Stairs to the sea

Liliana plunged into the chilly water letting it slide over her limbs. Sweat dripping down her temples and her face flush from running through her forests, she dove under. She loved the feeling of being underwater, the cool weightlessness of it, as though she were free. As though she could just swim away from this place and never return. She erupted from the water and drew in a great breath. And then Liliana floated, just floated on the water, listening to the birds cry and the water lap the shore. She had been here, on this island, for ten years. She was taken care of, she was fed and clothed, but no one spoke to her. Or touched her. But being in the water, wrapped as she was, soaked through as she was, this was close enough. The water moved over her as she floated, her arms extended, touching back.

She floated for a long time, lost in her daydreams, until a hawk screeched somewhere in the distance and pulled her back to her reality. Liliana dragged herself over to the shore and the stone steps that disappeared into the sea. She stood on the bottom step, picked up the hem of her gown and twisted the water away, her skin exposed to her knees. It was her lightest dress and still it felt like lead when she left the water. She never wore her underskirts while she ran or swam, she needed the freedom of movement. When no more water could be wrung out, she released her skirt and watched as it swept down, clinging to her legs.

Liliana was still dripping wet, her chestnut hair heavy with water sticking to her back in tangles. She grabbed hold of the balustrade to keep her bare feet from slipping as she ascended, the moss heavy on the stone steps. As she reached the top, she saw a man. A finely dressed man she had never seen before. Not a soldier and not a servant. He was slowly pacing back and forth in front of the path. He kept his eyes on the ground, though she knew he saw her, knew he had been watching her. He stopped suddenly, and looked at her. She looked right back, studying him as well. He seemed to regard her with knowledge, as though he knew her.

They stood like that for what felt like an eternity and then he said, "You shouldn't be out here alone," he then paused rather deliberately, as though he was used to people hanging on his every word, and slowly paced across the path. "Anything could happen."

She was nonplussed as she listened to his voice. She thought to look to see if someone were behind her, but she knew it was only the sea. No one had spoken directly to her in so long. She wasn't sure what to do. Liliana had occasionally sneaked down stairs just to listen to the soldiers and servants talking, laughing, sharing their days, but no one had ever spoken to her. She received nods and gestures, but no sound, no words.

So she just looked at him. Willing herself calm. She studied his clothes. Clothes are never scary. He wore fawn breeches and a red and gold tunic. He was handsome, with fine features and a rather distinguished nose. He was fair with golden hair that curled slightly at the ends. He looked like every charming Prince she had read about. He was older than she was, but young, or younger than Henry, her guardian. He already had gray hair at his temples. This man was lean and strong and had an air of authority that told her he was somebody.

She gazed back up and into his eyes, which he met with a look of his own, as if to say, "Did I meet your approval?"

She didn't like him. But she couldn't say why. She wanted to make him feel as she felt. After all, this was her island, not his. Or was it?

Liliana realized she wanted to get away from him, she wanted to run back to her castle. She wasn’t prepared for this. She was growing more frustrated with every second. She had imagined this day, the day someone came to rescue her, so many different times, but never had the man been smug and unkind. He stood facing Liliana and the sea, blocking any attempt to flee, his back to the castle just up the path.

She looked up to her beloved castle, then she smiled and straightened and said, "Certainly they might disagree with you." Liliana lifted her chin as obstinately as she could indicating something behind him.

He turned slowly, keeping his eyes on hers until the last second, afraid this might be merely a distraction. But there, on the parapet and in the trees behind him he saw a collection of at least two dozen men, their bows cocked and their arrows pointed directly at his heart.

He turned back to her and smiled. But his smile did not reach his eyes. Liliana shrugged and smiled back, her smile did.

"I have been on this island for 10 years, and still I am unsure why I am here, whether I am treasure or pawn. I have been lonely, but I have never been alone."

And with that she skipped past him, leaving him standing at the top of the steps, speechless.

He stood and watched the soldiers slowly lowering their arrows with every step she took away from him. And he watched their eyes following her as she made her way, barefoot, to the castle doors. She wasn’t at all what he had expected to find.

Dangerous

Caroline tiptoed into the library, hoping to find her misplaced laptop. It was dark inside the room, the only light coming from the moon streaming in through the open french doors. A slight breeze blew in and the smell of books and leather surrounded her. She found herself sinking into her favorite corner chair and looking out into the night, the view of downtown Los Angeles framed by the pergola outside the doors. This was the first moment Caroline could breathe since she got home. Her father needed her help with the party preparations the second she’d walked through the door.

