Zombiehand

Mikayla and I made use of our ten minute lunch break last a few Tuesdays ago, to run to her house above Clifton Natural Foods and get some soup. She got some soup, I ate my apple.

There's a lot of construction going on in Clifton right now. Yes, it's pretty annoying, but meh, what can one do? Well, one can certainly plan to leave for school earlier, or one becomes frantic and stressed trying to make it to 9 am Movement on time. One can remember to breathe through said metaphorical stress so that one doesn't show up discombobulated and upset. And one can certainly just recognize that construction exists as a way of improving and better-ing the world.

ANyway, Mikayla and I are paused, right up by the walk signal in the photo above, loving our lives and chatting away. We're both feeling quite posh, quite city-sophisicate, and probably looking pretty cute, too. Let's pretend Mikayla's wearing short black, military boots, and I'm in leggings and a tunic. Cuties!

We're waiting for the light to change, standing on a construction grate. You know when there are BIG, GIANT, GAPING HOLES in the road, and the construction crews have to place giant metal/maybe steel slabs over them so that cars and people don't tumult down into the expanding crevices? Yep, we're standing on one of those, completely oblivious to the world around us.

The walk signal changes, and we go. We step. We both look down, and we freeze. My breathe disappears. The hairs on my head stand up. Mikayla throws her arms out in front of her and we both jump centimeters in the air before our fight or flight kicks in.

There's a hand on the pavement.

Not only that, but it's moving.

A HAND.

A HUMAN HAND.

My brain cycles through fear, frantically. Within a millisecond, I've taken in the hand, the lack of body, the whole, horrible, morbid kind of reality that comes with seeing disjointed human parts.........and then.......the world starts......coming back into place. And I see the big construction man laughing his ass off.

And I breathe again.

Turns out, Construction Man A and Construction Man B have a plan they use CONTINUOUSLY on unsuspecting college students. B stands in the giant holes in the ground, shoves his hand up through the cracks, and just waits to catch simple, sweet, unsuspecting girls such as us off guard. Both A and B get incredible laughs from this.

Frankly, so did I. I love being the fool.

Happy Halloween Everyone!

Hey You

Hey you Loyal Thirteen Readers--can we get some comment action up in the heezy?

Alexander Technique

This quarter in Movement, we're studying the Alexander Technique with Gulia Guichard. It is blowing my mind.

Here we are, with the efficient use of cuddling.

Women

I cannot get over my fascination with women.


Nor would I want to.

Look at these girls. Look at these ladies. Look at these women.

Aren't they incredible?

I study books and photos of women. I think about what it is to be them, and I imagine them. I create them. I recreate them. I honor them.

They honor me.

One of my current projects is a whole book full of every monologue I've ever done. I use a spread per monologue, and lay out the text next to images or photos of this character. It makes the women speaking in plays incredibly accessible to me (plus, it's the most fun organization I've ever done.) :)

Antigone

Two years ago, I began a journey as "Antigone."

I selected her death monologue as mine for my final Boards.......wow, if that isn't ironic. Thankfully, I did not actually "die" at that particular Boards, and I am, in fact, still in school, and finishing quite splendidly!

Sitting with a character for two years does odd things to a person though.....especially, when, in the space of that two years, one finally puts "acting" together, gets her act going, plays for intent, and rejoices in the opportunity to act, in general.

After two years of sitting with Antigone, I've finally processed how to become her. And Acting Class, Greek Tragic Styles, could never be better!

Mikayla and I are doing the Antigone/Ismene scene. I'm onstage, open scene. I'm cleaning off dust, cleaning off blood, cleaning off the hours I just spent darting off to the desert plains to bury my brother. In bursts Ismene, all fire and upset. "Where have you been?" She demands, and I avoid. I've been burying my brother. My brother. My favorite brother. His hair is blonde, his eyes are blue, and he has been everything and nothing to me my entire life.

Two years ago, when rehearsing this "death" monologue, I would walk around Ohio depressed and upset for days at a time. I would call my favorite brother and check on him, coo him, love and coddle him. I was mourning his not-really death.

