I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

Just a wish that all of you had a nice and pleasant Easter Sunday, hopefully with your families or someone special. Cheers!

Since I can't see Doctor Who's Shakespeare Code, I thought I'd make up a story of my own out of screen caps--my captions will be a bit lame, but hey, with the chav rugrats blasting their stereo upstairs--'boom-boom', boom-boom, boom-boom' for hours on end... (and me with a headache, may they rot in hell), and my pain killers making me a bit dopey, I'm not in much of a reflective or thinking mode, today. City living totally sucks, by the way.

Hang on, what's a panto cow doing in Hamlet?

It wasn't me that time, honest--must've been one of the crew!

DAVID: "Ewwwww!" FREEMA: "See? I can funnel 'em out even better than you and John Barrowman!"

Noth, Fwreema, I didn'th eath yer th'Snickereth barth

RUSSELL (off camera): "Oh, David's great to work with--he's never a prima-donna." DAVID: I ordered TWO sugars in my coffee--and I wanted Starbucks! Not this lousy BBC canteen stuff, ya' flippin moron!"

I hate working with actors who spit when they talk!

"Hey Shakespeare! Yer play is Bollocks!"

Okay then, Freema. This is how I prepare for a scene, I just funnel one out like so---"

"She's calling me 'David Three-inch? Gawd! I miss Billie!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWz9pB3FqfU

Well, I sort of chickened out of publishing my writing, yesterday. That last 10-minute play I wrote, it really is bloody awful. And don't even get me started on what pure rubbish my poetry is.

My first poetry class in my two-year college, just up the road here, well, that was...different. My professor was not only a Buddhist, but a real poet and...a shrink, as well. So, his class could sometimes be a bit...different.
I'm basically just your simple basic small-town tomboy/country bumpkin type, so learning to think abstractly was a bit of a challenge for me--but, I like a challenge.

It's like when I first found myself unexpectedly enrolled in an acting class (I needed to have an "emphasis" for my Liberal Arts/Humanities major, and theater classes were the only one's available, at the time), so I had to totally come out of my shell in a matter of what seemed to me to be, an instant. I had to think differently, behave differently--and really start re-thinking how I interact with others, and dig a bit deeper into who I am, as a person.

And it was sort of like that in my free-verse poetry class. Oh, I resisted a bit, at first--I think that's only natural, when one is shoved into a situation that is completely foreign to them.

But then...I rather started to like it. It could be a bit frustrating tho', my small-town nature-girl little common sense, trying to embrace ideas that were enormous--universally broad, and yet, quite intimate, at the same time--if that makes any sense to you. And, frequently, it was still slightly beyond my ken.

I remember being shown a picture of this painting--an eyeball in the middle of a slice of ham. Okay, that was...a bit too weird, for my taste. But, I looked and looked at it--and then, I laughed. I think my prof was a bit disappointed that I found it so hilarious--but that's what I finally wrote my stupid little poem about--about how daft I thought this painting was to me. Well,it was--hey, I am just not ever going to be a sophisticated person. Not gonna' happen.

Anyway, my second poetry class, in my four-year college in Vermont--now that was a nightmare. I have a severe math learning disability--means, that not only does my mind not like doing long problems (it tends to unknowingly drop something in mid-problem), I can't do reverse--whether simple subtraction or backing up my car, doesn't matter--I really have to concentrate to do anything in reverse--it's very frustrating. Memory--my memory sucks--which is why I only actually performed in one play, in my two years of minoring in theater--I have things I do that help--like memorizing 10 min. before a performance or a test--tests, ugh! And there are other tricks I've learned to help me, as well-but it's very hard and terribly frustrating. They say I had a head injury that went untreated, when I was young--whether it happened at birth (I was a premie), or from an illness (I had scarlet fever as a baby), or from the time I was hit on the head by a metal swing when I was 4 or 5, and had my head cut open--there's no knowing. Back then, they didn't have the technology, they have now.

I also have a horrible time, learning music--and proper poetry, well...I, to my eternal sorrow, found that for me, it was like a cross between math and music. And, I lost my love of writing poetry, rather quickly.

You see, most people don't have any grasp of what it's like to have a math learning disability. And on top of that, I have numerophobia, as well--numbers literally scare me. I get really angry and frustrated, sometimes--not just with my own stupidity, but with other people as well--you've no idea how bad people can treat you. The first thing I always encounter, is that I "don't want to learn." That's so unfair! I love learning! Then, it's the old, "you're not trying hard enough." Yeah, love that one--I always try--it's just no one notices, they just think I'm being lazy, 'cause sometimes I can't cope with feeling stupid, so I just shut down. And then, there's the truly awful, "you're stupid, retarded, etc." My 8th grade (year) maths teacher, my dad...it hurts...makes me feel like rubbish inside....and I do, eventually just quit trying. Sometimes, it got so, I would decide that if I was trying my damnest--all out trying, and people still thought I wasn't trying at all--I'd just quit, eventually. So, I never got very good grades, not until I was in my early 40's, anyway.