Caroline opened her laptop, it was a habit, something must be going on somewhere, she thought. There on the screen was the code she had been working on earlier. Her father had given her a complicated hypothetical and asked her to solve it. The code was nearly done so she started to type when something caught her eye. A movement on the patio, a swath of red danced in her peripheral vision. Caroline glanced up and saw a beautiful woman storming back and forth across the patio. She was mumbling to herself, but not in English. A man appeared and watched as the woman walked

Patterns

I was fired. From my job. And it was awful. I hated that job. Hated as in nauseated every morning as I dressed. It wasn't hard, it was just a lot of "maneuvering," a lot of pretending. Introverts are not great at "maneuvering." But, I don't fail. I give up. That's my pattern. Why fail when you can give up?

My son was sick, he had an ear infection, so I called in sick. I couldn't take him to school with a fever, especially when they were the ones to discover it. I received a text back telling me to take the rest of the week off and that we'd talk on Monday. And I knew. I spent the next few days dizzy and in a fog. I felt like I was on a roller coaster, all those ups and downs. Up, up, up to the view that is at once thrilling and beautiful. And then down, so fast, down, my heart in my throat, my gut clenching. 

But I was never on a roller coaster. I had a pattern, you see. Try something and when you no longer care for it, quit. Suffer the consequences. Blame someone else, be the victim. Then repeat. That is not a rollercoaster, it's a ferris wheel. It evokes the feelings of a roller coaster, it goes up,...high, higher, it's terrifying, then it drops down and the rush goes through you, but it never changes. No surprises, no unseen turns. Up and down, over and over; a pattern. A pattern with the illusion of choice, of change. But after a time it's just going through the motions. Up, up, up and down, down, down, repeat. No turns, no hidden drops, just around and around. It's the illusion of a rollercoaster, but tucked safely inside a cage with no real risk. 

But then, I got fired. I didn't quit like I usually do. And it was shocking. I had no plan. I didn't eat, I couldn't. I just laid in my bed. I didn't know what to do. Getting what you want? In the way deemed best for you? It's like clicking up that roller coaster. Anticipation and terror. Up, down, turn, upside down, up, up, up, down; afraid and excited. I can't see the end. 

After years of the ferris wheel, the roller coaster is terrifying. No pattern for comfort, no routine to fall back on. Anticipating the same pattern only to watch as it spins out and turns, heads in a new direction, it's frightening.

Long before I was let go, I spoke to someone about my situation. The job I hated, which seemed too perfect to quit. He told me about patterns, specifically my patterns, With jobs. He told me that when a person gets a job, they dress nicely and give it their all, but eventually it wears on them, so their dress changes as does their attitude. And that's when you want to quit. You are as culpable as the job. He told me to change the pattern. And I did. Subconsciously, I guess, and consciously. I didn't give up. Though I had anxiety about walking through the door every morning, I refused to fall back on what I used to do. And my pattern changed. It put me in a new place. I have time to think. I have time.

I have no idea what I want to do next. But for now, I think I'll just throw my hands in the air and enjoy the ride.



Sarah Morris - Untitled - from Dulles (Capital) 2001

Fading Memories

I was boarding the plane back to the US and I could already feel my vacation slipping away. The stress of the taxi and the airport and the papers and the bag checking takes up too much space. I tried to be so careful with my moments, tried to wallow in them and let them envelope me. I tried to sink into the ancient smells and the tastes I held on my tongue and feeling of being myself somewhere else. But as I sat on that plane, the plane that looked like all the other planes, those moments were fading from my mind. All the brightness and color and laughter and flavor was turning black and white and dull inside.

I didn't want to forget my first morning waking up in Lisbon, opening the tall french doors and sitting on a tiny balcony. I looked over to the elderly building across the way with peeling paint and weeds growing through the cracks then down into the black and white cobbled streets that feel both old and new at once and I felt like I could breathe again. That I was myself alone and where I was supposed to be. Everything was beautiful.