But now, I live. I breathe. I bring fire and sunshine and passion and life. I cannot wait to get into acting class. Every day, I leap at the chance to do any kind of acting (and when I say "leap," I do, in fact, literally, mean LEAP.) If someone needs a guard, I'm the first out of my chair. If some scene needs a reader, I'm already up on stage. I am being selfish. After four years, I am being as selfish as I possibly can to get some more time, some more practice, some more love up on stage. I will act because I choose to. I will work because I want to. I LOVE what I do.

Legs McGee

A few nights ago, I received a letter from a friend that I don't actually see that much. "Allyson," it somewhat said, "I'm so unhappy. My birthday is today, I just got rejected, and basically, things suck. Can we hang out?"

Immediately: "Of course! Absolutely, my pleasure."

So we did. I suggested salsa dancing at the Mad Frog, on a Monday night. Internet, I'm not gonna lie, it takes a pretty organized person to pull off salsa dancing at a dive bar on a Monday night. Not only did I swim my way through all sorts of three hour classes, but I had the sanity and mind enough to bring with me everything I needed for the day. And by "sanity," and "mind-enough," I mean that I did not actually try on my salsa dancing outfit before shimmying into it in the darkness of my car, and wound up masquerading as Legs McGee for the entirety of the evening.

I'm not gonna lie--my legs are pretty great. They get me places, they support me, and they've never failed me when I needed a little tap dance or a swift, little kick to somebody's extremities. They are, however, quite ALL-ENCOMPASSING. If you were to see me every day, day in, day out, rolling around in jeans and sweatpants, and then, all of a sudden, you're hit with the sight of me in a sassy, flirty, DELICATE little skirt, legs o' muscles long and thick parading around, you might just have a heart attack. Pleasing? Yes. Jaw-dropping? Probably.

I do not have the tiniest, skinniest little legs. I do not have the legs of models, of frail, wispy women, legs that say, "I walk the block, and wear ballet flats most days, and every once in awhile I get myself to yoga." I have legs of power. I have legs that run and jump and pound and play. I have legs that climb trees and pick up babies and fill out a pencil skirt. These legs are made for walking, for growing, for moving, for conquering. I use them. I sit, I stand, I bend, I tower. I loooove these legs. And I usually encase them. So, last night, when I got home and shot a glance of myself in the full-length mirror in the room next to me, I understood immediately why the turn of last night's events went the way they did. I understood why Ashley and I were immediately invited to sit at a table of four men when all the seats were undeniably taken. I understood why the professors at the table next to ours were listening to our conversation and making appreciative, meaningful eye contact with me. I understood why the waiter was so undeniably kind, and why I was indeed bold enough to hand him my number:

Power is evocative.

Unknowingly, I was unquestionably bold, last night. I had a great time, I had a small heart attack when I saw those legs o' millions at the end o' the evening, and I loved my body all the more for being so incredibly encompassing. Way to go, parents--you've made me to fit together.

Headshots

The Biggest Thing in the Life of the CCM Drama Senior, as of late, has been the Korbee Headshots. Tom Korbee, a CCM alum in LA, is also *SHAZAAAAAM!* a photographer. And he looooves CCM Drama students. So he comes here, gives us a discount on his photog skills, and makes bank as we all scramble to make time with the Korbster.

I got my photos in a week or so ago, and here they be, maties!

Headshots are tricky, I'm not gonna lie. First of all, am I willing to bring this girl with me to every audition? Secondly, this photo is a matter of type. It is not, by any means, just a way for me to look as pretty as possible. Geez Louise, if that was true I'd insist on wearing something silky and wrapping myself in fur. Sheesh. No, dear reader, I had a hard-core type I was playing out. Try this out: You are looking for a solid, capable, dusty American Woman. She must be rural, western, able to break a man down and build him back up again. Think Jessica Lange meets Annie Oakley. She's engaging, direct, radiant, energized, and bright.

Who ya gonna pick? Oh! Allyson West?! Of course! Brilliant.

That's what I'm showcasing. How'd I do? Sandi Logan comes on into town Friday, and I'm handing one of these to her. Which it actually will be....I'm not really sure. Wish me luck!

The Moustache!