Of course, I did flunk out my first time at college--when I was 19. And nearly again, when I ws 39. Almost didn't make it past the first semester--then, a professor, my archeology professor, showed my how to study, so I got much better at it--and then, by 2001-2002, I was, for the first time in my life, getting straight-A's--even won a small scholarship and was invited to be in the national honors society--Phi Theta Kappa. Of course, I had to take maths about 5 or 6 times, to pass so I could graduate. Fortunately, by then, my disability was noticed by one of my maths professors--bless her, who specialized in working, in her free time, with learning disabled kids. I finally passed math, by working one-on-one with my professor for hours on end--and getting a special waiver, which allowed me to write a math-related essay, rather than take the final exam. (Got an A+ on the essay, too!).

But then, I graduated with an A.A. degree at my 2 year college, and transfered to the four-year college (to get my B.A. degree) an hour away across the state line, in Vermont. And...I had to go through this whole process, all over again. I choose this college because they had a programme that specialized in helping learning disabled students--but they were never much help to me, sadly. They were more geared towards the reading and writing disabled--and that was certainly not a problem with me--despite not literally not knowing a verb from a pronoun, I still turned in near-perfect copy when it came to essays and other papers. And I am a voracious reader. So, no one there knew how to help me, with my math disability--they didn't even know that music was a problem, as well as.

So, my second poetry class--didn't do so well. I went back to that shut-down mode, where the teacher made me feel stupid...and treated me like I was an idiot, because I couldn't grasp the complicated rhyming stuff. And when she took me into her office (oh, how I hate hearing the old, "we need to talk"--makes me wince)...she seemed much more embarrassed than understanding. And my prof--ever watch the Brit-com, "Keeping Up Appearences?" Well, Hyacinth Bucket's voice....my teacher had it--that high-pitched shrill one could hear for miles! Man, did I have a lot of headaches in that class!

So, while I learned a lot about sonnets and quatrains and stuff--It was THE most miserable hour and a half I'd ever spent in my life! And now, while I still enjoy reading poetry--and certainly understand it much better--I don't like writing it, much, anymore.

I used to be such a bold writer--just tell me what to write, and I'd grab the bit in my teeth and race off to get her done...now, it's gone. I've lost my confidence--I just think I'm average--and that's okay---but the feeling of power that I had, the feeling that I could do anything (within reason), if given half a chance--especially if it was an essay or some play dialog, or a news story---that feeling now...it's just...gone. It makes me very sad, knowing this. But it's gone, and I don't see it ever returning again--my chance at continuing my education is lost forever, and so is my last real true dream.

Okay, unlike that West Wing episode where the guy gets on the clerk's case about being a trekkie--and calls her hobby a "fetish," I am hoping I haven't sunk quite that low--or have I?

Today, I got a request for a copy of a photo of David Tennant naked, that a young fan e-mailed me a while back (Why? Who the hell knows?) Okay--it's gone, alright? It's in my recycle bin and it's staying there. And I'm not going there, again. Call me old fashioned, but I rather prefer my Doctor's with their clothes on.

Did Tom Baker have to go though this?

Anyway, slept most of Saturday away, thanks to the pain killer. I detest taking them, but my foot, at times, feels exactly like it has been attacked by a swarm of yellow jackets (I've had that experience, when I was 19--got nailed about a dozen times in the upper arm by those vicious wild bees--never even saw or heard them...'till they began chasing me into the house. I've not let out a scream like that, before or since.)...so yeah, it feels like a massive bunch of bee stings, and the only way to deal with it, is to take some meds and sleep it off.

I'm worried about Tuesday--that's when supposedly I find out whether I am to have my foot operated on, or not. It'll mean more loss of income--no work, no income, simple as that--no holiday or sick pay, where I work. My pay cheque next week will be virtually non-existent, as it is.

Well, I'm getting an enforced holiday, whether I want one or not--I suppose I could imagine I'm somewhere else--like Iceland?

Actually, I had rather a lot of fun, my two days in Iceland, back in 2001.

Checked my e-mail a little while ago--someone sent me an ad about movers who specialize in moves from North America to the UK---does someone know something I don't? That's weird. Yes, I've certainly had a wish to move there--but come on, I'd literally have to be a millionare to do that! I can't even blinking afford to get a bus to Saratoga Springs, 30 some odd miles away! Get real!!