I didn't want to forget my sister arguing with the waiter about splitting an entree, only to have me interrupt with, "Ok, dois," (Ok, two) in my terrible Portuguese which somehow impressed him so much he brought us free ginjinha. I didn't want to forget drinking ginjinha, that famous cherry liqueur that goes down like cough syrup, bitter and not quite drunk enough to want another. Or the next two he brought us just for fun.

I didn't want to forget driving with my sister through the Spanish countryside, navigating Las Pueblas Blancas, mastering roundabouts along the way. Or the way she liked to over pronounce the name of every town with her American accent. "Sauce-jo." Or the time she somehow drove vertically across the gorge that separates old and new Ronda, twice.

I didn't want to forget wandering the streets of Arcos de la Frontera and stumbling upon a view that took our breath away.

I didn't want to forget the feeling of sitting at that cafe, drinking cappuccinos surrounded by amazing architecture and having no where to be. Or at the end of the trip, when we were exhausted and I tried to take a another selfie with my sister and she said, "Where are we, what is this?" And made me laugh out loud.

I find I have to remind myself that I was actually there. I look at the photos on my phone. I send my sister texts about the trip to reassure myself that it wasn't a dream. "Remember when the hotel owner thought we were German?" "Remember the mint tea in Tangier?" I want to keep all those memories closeby. I want them to spill out of my mouth at the slightest provocation, which, of course they can't because society. But I want them there anyway. I feel myself willing them forward constantly.

And it's so unfair.

Because then, I'll be reading a book, or sitting in my car or shopping at Trader Joe's and a song or a phrase or a moment triggers something, a memory, but a bad one, and I can't stop it. The memory flashes in my mind and that wrenching feeling sweeps through my gut, all warmth and heat, and crawls up my throat clawing at my insides and I feel sick. My body trembles and I gasp in air trying to exorcise it. As though I am experiencing it all over again, physically, as though no time has passed.

Those memories get to stay,

But the joyful ones, those I have to dig into with my fingernails and hang onto with my life. I have to flip through them constantly, like a mental photo album, remembering, just in case they decide to slip away.


Me and my sister in Ronda, Spain 2016

Dreamt

I have a recurring dream. For the last three nights I've dreamt of a test I need to take that I have not yet studied for or a project of some kind that I haven't finished. I'm an adult, in the dreams, with kids and all, but I have to get to school to take the test; I have to finish my project. The common thread that I am faced with every night is that I always end up staring at a blank piece of paper, unable to write anything. I stare at a page of nothing, frozen; the anxiety is palpable. I can hear myself tell myself to just write something, but I am interrupted by someone or my surroundings change or I wake up. And I wake up filled with the same anxiety I had in my dream.

So, brain, what are you saying here? It seems as though maybe I should write something? Is that what you're trying to tell me? My brain is full of fictional yarns I'd like to spin for unsuspecting humans. But, alas, I know I am not yet ready to pull it off. Like it's a con. It is a con. I need to con you into believing this other world exists, these people exist. I need to Keyser Soze you and I'm not ready. It's existential double dutch. I'm watching the ropes turn in front of me, waiting to jump in, waiting and waiting and waiting, my hands up, keeping the rhythm. and I'm watching myself, I'm watching her not jump in. And my stomach twists and my jaw clenches and I think, "Now! Go now,...now...now!"

But she won't,...I won't go.

So what's the cure? Is it the dream? Was it sent to fix me? I mean, self fulfilling prophecy, I'm writing about it. Maybe this was the push I needed. Maybe I jump and rhythm takes over and I am filled with joy and I am jumping and jumping and jumping! Or maybe the ropes crash down on my feet and I look down defeated, and walk away. But then I hear it, the click-click, click-click, click-click. The ropes are turning again. And this time, I'm not as scared.


Allegory of Rhetoric (1650). Artemisia Gentileschi (Italian, 1593-1656)

Much

Too much. You're too much. Seemingly complimentary. Yet unseemly. Teeming. Teeming at the seams with enmity.

Temerity.

Your audacity in nonconformity.

You should be more like them. Join the club. Jump on the bandwagon. Have friends. Influence people.

It's what.
You.
Want.

To finally fit in. To have a people. To be loved.

Just, don't be yourself.

Be them. Wear their clothes. Make their jokes. We are all individuals. (I'm not). Don't say that thing, though. Don't tell that story. Don't wear that color. Don't eat that. Don't laugh at that. Don't tell her that. Don't know that. Don't know anything. Don't. Don't. Don't.

But, don't.