I feel blessed to go to a school where moustaches like these are sometimes a requirement. Thank you, Chekhov's "Three Sisters," for giving me the greatest enjoyment of my life. Oh, what is that....a "#1 Dad" t-shirt? Oh, it's a sweater? Just sweet, sweet icing on the cake.

SO MUCH BRACES

I love nothing more in the world than taking photos with other victims of Adult Braces. Simpatico to the X-TREME.

The Most Amazing Photograph I have Ever Taken

Hey there, Blogoworld. When I was but a wee babe in Texas, before moving on to the great big world I like to call "college," and "Cincinnati," I did, in fact, have a wee babe photography business.

I don't call what I do now photography, by any standard. That usually implies that the, so-called, "Photographer" actually has a "camera," and "knows how to operate it." But I'm not gonna lie, sometimes my skills are a little bit impressive.

Like this:

That's Baby Lily, the most angelic human bumble baby to ever exist.

The Fine Art of On-the-Road Flirting

If you are driving in this car, and pass me on the highway, I would suggest not wasting your time. You are too creepy for words. You and the body in the back do not even have a chance of getting my number.

If you are driving this car, I will absolutely not take you seriously. Unless, of course, you look like this:

Allllllllways worth it.

If you happen to pass me on the road, and you are, in fact, driving the Mystery Machine, the license plate says, "Zoinks," and you are a group of cutie college-aged boys, sure, by all means, flirt away. Your car makes me laugh, and therefore, I love it.

Exercise: It Can Always Get Better

The thing about being in Hawaii for four months, was that my legs got strong. Quickly. Everyone has GREAT legs in Hawaii. It makes sense, doesn't it? If you're not on your surfboard, you're in the water. If you're not walking, you're biking. People are active, people travel, and everyone naturally gets the exercise they need (mostly.)

Not only that, but the landscape is PERFECT for whipping your ass into shape. I, myself, walked .7 miles up a mountain for three months every day just to get home. The ocean whips and flips your body around, and there is just no way of simulating the power of nature in our modern day exercise machines and pristine gyms. No way. Mother Nature will knock you on your ass every time.

But I try.

So, I'm trying to find a way to recreate the kick-ass legs I developed while in Hawaii. I want to make them stronger! I've been jogging, bicycling, and the other day, I went to this football stadium:

...and I walked the stairs. Well, actually only about half the stadium, by the end of it. I walked down, turned around, ran halfway up, then mercifully pulled myself up the remaining ones. It actually wasn't too bad....I thought......then my calves wouldn't stop quaking for the rest of the evening. :)

The work out itself wasn't enough to target the areas I'm trying to reconnect with, and the time spent there was a little bit boring. Until, that is, I saw a big red mat laying on the field, and a group of three boys tossing a football. Of course, I marched my little rear straight down those steps and asked one of them to do this, for me:

He was happy to oblige, and I finished my work-out with a great deal of self-satisfaction. :)

The Pain, the Misery, the Braces!

Two years ago, my mouth looked like this.

Pretty good, right? Sure! I was pretty, my teeth are white, and after all, teeth and smiles are more about expressing than simply just being beacons of perfection. In fact, I've seen tons of beautiful, amazing smiles that have absolutely nothing to do with perfect teeth.

Nonetheless, I got braces.

Twenty years old, I began my trek with braces. Sure, I would have liked to have gotten them as a child. Sure, I did have to answer this question indeed to the many people who didn't even dream of the possibility of not having money as children. But we didn't. My family absolutely did not. So, here I am, paying for these braces, and kind of falling in love with them.

My 21st birthday came and went. Still, the braces. I consider myself more of a woman, and still, I see a funky girl looking at me in the mirror. SO MUCH BRACES.

Progressively, my teeth start straightening out, and my jaw expands. I wear a mouthpiece called an "FR," and I stuck up with having rubber bands tying my mouth into pieces all over the place. No big deal, right?

Right.

