I have a beautiful bouquet of red roses on my living room table. There are 13 to be exact. I am not sure why roses come in "baker's dozens" but this bouquet did. This bouquet was a bit of a surprise but certainly an appreciated one. Both of us have been feeling pretty stressed and overloaded of late. There has not been much time for romantic thoughts or time together. As I was admiring the flowers, I started to think about this whole love and marriage thing and what it has meant to me. Its funny how defining our experiences as a child can be.
My parents certainly gave me the opportunity to learn about love in marriage. When I think of how much they loved each other, one core image is ever present. I see them wrapped in a passionate embrace, (usually in the kitchen, it was where my mother was), sharing a long and deeply romantic kiss.
We had a picture in the family album of them kissing like that. The picture was taken when they were probably in their late 30's or early forties. The picture was black and white and so the tones were muted and soft. They were standing on a hill and there was just a bit of a breeze. You could tell that from Mom's dress and hair. The embrace was perfectly choreographed. My father was lithe and strong. My mother, slender, fitting perfectly in my father's arms as he held her close. The picture of that embrace, that wonderful image of romance and the feeling of deep and abiding love that it brings are forever part of me.
These demonstrations of love were frequent, so much so that my friends could not help but also see them. If not kissing, just holding hands while they watched TV. At least three friends commented on how lucky I was. They had never seen their parents kiss or even sleep in the same room. Another friend just recently said what a difference being in our loving home had made to her. It was the only experience that she had of happy family life as a child. I realized, how I have taken it for granted.
There were other ways that they showed that they loved each other. They were always together. Mom spent very little time in the house or working in the yard. She was so often with Dad - going to town, feeding the cattle, doing the chores. We were frequently left alone since when Dad went to Bull Sales or on other business, Mom always went too. That was okay. It didn't ever bother me that Mom and Dad loved each other more than us.
What a difference it has made to me - this example. I have been blessed to have a wonderful and loving friend and companion for almost 35 years. We too have passionately kissed in the kitchen. We have not been able to work and be always together but have stolen time together whenever we could. Late night shopping at IGA, picking up kids from lessons,Sunday afternoon naps and especially (for me anyway) jogging in the morning.
When I left home to go to university, my mother said that she hoped I wasn't offended but that she was looking forward to just being with "Daddy". I wasn't, and as much as I love my children, I look forward to just being with "Daddy" too.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
I was just thinking........
I clearly remember where I was and what I was doing when I first began to think about thinking. I was four years old. I know that because I was sitting on the couch (chesterfield as we called it at home)looking out the window at my Grandmother's house that was across the street. We lived up on the east hill in Cardston, not too far from where my brother in law lives now. It was a windy day and I was thinking about how I would like to go outside and run around the house. I didn't because that would be bad to do. Children who did that got whooping cough. I noticed I had just moved my arm and it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't really know how I had done that. How did I make it move? I had also been recently wondering how my cat Snowball, a big white Persian , could think. She couldn't talk and thinking obviously needed words.
I can remember clearly some of the things my mother would say and wonder what they meant. "I wish these flies were in Halifax" What sort of a magical place was Halifax? "That oatmeal will stick to your ribs" Did it really? Was the inside of me a big empty space where some food stuck and some didn't? " You're a better door than a window." This one really bothered me. I would be dancing in front of the television while the whole family was watching and someone, usually my father or my brother would say this. I had no idea what they meant since I was neither a door nor a window. I just didn't know and it annoyed me. It seemed that everyone around me knew everything. I didn't like not knowing, not understanding.
I asked a lot of questions. Having had a child that fascinated me by asking questions that I had no absolutley no answer for, I can understand somewhat the frustration I must have been. My brother's response was usually the same. I would ask why about something that he was doing and he would say "Oh just something to make little girls ask questions." The worse part was that he never would answer me. If I would ask him the time, he would hold up his watch to my face and say " Its this time." I couldn't yet tell time which leads me to wonder why I cared so much what time it was. I was no older than seven.
The importance of good thinking was more than an under the surface value in our family. It was an explicit standard of performance for all of us kids. When I asked what I should wear to school one day in grade 1, my mother replied that she didn't care. I could wear what I wanted. I replied, stamping my foot,"Daryl's mother tells her what to wear every day". My ranting was to no avail. I had to decide. My Father was not always so pleasant about his encouragement to think. He had more creative ways to compare us to dumb animals when were driving cattle, than I care to remember. We were chided to use our brains not our brawn. When we made mistakes, the feedback on our behaviour was "high IQ, low application".
