why in tarnation would jasper want an english yew?

inspired by semi-sleep sleeping thoughts.

im trying to think of the best way to begin this. i suppose i'll start like this. . .when i was younger, i used to have these absolutely absurd dreams. the object in my dreams, that i remember vividly, was popcorn, but it varied from night to night, nap to nap. yet, popcorn is certainly one i recall. well, in this dream, with this popcorn, i was terrified. i have never been able to pinpoint exactly which, but the popcorn was either too large for me to grab a hold of because i could only touch a small portion, or it was either drastically smaller and i was the gigantic one. no matter how many times i had these dreams, i would wake up screaming. one day in particular, i remember dene [my mom's fiancee at the time] came running upstairs to wake me because i was yelling for my mom. i was yelling for my mom all because of this popcorn kernal that was not equal in size to me [in whatever way].

i don't have those dreams often anymore, but sometimes, if i'm in the right state of mind, right before i go to sleep...i begin to feel overwhelmed by this change in perspective. this 'not being able to hold the popcorn properly' sort of feeling. but now, the scenery has changed. in my more recent semi-sleep dreams, im acres away from anyone. im lying in a field the size of ten football fields, sinking into the ground, and no one is around. but im so happy. laying in my bed, i feel the walls melt away, the ceiling....chaucer--my bear--and im just there. everything is entirely out of perspective, but im not scared at all anymore, im just safe.

if that makes any sense at all.
la di da.

i promise one day you'll make your debut.

tom stoppard wrote a play called the real thing. it opened in new york city on january 5, 1984 at the plymouth theatre. it was directed by mike nichols. ive been reading it over and over the past few days.
when i read a good book, see a good play, watch a phenomenal movie...i process through it and then i want to talk about it. talk about it constantly. talk about it with other people and how it affected them. how they saw it. what insight they can help me see into it that i cant see with my experiences.
this post catalogues a conversation i had with david about it about how a mysterious copy of the real thing got onto the bookshelf.

[david playing his psp. he doesnt look up]
heather [holding up a copy of stoppard's play]: hey. do you know what this is?
silence.
heather: david. did you ever have to buy this for class?
david [not looking up]: buy what?
heather: this play. have you ever read it before.
david glances to play.
david: no. ive never seen it before.
heather: do you know what it is?
david [still looking at video game]: no.
heather: are you sure?
david: yes.
heather: do you know who tom stoppard is?
david [continually engrossed in video game]: yes.
heather: have you ever read any tom stoppard?
david: yes.
heather: have you ever read this play?
david: no
heather: have you read arcadia?
david: no.
heather: have you read rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead?
david: no.
heather: night and day? jumpers? travesties? the invention of love? the coast of utopia? co-wrote the screenplay for shakespeare in love?
david [enamored by his psp]: no, no heather. that doesn't interest me like it does you.
heather: oh, okay.

fin.

"heather, please line your eyes with bat goo"

cindy lee mcdevitt. i love you. [this must be whole-heartedly understood]. for you, my dear mother, are a funny, crazy lady...in every schizophrenic sense of the word. and this is for you.

my mom chastises me about the mundane things in life...brushing my hair, doing my make-up, showering daily, and mainly, my clothes. she says im not her daughter. but on the contrary, i am. my mom is very surface oriented. she cares about what people think and say and do. which is fine. it brings her pleasure to know people think well of her [or hurts her if not] so by all means, let her care.

so in the spirit of the christmas season just passed, i thought i would humor my mom. i thought i would wear eye liner...define my features for once. "care about my appearance," as my mother says.

so i did.

and i suppose i looked beautiful, in whatever way that's defined. or atleast the way it's defined by my mother. [i call her mom, by the way]. and then...
then i watched it's a wonderful life. for the first time. oh dear me have mercy. it's beautiful.
it made me cry.
no, that's an understatement. it made me...wail, blubber...sob. if those even begin to encompass the emotion i was feeling.
all while i was honoring my mother with eye liner.

so i left my friend's house where i watched the movie and promptly drove to borders to see if i could...i dont even remember what i wanted to do, i just wanted to stop bawling over this movie.

now bear in mind when i go to borders...i go to borders...i was in there for about a good 25 minutes and then i had to pee. [i always have to pee when i go to borders...i think it's something in the air].
so i walk to the bathroom and after setting off the bathroom stealer alarm for trying to take my books in there...i finally get into the bathroom. i use it and then go to wash my hands.

dear me. what the hell.
i had black and blue streaming down my face. noticable, defined lines of black and blue. i looked like a chick right out of richard thompson's song. forget bette davis eyes...lovely.

thank you mother. i am sincerely sure i would have made you so proud in front of that mirror. emo eyes and all.
so with that said, i suppose the point of this entire blog is to say, screw you mom. i love you more than life, but screw you. you'll just have to respect my barely-mascared blue eyes and non-dyed hair and old lady-like clothes that you would never wear...i love you mom.