Tell her. Wear it. Laugh. Laugh 'til it hurts, 'til your side cramps. Know the thing. Know it all. Live. Live. Live. You will never be whole when half of you never sees light.

Never regret your muchness. Some people. they won't like all that light, they will steal your warmth. But don't worry. You have plenty. You're too much.

Las dos Fridas - Frida Kahlo

Audacity of Spark

People see a spark in you, a spark of,...something; creativity or talent, something special, they want to take it. Take it and keep it, dissect it. Figure out how it works, why you had it in the first place. Press it to their skin and absorb it, let it flow inside their veins and shine like it did in yours. But it doesn't work that way. I mean, they can take it, but they can't keep it. It disappears. They've only left you less than. But they cannot be more.

Unless you give it. That's the secret. It has to be given, not stolen, not seduced away. I take a piece of myself and give it to you, and then I get to watch you shine. And that can be enough. To receive a piece of you in return, now, that would make us both shine brighter. A small spark of us burning brighter in each other. It's why I smile when I think of you, that spark lights up.

There are people, though, who collect your sparks and they keep them like souvenirs in a jar. And they give nothing of themselves. They like that you like them and they smile at those jars on that shelf and they never consider what it took to give those pieces away. And I'm so happy that my me is recognized that I don't care if I get anything in return. I'm just happy to watch them shine. For a time. And then I start to dim a little. I'm not as bright or as quick or as nice. And I realize I'm giving pieces of myself to them. Pieces. No small thing. And there is nothing left to fill in the spaces. So I leave. I disappear. I repair. 

I walk around with cracks that haven't been filled, not shining as brightly or smiling as easily. Incomplete. But then something reminds me of you, a book or a quote or a song and your spark lights up, the one you gave me, and I feel it shining there; I see it through those cracks. 

If you ever get a note from me, and it's a book or a quote or a song, just know that I was thinking about you. And I want you to shine.

La Madeleine à la veilleuse - Georges de La Tour

Happiness

*previously published on my tumblr*

If your twenties are all about you, then your thirties are all about happiness. Am I happy? What is happy? Is this it? I’m not sure what your forties are about, I’m not there yet, but I know your fifties are about how happy you are to be fifty, so happiness must occur somewhere before fifty, but after 39? Probably late forties. I think the early forties are spent trying to figure out reading glasses, how to use them undetected, what kind to buy, where you left them and eventually how to just not give a fuck and read the goddamn menu for yourself.

So, sometime after that: happiness.

I’m in my thirties, though, so I’m still questioning and over thinking and wondering if this is it. But I think I’m on a good path. It’s gravel and I’m barefoot, but I am fucking walking towards a pretty light, a pretty future. And I’m starting to discover some of the pieces from the happiness pie. Like kindness. Empathy comes with age, I think.  I mean, how much nicer are those bitches I went to high school with? Pretty nice nowadays. (Took twenty years, ladies). I’ve always been mostly nice, but I’m a people pleaser. Kindness is something else, though. It’s a presence. It’s eye contact. It’s remembering we are all made of stars as we argue our cable bill down.

Not giving a fuck is another piece. It seems to directly contradict “kindness” but maybe not. Sometimes when you give your children’s vitamins to the homeless man at your offramp, and listen to the beeping behind you, you have to not give a fuck about the asshole in the BMW so that you can be kind to the man who asked for a few vitamins for fuck’s sake. It’s even a kindness to yourself to do what you love and sing that Meatloaf song loudly and not give a fuck if someone thinks your taste in music is pedestrian.

Speaking of pedestrian music tastes, knowing yourself is definitely a pie piece. I’m actually pretty good at this one. A little too good. I do not play well in the suburbs. I’ve watched my neighbors back away slowly toward their house during our conversation. Inching, inching away from the crazy lady. Filtering is for losers.

What else to happiness? Knowing that “no” is a complete sentence? Yes. It’s another kindness to yourself to honor your feelings and not go see your friend’s weird play about television consumption full of penises and a grandma who knits in her rocking chair. (I went to that play. I was unkind to myself).

