was Spence’s second time at being my “Knight in Shining Armor”.

Anyway, because of some things that were happening in my life I have started making “The Grand List of Things That Suck. Right now this is it:

1. Having to get over a crush because you know, that for no matter what the reason, it will not be reciprocated.
2. Losing one of the blue books in Dennis West’s film class.
3. Not being able to DEPOSIT a check even when your name is on the account.
4. Having brilliant ideas but lacking the capacity to bring them to fruition.
5. The infrequency in which the word “fruition” is used.

If you have any suggestions, I’ll be happy to include them.

Well, you know me, I could go on indefinitely, but I will stop.
Love ya!

Goran Visnjic

Richard Roxburgh

Another 8X10 charcoal.

Alan Rickman

This is an 8 X 10 charcoal--so far my favorite one I've ever done.

Death's Secret 'Stache

Characters:
Death (a skeleton)
Mrs. Death (his wife)
Daughter (their daughter)

In the kitchen of DEATH and MRS. DEATH. Think of the characters like Santa and Mrs. Claus...if they were skeletons...jolly, happy, etc. Mrs. Death is futzing: preparing breakfast. The couple has been married for thousands of years. They are fine with quiet moments in which no one is talking. Death comes running in carrying a manila envelope.

Death: It’s here It’s here It’s here

He waves the envelope.

Mrs. Death: What’s here, dear?

Death: My...(he pulls it from the envelope with a flourish)...moustache

He puts it on his face. It covers his lip and hangs down on both sides of his mouth.

Death: (continued) Do you have a mirror?

Mrs. Death: You’re Death, dear. Death doesn’t wear a moustache.

Death: Why not?

Mrs. Death: Statistics say that men with moustaches are 75 % less trustworthy than a clean shaven man.

Death: And 45% of all statistics are made up by wives to keep their husbands from doing what they want.

Mrs. Death: Oh, that’s not true.

Death: Right, it’s probably 60 %.

She stops her futzing to look at him. He poses for her.

Mrs. Death: You look very silly.

Death: I want to see. Do you have a mirror?

Mrs. Death: Look in my purse. I think there’s one.

Death: Your purse?

Mrs. Death: (she finds her bag and hands it to him.) Here you go, dear.

He takes it as if it’s carrying the black plague.

Death: Why don’t you look in it?

Mrs. Death: I’m not the one who wants a mirror.

Pause. Death stares at the purse.

Death: I don’t want to go looking in your purse.

Mrs. Death: Why not?

Death: I’m afraid of what I might find in there.

Mrs. Death: There’s nothing bad in there...nothing untoward.

Death: (mumbling, not thinking she’s listening) Mostly I’m afraid I’ll find my own testicles in there.

Mrs. Death: Oh, honey, you’re a skeleton.

Pause. Finally he digs around in her bag.

Death: Ugh, what the...oh, a walnut.

Mrs. Death: What’s that, dear?

Death: I found a walnut.

Mrs. Death: That’s nice.

Pause

Death: Why do you have a walnut in your purse?

Mrs. Death: To feed the squirrels.

Pause. Death finds the mirror and pulls it out. He looks at himself.

Death: The color’s a bit lighter than it looked in the catalogue.

He straightens the moustache and looks at himself.

Death: (continued) I was sure I ordered the medium brown. Does this look like medium brown to you?

Mrs. Death: (without looking) Maybe it’s burnt umber.

Death takes the moustache off and tries wearing it as a long pair of eyebrows.

Death: Isn’t that the same as medium brown?

Mrs. Death: Hmm...I don’t think so. I think that’s burnt sienna.

Death: You’re probably right.

Mrs. Death: If you think so, dear.

Pause.

Death: It’s been a long time since I’ve had facial hair.

Mrs. Death: You’re an anthropomorphic being, Dear. You’ve never had facial hair.

Death: Didn’t I? I was sure I did once. Early stages? Maybe in a Dali painting?

Mrs. Death: I don’t think Dali ever painted you.

Pause. Death tries the moustache as a goatee. As he looks at himself in the mirror, DAUGHTER walks in. She is ready to go to school, dressed, has her bag, an MP3 player, etc.

Mrs. Death: (sing-song) Good morning

Mrs. Death kisses Daughter on the head. When Daughter sees Death with his moustache, she stops dead in her tracks.

Daughter: Hi D[ad]...(she stops, stunned) Oh, God, Mom What’s Dad got on his face?

Death: (absently, still wearing it as a goatee and looking in the mirror) It’s a moustache.

Daughter: On your chin?

Mrs. Death: We think it’s burnt umber, sweetie. Do you want pancakes for breakfast?