This emphasis on thinking was also manifest in the lack of instruction on how to do complex tasks. It was a struggle to figure out how to harness my pony Prince to the cart by myself. There were so many buckles and straps. Probably the best example of this, "figure it out for yourself", was learning to drive a standard transmission. In my case it was the farm truck with an on the column shift. I was either 15 or 16 and wanted to be able to drive anything that could ever be available. It was summer time and the truck was parked close to the back door of the house.
Our drive way angled back toward the lane. There were trees on one side and a small irrigation ditch on the other. The driveway curved just a little and if you weren't careful and went straight you would hit the bunkhouse. It was critical to stay on the road because the final challenge was to not hit trees on both sides of the driveway where it entered the lane. Past that point all you had to do was turn and head down the lane. Of course if you didn't manage that, there was the corral to hit.
I knew all of this when I asked if I could learn to drive the truck. My Dad said yes and handed me the keys. I replied," Aren't you going to teach me?" To which my father replied," Hell no, I'm not getting in with you. You've seen me do it before." Well I did manage to find reverse, back up in great jerks and finally got the timing of using the clutch. All pretty stressful though.
So lets see...... Thinking is about using words, making decisions, understanding what others say and figuring out how to do things. The most important thing though to me is that its about figuring out what things mean, knowing the right answer.
Well now I teach thinking. I lead groups of very intelligent people through a learning process that has them become aware of the power of their assumptions. They identify their values and become aware of how their values impact their decisions. They explore their perceptions and how they draw conclusions about what the behaviour of others mean to them. They learn to ask questions of all sorts which incidentally most people find really hard to do. We talk about the power of context - all those factors that are part of the situation or problem. We become more aware of the fact that there is no reality, just perspectives that need exploring.
My experience with this whole set of skills is unfortunately that it doesn't make life particularly easier. I warn them that after the course they will be more annoyed by poor thinking and that the world will have even more shades of grey. They will make more informed decisions but making the decisions will not be easier. It will likely take more time and be in someways more painful. The worst part is the fact that there will be fewer right answers.
You see, knowledge is tentative,conjecture. It is our best hypothesis in the moment until something about the current context changes. What we can know with reflective effort is our own perspective. This is always value laden, personal and contextually driven.
A recent experience brings this all into very clear focus. My third daughter just had a baby. In the days preceding this event, I read much of book about the history of birthing. It tracked birthing practices from the middle ages up to the present time. I read about my time - the seventies. It spelled out clearly where the context of drugless, "natural" birthing practices had come from. I learned where they fit in history. It was not hard to understand. My mother's generation had been completely sedated for labour and strapped down. They woke up to find out what baby they had.
I don't know that my mother had that experience. "It wasn't something we every discussed." All I know is what I had experienced. All my friends had babies the same way and after each birth experience, we compared the ups and downs and intricacies of our labours. Giving birth was, as one of my daughters described it , initiation into "the club". There was a feeling of understanding and sharing at a visceral level of an experience that is as intense and life changing as no other. Although we couldn't really share the experience or know how it was for someone else there was a kinship in the having been through it.
My own daughters live in a different context. Epidurals are the norm. Pain is possible to remove from the birthing experience entirely. To do otherwise is the oddity. Now armed with this new information about the contextual nature of birthing practice I had a new lens to process the birth of the latest grandchild. I had become over the last few years less willing to judge and interested in this change. What did I think about it? I wasn't sure. I couldn't help wondering whether it really was a good choice. I was a child of the sixties after all. Would it be the same as baby sleeping positions. What was absolutely right in the seventies would become absolutely wrong in the 21st century. Would new research about epidurals eliminate the practice or had the experience of birthing changed forever? I really didn't know.
I was surprised then, when a feeling of absoute sadness swept over me as I learned of the epidural. It was intense and deep and took some time to consider. What was my emotional response about? What did it mean? What did I think? As I considered this I realized at first that it was about not being able to share what was one of the central experiences of my life with someone who mattered a great deal to me. I did not understand the experience that she had had and it felt as though she could not really understand mine. But, it was much more than that.
It was about the sharing of all experience across contexts. It was about the value of my own experience and the nature of wisdom. Wisdom has been something I have cherished and longed to develop. I have long been aware of the paradox," The more I know the less I know". I am even more sure of the truth of that now. In this era of constant and ever increasing change, the shelf life of knowing is very short. Everything must be tentative because the context changes so quickly. What are universal truths and what are out dated prejudices? What are best practices and what are just habits?