That is, until, this past orthodontist appointment where I was given TWICE the amount of bands in my mouth. Dr. Diers, the most brilliant man on the planet as far as Orthodontics is concerned, has made teeth his passion. He looks at my mouth, prescribes a triple, Stage 3 band alignment with wrap-arounds, and I lay, passively, quivering to discover what he means. Rubber bands are used to pull the bite together. Specifically, moving the teeth around repositions the entire bite of a mouth, and the bite is something that we absolutely want to have aligned correctly. I have three triangles, on each side of my mouth, PULLING my mouth shut. Tightly. I have two bands running crosswise across the length of my mouth, pushing my teeth together, and I have a connector band on every. single. bracket. forcing my teeth to move and look prettier.

My dear friends, I may be about to collapse! Let's get this straight: I love these braces! I love them so much! If you have never had the opportunity to flash a mouthful of hardware at people, you should certainly do everything in your power to go out immediately and sign up for the next dishing out of braces. It's wonderful! Everyone loves talking to a Braces Girl and Braces Girl loves talking to them!

Truthfully, I did think Adult Braces was going to cut down on my romantic prospects, but Lordy, did it ever not. I was even told by one suitor that my braces made me seem kinda serious. (Sure, anyone who has their mouth practically stitched shut 24/7 is going to give off a serious air, aka, the just-not-talking vibe.) Not only that, by I never cut, sliced, or nipped any of said suitors that turned into said kissers. :D

Here's to braces, my friends! Soon, soon, they will be gone, and I shall be beautiful. In the meantime, let us enjoy the pain while it lasts so that we may remember it, and be better because of it, when it is gone.

22 Appreciates Dirty Humor as well as any 12-Year-Old

We're currently covering Greek Tragedy Styles in Acting. We begin, of course, with reports on the Greek Way of Life. Starting off with a bang was the entertaining presentation of the very capable John Ware and Kevin Macku.

Let's get one thing out in the open about John Ware: He may be the most adorable human being in the world because of his devoted and entirely unassuming nature. Not only that, but he's modern in the very best version of the world, so having him say, "So Zeus was like, "Dude, Ephestias, crack my head open," and he did, and like, out popped Athena, hot as fuck and completely sheathed in armor," is just about the funniest thing I could ever ask for in an acting class.

Class was great! Everyone was joking around, and I really just could not stop laughing...for the first two hours. The last hour drug on, but so it goes as one adjusts to new schedules. I also learned that Greek Mythology has a way of making me into a second grader, and believe me, I know what Second Graders are like (Chester himself just passing into Third.) So, apparently, the myth of Uranus is that his son, Kronos, cut off his penis, threw it into the ocean, and bam, Aphrodite was born. Are you kidding me?! I was giggling and looking around at everyone during this entire schpill! How is this not the most hilarious thing in the world? Why don't we all know about this? Kronos CUT OFF HIS PENIS, and then, the drops of blood from his...ahem....member, splattered across the world and created the Furies. EEEEWWWW. And Aphrodite? Girl, come on. No wonder you're the goddess of love and lust. You came from a Penis. I wouldn't even think of questioning your position in the world.

I'm still currently searching for Showcase scenes, so if anyone has any suggestions, I would love to hear them. Mikayla and I are doing the Antigone/Ismene scene from "Antigone," for Acting Styles, and I'm PUMPED about it! I'm not kidding--Antigone is my girl. I did her final monologue for Final Boards during Second Year. I walked around in a tragic state for days leading up to that performance. I kept imagining the aforementioned Favorite Brother Jared as Antigone's dead body bro, and it was killllin' me.

What are Boards, you may ask? Well, dear Internet-er, Boards are the most terrifying thing on the planet. Basically, you perform a scene and a monologue for the faculty at your school, and if you pass them, your progress is deemed acceptable, then you stay in the program. If you do not, regardless of your class work, you are CUT, baby, CUT.

Sure, there ARE a lot of factors that lead up to one being cut, and other being retained, but as someone who was almost cut, and had it come as a complete surprise, I absolutely hate Boards. Even the times when I succeeded wildly at Boards, I would go and disappear and be sick for the next day. Even my Dad had nightmares about Boards. I would tell myself they were wonderful, that everything was wonderful and fine and beautiful in the world, and still, I would find myself hyperventilating and twitching the entire time we were assessed. TERRIFYING.