Daughter: Mom, you’re not gonna let Dad wear a moustache are you?

Mrs. Death: We’re discussing it. (Quietly mouthing to Daughter:) No.

He puts it back on as a moustache.

Death: It’s my moustache.

Mrs. Death: Whatever you say, dear. Now what about those pancakes?

Daughter: Nah, just juice today.

Death: (to himself...the others ignore him) I don’t think we need to be discussing...

Mrs. Death: We don’t want you wasting away. You need to eat at least one pancake... and a sausage.

Daughter: Okay, one pancake, but no sausage. I’m a vegetarian now, remember.

Mrs. Death: They’re soy-sausages.

Death: (turning around to where Mrs. Death is cooking) Oh, I hate those

Mrs. Death: They’re healthy, dear.

Death: Look, I’m Death, okay? I’m thousands of years old, I’m a 7 foot tall (5 foot 10) skeleton, I reap souls of the living and bring them to the land of the dead... I don’t have to worry about cholesterol... I can eat sausages and wear moustaches if I want. I’m DEATH for the love of Pete

Mrs. Death: Of course, you are, Dear. (Beat) Now how many sausages do you want?

Death: Five.

Mrs. Death: Three dear?

Death: Five. I said five.

Mrs. Death: Did you say three...because three is a recommended serving according to the box.

Death: (defeated–but not demoralized) Three.

Mrs. Death: That’s what I thought you said. Now, are you going to take that thing off before you eat?

Death: (feigning confusion) What, my cowl?

Mrs. Death: No dear, the moustache.

Pause.

Death: Well, no. I think I can eat with it on.

Daughter: I don’t think the rest of us can.

Mrs. Death: Why don’t you save it for after breakfast. We wouldn’t want it to get greasy, now, would we?

Death: (mostly to himself) They’re soy sausages, how greasy can they be?

Pause. Mrs. Death cooks. Death arranges his moustache. Daughter listens to music and pours a glass of juice. Mrs. Death sets a plate of pancakes on the table.

Mrs. Death: Piping hot, HOTcakes

A car horn honks.

Daughter: My ride’s here Gotta go.

Mrs. Death: Take a pancake.

Daughter: No time.

Mrs. Death: There’s always time for a healthy breakfast, isn’t that right, Dear?

Death picks up a pancake and throws it to Daughter. She catches it and heads out the door.

Daughter: Thanks, Dad. Bye, Mom

She exits.

Mrs. Death: (sing-song) Got my pancakes made with love...got my sausage...and some salt...not too much. (Sigh) I miss the days we all used to sit around the table together.

Pause.

Mrs. Death (continued): Don’t you miss those days, dear? I’m sure you do.

Pause.

Mrs. Death (continued): Do you really need that thing, dear?

Death: I need a moustache.

Mrs. Death: Like you needed that lawnmower? We don’t even have a lawn.

Death: I need this moustache.

Mrs. Death: People are less inclined to trust a man with a...

Death: I’m Death

Mrs. Death: I know that, dear.

Death: But do they? (He points off stage) Do they know I’m Death?

Mrs. Death: The Clarks? I’m sure they do, it’s on the postbox.

Death: Not the Clarks, everyone. Everyone out there. They’re no longer shocked by me. They no longer tremble with fear and awe.

Mrs. Death: That’s because you’re a very nice man, Dear.

Death: No, I’m not I’m not nice I’m Death Just...just because they see me on their televisions, in movies, on their video games. They read statistics about how many of their fellow men died and do you know they say? They say, (in a different voice) “that ad said butter is on sale at the grocers; we should go tomorrow.” (His own voice again) No one blinks twice at death on the tv. Murders every night at nine/eight central. They walk down the street talking on their cell phones saying offhandedly, (a sorority girl voice) “I watched the news the other night, people died n’ stuff.” (His own voice) I need a moustache to bring back the fear and awe. People are more afraid of bad moustaches than of Death himself.

Pause. He puts his head down on the table. Mrs. Death walks over and pats him gently on the back.

Mrs. Death: Oh honey, they’re still afraid of you on an individual basis.

Death: (not looking up) No they’re not.

Mrs. Death: Yes they are. Why, just the other day I overheard Mr. Clark say, “Boy, living next door to Death really creeps me out.”

Death: (looking up) Really?

Mrs. Death: Of course, really. (Mrs. Death touches him softly on his face) When do I ever use the phrase “creep me out” unless I’m quoting directly?

Death: They’re still afraid of me? Promise?

Mrs. Death: I promise. Ask any one of them if they’re not afraid of Death. Especially if you ask them, Dear. They’ll be shaking in their platform shoes.

Death: That was the 70's.

