denied "Denied"

The controversial show "Denied" exploring Islamic fundamentalism, terrorism, and the nature of fear, has been recently cancelled for the rest of its Fringe run.

I was the only one who came in today with an issued ticket and was the last to be informed of the mysterious “falling-out” between two of the cast members.

This only serves to reinforce a long held belief: some of the biggest dramas are off the stage, not on.

If anyone has any details, I am curious....

(the better part of me of course regrets having missed the show and hopes that all is well).

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A French Soul

"Do you know what happens last night?"

My adorably French flatmate looks at me with a conspirator’s whisper.

“The new American girl, she has many DVD and we decide to watch, and then…”

A dramatic pause and a theatrical hand flourish.

“In the middle of the film….she gets on floor and starts to do…THE ABDOMINALS!”

I must look confused.

“Yes the abdominals! You know… up and down and up, her knees to her elbows…and you know, then when she finish, she sits there for 30 minutes, breathing like this: Whooo! Whooo! Whooo!”

There is a very serious exhibit of loud mock panting, while I discreetly suppress an urge to laugh.

“How we watch anything but her? Is just so rude…. This is American way?”

I guessed that for some it was common practice.

“But why you never do this?”

I shrug.

“I will tell you why exactly: Is because you are not so rude. You may have American eating habits,"

Now triumphant...

"But still a French soul!”

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A Nuerotic Late-Night Ode to Love (in a less poetic form than the title unfairly implies)

I fall in love on a regular basis, sometimes as much as twice in one hour, and often more, when the occasion justly calls for it. I fall in romantic love, platonic love, puppy love, and unrequited love---which, damn Cowley, is the actually the least vain. There is also let’s-poke-each-other-on-facebook love, carry-your-photo-in-my-wallet love, and all the 1,283 types of love the French claim to have invented.

I don’t consider it fickle so much as excessively passionate; the tendency stems not from a foolish inconsistency, but a penchant for turning people into blank canvasses for my overactive imagination.

I am a love-artist!

Some might claim that this is all anorexic love---that I am stretching the concept so thin, that it loses all meaning, all potency, the exclusion on which the foundation is based….

But, I do not starve my love...

The truth is that I don’t want to be limited and caged by the one-life-to-live dictum.

And I have found a loophole: I choose to love all of the possibilities of all of the lives I will never live and all of the people who that me, might love.

How utterly juicy is that?!

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