Flirting in Bars with Boys

Here's the thing about me: Call me pretty, and I love you a little bit already.

Seriously, knowing that my natural chemical make-up and a degree of effort (depending on my mood) gives you pleasure, and I'm practically floating on Cloud Nine!

Here's another thing about me: I am a pretty bad flirt, but a fascinating conversationalist.

Therein lies the story:

Going to a bar is great fun. Pua, Seana, and I all went to Varsity, and we just sat and chilllllled out. Girls' night are so fun. They're so easy. Regardless of how comfortable some men can be, they will never, and can never, be a girl. A girl is a girl is a girl, and I love it. So. Girls. Pretty girls. Loving their lives. Sitting in a bar.

No surprise, pretty soon, David sits down.

Now, the Terrified Male is one I have much sympathy for. Imagine this. You are masculine. You are hairy, burly, and big. You and your ape brothers are standing at a high table, hooting it up, downing some pansy Heineken or something, awkwardly making conversation, all just really surveying the landscape for the ladies.

Suddenly, a flurry of motion catches your well-trained eye. Your attention is drawn to a booth, a center booth (wherein, in fact, three very attractive ladies ARE sitting, because the smoking hot bartender from Ireland just pulled them out of the back booth and put them prominently on display in the middle of the establishment,) where you notice a haole red head, talking animatedly, using her hands, a Hawaiian goddess of lavish beauty, luscious lips, lascivious eyes, and a keen, quick-witted brunette. The three are laughing. They're playing. Their drinking "Hop in the Dark," a Black and Tan. They're having a good time.

"Go. Go," your fellow male brethren grunt, poking you in the chest. You go. Stoic, stocky, short he-man that you are, you go, and suddenly, you've squeezed your square hips into their booth and the three of them are staring at you with six doe-eyed wonders. You're lost. What is this?! You've stumbled into a lair! A lair of beauty! Of pretty! Of perfume! There's so much hair! So much curve! Oh no! What is it?!

You gulp.

You breathe in.

You hold your breath.

And you sputter.

"I'm David."

Actually, you are terrified. The Ladies, not so much. After all, they ARE ladies. This just happens. Youth, hope, love--you've got it all, and they have indeed pushed you into wondrous acts of bravado before. After all, we're all just looking for a little connection, right? Right.

Now, meeting a man in a bar holds very little appeal to a woman like me. But if you were indeed that haole animated red-head, and you did, in fact feel quite sexy in that blue minidress from Modcloth.com, you're going to understand his bravado, understand his intention, his bravery, and you have decided to celebrate his risk, his chance, his enjoyment in possibly learning someone new.

You, dear Reader, as that red-head, are going to sit up on your knees, lean diagnally, dramatically across the table, disregarding the sticky spilled beer, and you're going to start asking this Terrified Male about his life. You are demanding answers.

He likes it. He loosens up. He has not failed, in fact. Eventually, his face stops flashing and twitching into signs of panic, and his shoulders loosen and drop down to their normal position. The girl is asking about your work, your job, then your family, your home, your life. The other two just sit, waiting, quiet and content. This one, though! Wow, this one is alive!

Finally, you, oh stoic male, you muster up the courage to pose a question: "Are you ladies interested in meeting some guys?"

The red-head looks to her friends, then back, and shakes her head. "Not really!" she practically chirps. She continues the conversation right where it left off. You're stunned. There are stars in your eyes, Young Terrified Male. This red-head is practically dancing in her seat, look at here there, twitching and moving!

"Do you want to dance?"

Of course, she does, of course, (if you know me at all,) she says yes. So you do. She's good, you tell her so, and she laughs, a deep, lovely, womanly laugh--full of womanhood, wild and wonderful. She flips her hair, slinks her hips. You decide you like her. She's cute.

"You're cute!" you say. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"No, but thank you. I've got work early in the morning."

"You're responsible! I like that."

Then you both laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh because here, here, you have found an honestly nice, compassionate soul. Your life is not changed, your life is not different, but tonight it is indeed sweet; it is indeed pretty, and you're both a little bit of a better person for risking your heart tonight.