Mrs. Death: So was that moustache. Anyway, what I’m saying is that you don’t need a moustache. You’re terrifying enough as is.

Death: You’re right. (His confidence returning) Where’s my scythe?

Mrs. Death opens up a cupboard, his scythe is next to the broom and the mop.

Mrs. Death: Here you are dear.

He takes the scythe from her. He takes off the moustache and hands it to Mrs. Death. He stands in all his skeletal glory, and turns to the audience...

Death: Are you afraid of Death?

Death moves forward. Lights out behind him so that the stage can be set for the next scene. Death’s shoulders slump. His enthusiasm is waning. He talks to the audience.

Death: Did you know that more people are afraid of public speaking than of death? People would rather keel over than give a three minute speech. If you ask someone what they’re afraid of you’d be surprised how low on the list death will appear. They’ll list different things... Spiders. Snakes. Flying. Heights. “What about death?” you ask, “Oh, yes, sure. Put that on the list, too.”

This bothers me. I mean, I’m a frightening character. Look at me You should fear me. (Pause) Or at least put me higher on the list. Sure, being married has really mellowed me out...but you people rarely give me a second thought. That’s why you always say it was “too sudden”. How can it be sudden? You know it’s coming. You always know it’s around the corner. You don’t know if you’ll have enough money to buy a house. You don’t know if you’ll get that trip to Disneyland, but you know...YOU KNOW...you’re going to die. Eventually.

Okay, you don’t have to be all mopey about it. You don’t have to pine. But could you just stop once in a while and think about me?

Death takes his scythe and exits.

A Blonde Moment

Between switching classes with Sally she said to me, “I felt bad, one student had three cell phones go off during his speech today.”

To which I responded, “Why did he have three cell phones?”

Sally started laughing an then gave me a hug. Realization dawned and I turned red. I’m a dork. I can’t help it...I was born with really blonde hair.

Scythe DOES matter

Thursday. Snow. Ice. Theatre. That’s how it works. But you probably need more information then that. Very well. I’ll tell you.

As mentioned, it was Thursday. It had snowed a great deal and I had a scythe I needed to bring to campus. It was for the performance of my play Death’s Secret ‘Stache (I’ll include it for you to read). And, no, it wasn’t a prop scythe...it was a real one (borrowed from Krysta Ficca’s Dad via her Grandmother who was smaller than the scythe).

The play was fabulous–Audrey Lauren Wax directed it (she’s brilliant and I was quite pleased to work with her) and it starred Christopher Coursey as Death, Kristin Haller as Mrs. Death and Anna-Marie Hearn as their Daughter. They were are brilliant. Chris was frightening in his white face wielding the scythe. The audience laughed when it was supposed to and I felt it was a great success. But now the adventure really begins...

The scythe needed to be returned to its owner. I carried it from the Kiva to the library (I had to return a movie for Dennis West’s film class). Thinking that walking into the library carrying this enormous farm tool might cause some problems, I was thankful when Angela Gruver (one of my fabulous Comm students) happened by. She and her friend (give me his name and I’ll immortalize him here!–oh, and I’d love to hear YOUR side of the story, too!) were kind enough to hold the scythe for me while I ran my errand. Then I carried it from the library to the Shoup. Where I found out that Krysta had not driven that day and that the scythe was still my responsibility. So, off I went from the Shoup to the TLC building with the scythe over my shoulder.

It’s quite a good psychological study of those around you when one is carrying a scythe. The looks I got as I walked across campus were a mixture of smiles and laughter, to fear and a look that can only be described as “WTF?”. I heard one group behind me talking. “Is that the thing the Grim Reaper uses?” “Yes,” said a voice with the fear and awe about which Death was concerned in my play.

When I got to class...it was only 2:30. I had about an hour to wait. Jessi Lundeen (another Comm 101 student) had gotten there early as well so we decided to play a little joke on Sally Eames-Harlan in her Comm class. Jessi and I waited outside the classroom until the student had finished her speech. Jessi opened the door and I walked in with the scythe.

“Sally...it is time to go.” I said, lowering my voice as far down as it would go.

“No, we still have time.” she said, looking at the clock.

“No...Just YOU.”

We all laughed then Jessi and I left so they could finish their class. Afterwards Sally said that Dean Panttaja’s son was sitting next to her and said, “That’s why I don’t hang out at the theatre department.” It cracked me up.

When class was over I walked from the TLC to home and decided that if I slid on the ice I would throw the scythe away from me to keep it from chopping off valuable body parts. On the walk home I met up with Erik Hayes. He was kind enough to walk with me and not worry about the judgements (not to mention injuries) that may befall a man walking next to a girl holding a scythe.