So, kindness, not giving a fuck, knowing yourself, “no-ing” yourself…what else? Red lipstick? For me this is one. This is a piece of happiness. It is an armor, a protection, a talisman; something I believe in that keeps me safe. Also, coffee. I think everyone has that thing they put on, repeat in their head, or simply do that imbues them with power. Like crossing oneself all Catholic like. Or saying, “I never did mind about the little things,” when you’re scared. If I put on red lipstick and drink an espresso, I’m unstoppable. Until the suffocating insecurity takes over. But, like, after that, red lipstick, yeah.

The trick must be remembering to do all these things every time. Because I do not. I forget. I get caught up in the little hurts, the bullshit of “life” that isn’t even real. I grab that hot coal to throw burning my own hand in the process. But I’m only in my thirties, so I have time. Time before I need the reading glasses that change my perspective and I see happiness in the tiny lettering in everything that I never noticed before.

Elaine de Kooning - Untitled - 1965

Drama Major

*previously posted on my tumblr*

I was eating lunch, like a normal person, at the time. A black bean burger, because of my faux vegetarianism. No morality, just anorexia. And I would turn my back on all of it for some schnitzel. I sat and laughed with my best friend and a more recent friend. The more recent friend was a guy, a guy who liked to hang out with me. (Because I’m awesome). But this guy was beloved and sacred in a way I never fully grasped. (Literally and figuratively). When I became friends with him, and by friends I mean, hanging out, clothed, and talking about stuff, a collective gasp rippled through my college hallways. Why is SHE with HIM?!” they cried. Because I’m awesome, I thought, never realizing that one could never be awesome enough.

I was pulling pickles out of my burger and laughing at something my best friend had said. They were all working on a play together, but not me, I was working at a Cracker Barrel. She was very funny, might still be, but friendship’s have a lifespan. My best friend was commenting on the fact that my new guy-friend’s ex wanted him back. She thought it was funny because it was pretty obvious I was the reason for this change of heart. Li’l ol’ me was making a paragon of loveliness rethink her previous decision to end it all with my guy-friend. I was making her jealous. And all I was doing was having some laughs. It didn’t matter, though, because we looked like a couple. The people wanted us to be a couple. A professor said, “Two of my favorite people, together.”

My best friend thought it was hilarious that my friendship with guy friend was the talk of the rehearsals. And we joked about rumors we could start and how funny it was that everyone was swirling in the gossip mill yet no one thought to ask any of us about what was really going on. They just assumed and then whispered about it. And a majority of these people knew me and were my friends! We did scenes together! We helped each other build flats! We were in the shit together and that kind of love can never grow sour!

My best friend said we should start a rumor that I was pregnant. This made me belly laugh. Because I was a virgin and immaculate conception is always hilarious. So I joined in the hypothetical conversation. “Wouldn’t it be funny if…Because…And they would…” Yes to all! I love juxtaposition! And, well, sticking it to jerks. We even discussed whom to tell. Which was oddly satisfying, because he was such a mean little queen.

I should also mention that guy-friend and I may not have had the most conventional of friendships. We slept in the same bed and spooned sometimes…most times. And because of our professor’s odd comment, joked about getting married. He had given me a ring with his name carved into it to wear as part of the joke. It was silly to imagine marrying a guy I barely knew. But also, Paula Cole’s “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone” was on all my mixtapes and I completely and utterly romanticized the idea of marrying someone as soon as I graduated from college. Like some moron. Like a girl who keeps her high school boyfriend through college. Like a girl. And I never thought about myself that way, but the writer in me found this idea beautiful. Because it seemed doomed to fail. So I would hang out with guy friend and eat burritos and talk of memories past and then imagine all the heartache and pain that would come crashing into my staid life when I married him. The tiny house, the babies, the spit up, the broken soul. And I hugged that image to my chest like the inexperienced romantic that I was.

Later that night, after helping people to their table at the Barrel, my feet sore, my spirit weak, I flopped onto my best friend’s bed and she said, “I did it. I told him.” And my stomach dropped. I felt sick. I mean, I was there when we discussed it but I was not ready for the rumor to be spread. But she did it, she told the mean queen,”She might be pregnant.” Which, also, why did he think that my best friend would confide in him? Even he knew he was a gossip, he prided himself on it. But like a moth to a flame and me to a sandwich, he grabbed hold of that gossip and deep throated it like douche that he was.

The next day, people got hurt. And I felt terrible. The rumor swept through the cast and everyone had their opinions. The ex was hurt, my friends thought I was terrible and I sat there wondering why no one asked me about it.

That night I went to my guy-friend’s house. He was on the phone so I talked to his roommate, a beautiful girl I loved being around but who only liked being around me sometimes. Which made her irresistible. She told me of the fallout, and told me about my lovely close friends who now thought I was an obnoxious whore. She also told me about how my professor, my advisor, offered, to my guy-friend, to pay for my abortion. And that was the unkindest cut. I was less than human, something to be “taken care of.” And that hurt.

When my guy-friend was off the phone I went in to talk to him, my outsides reflecting the humor of the situation, my insides churning with guilt. He was angry. I hurt his ex. Who was presently in negotiations to be his now. I listened as he shamed me. I felt justified in that I didn’t actually deliver the death blow,…but I still, technically, aided and abetted.

That night I slept in his bed with him and that morning we shared a shower, platonically, if that’s possible. But when I left, I placed the ring bearing his name on his bed and knew I could never see him again. Guys with girlfriends couldn’t have girl…friends.

The next night, I slept in my own bed, in the house I shared with my best friend. I wasn’t mad at her, she was funny and great and I couldn’t blame her for anything. She told me that once the truth came out the mean queen approached her and exclaimed, “You used me?!” Which was pretty much the best thing I had ever heard.

Later, I woke up, to a sound at my window. I peered down into the darkness and saw my guy-friend standing beneath my window. The rocks he had thrown had woken me. I went downstairs and he was crying. Crying because he found the ring I left and he was upset I had to leave him. But it was a caveat to his new relationship contract; he couldn’t see me again. And he had agreed to it. We hugged and I pushed the ring away and reminded him of the woman he chose. I was not an asshole, I wanted him to be happy with whom he chose. And he didn’t choose me.

During the next week, he still invited me over. But if the girlfriend was stopping by, I went to his roommate’s bedroom, my irresistible friend, and we pretended I was there for her. “I can’t believe he’s doing this to you,” she said. I shrugged and listened to her and another friend rap so fluidly I couldn’t believe they were white.

In the fall, school began again. I had Abortion Professor for Voice and Diction and Acting 4: Good Luck with Chekov and Brecht. And I never told him what I knew. It was the most fun. Knowing that he treated me like a nothing as I sat in his class seemingly oblivious. Once, he said that I didn’t like him. He told that to the class. And that was the only time he was nice to me, when he thought I didn’t like him. I amended it; told him I was fond of him, because he was an amazing acting teacher. And content, he treated me like the other women, like some kind of annoyance, without a future, whom he had to train for money.

A few years later I found myself talking with a friend of guy -friend. He was an actor, too, and we talked about that time. He was around then and in the play. I said something full of bravado and false self-esteem like, “Yeah, we were gonna get married. He would’ve totally married me.” This friend, who knew me, sort of, we shared a college for 3 years, shook his head at me. Then he said, “No.”

I brushed it off as only the child of an alcoholic could, I laughed and made a joke; keep it comfortable! But even now I remember the look on his face and the realization that this guy probably heard the behind the scenes stuff. The “what am I gonna do about this blonde” stuff. And in a split second I knew. I was more than just a joke, but less than a relationship…and it hurt.

Do I regret the rumor starting? A little. But mostly no. I immediately found out who my real friends were. I spent my 21st birthday with friends from work, whom I had met 30 days before. The women who were assigned to holding back my hair knew very little of me. My gorgeous, unbelievably intelligent friends, with whom I had shared the trenches, had washed their hands of me. But it was my penance. And I accepted it.

I know now that having a male friend is impossible. For me it is. I flirt with everyone, men, women, even the trans woman who asked me if I was having twins when we talked in a library bathroom. Not that I’m overtly sexual, just flirty. I need the love. I can’t fault guy-friend for cutting me loose nor girlfriend for forbidding contact, she was smart.

The experience made me smarter, slightly more jaded, but not worldly. That would take nine months at an equity theater.

I wish I knew what I was trying to teach by telling this story. Maybe that Catholic guilt can even affect a Mormon girl? Maybe I learned nothing. I would probably do it all the same, if I could do it all again. Wallowing in sadness and watching Postcards From the Edge on repeat only made me more amazing. Losing my guy-friend pinched at first, but eventually I found others to fill that void. Probably what I learned is that drama is unnecessary. Especially if it’s your major.

I Gelosi performing, by Hieronymus Francken I, ca. 1590