I guess things haven't really changed for me. I still want to be better at thinking. I need to be better at identifying the context and understanding its impacts. I need to become faster at understanding how my values are shaping my perspective. I need to be better at sharing my perspective in a way that people understand that I view my perspective as just that, my best guess at the time. I need to be become more skillful at and more open to experiencing vicariously the perspectives of others. The bottom line is that I need to become comfortable with taking action that is not based on knowing but is based on being open to possibilities.
Well thinking is still about using words, making decisions, understanding what others say and figuring out how to do things. But even more than before, it is about figuring out what things mean and considering what the best answer is at the time, knowing that there may not ever be a right answer.
I can remember clearly some of the things my mother would say and wonder what they meant. "I wish these flies were in Halifax" What sort of a magical place was Halifax? "That oatmeal will stick to your ribs" Did it really? Was the inside of me a big empty space where some food stuck and some didn't? " You're a better door than a window." This one really bothered me. I would be dancing in front of the television while the whole family was watching and someone, usually my father or my brother would say this. I had no idea what they meant since I was neither a door nor a window. I just didn't know and it annoyed me. It seemed that everyone around me knew everything. I didn't like not knowing, not understanding.
I asked a lot of questions. Having had a child that fascinated me by asking questions that I had no absolutley no answer for, I can understand somewhat the frustration I must have been. My brother's response was usually the same. I would ask why about something that he was doing and he would say "Oh just something to make little girls ask questions." The worse part was that he never would answer me. If I would ask him the time, he would hold up his watch to my face and say " Its this time." I couldn't yet tell time which leads me to wonder why I cared so much what time it was. I was no older than seven.
The importance of good thinking was more than an under the surface value in our family. It was an explicit standard of performance for all of us kids. When I asked what I should wear to school one day in grade 1, my mother replied that she didn't care. I could wear what I wanted. I replied, stamping my foot,"Daryl's mother tells her what to wear every day". My ranting was to no avail. I had to decide. My Father was not always so pleasant about his encouragement to think. He had more creative ways to compare us to dumb animals when were driving cattle, than I care to remember. We were chided to use our brains not our brawn. When we made mistakes, the feedback on our behaviour was "high IQ, low application".
This emphasis on thinking was also manifest in the lack of instruction on how to do complex tasks. It was a struggle to figure out how to harness my pony Prince to the cart by myself. There were so many buckles and straps. Probably the best example of this, "figure it out for yourself", was learning to drive a standard transmission. In my case it was the farm truck with an on the column shift. I was either 15 or 16 and wanted to be able to drive anything that could ever be available. It was summer time and the truck was parked close to the back door of the house. Our drive way angled back toward the lane. There were trees on one side and a small irrigation ditch on the other. The driveway curved just a little and if you weren't careful and went straight you would hit the bunkhouse. It was critical to stay on the road because the final challenge was to not hit trees on both sides of the driveway where it entered the lane. Past that point all you had to do was turn and head down the lane. Of course if you didn't manage that, there was the corral to hit.
I knew all of this when I asked if I could learn to drive the truck. My Dad said yes and handed me the keys. I replied," Aren't you going to teach me?" To which my father replied," Hell no, I'm not getting in with you. You've seen me do it before." Well I did manage to find reverse, back up in great jerks and finally got the timing of using the clutch. All pretty stressful though.
So lets see...... Thinking is about using words, making decisions, understanding what others say and figuring out how to do things. The most important thing though to me is that its about figuring out what things mean, knowing the right answer.
Well now I teach thinking. I lead groups of very intelligent people through a learning process that has them become aware of the power of their assumptions. They identify their values and become aware of how their values impact their decisions. They explore their perceptions and how they draw conclusions about what the behaviour of others mean to them. They learn to ask questions of all sorts which incidentally most people find really hard to do. We talk about the power of context - all those factors that are part of the situation or problem. We become more aware of the fact that there is no reality, just perspectives that need exploring.
My experience with this whole set of skills is unfortunately that it doesn't make life particularly easier. I warn them that after the course they will be more annoyed by poor thinking and that the world will have even more shades of grey. They will make more informed decisions but making the decisions will not be easier. It will likely take more time and be in someways more painful. The worst part is the fact that there will be fewer right answers.
You see, knowledge is tentative,conjecture. It is our best hypothesis in the moment until something about the current context changes. What we can know with reflective effort is our own perspective. This is always value laden, personal and contextually driven.
A recent experience brings this all into very clear focus. My third daughter just had a baby. In the days preceding this event, I read much of book about the history of birthing. It tracked birthing practices from the middle ages up to the present time. I read about my time - the seventies. It spelled out clearly where the context of drugless, "natural" birthing practices had come from. I learned where they fit in history. It was not hard to understand. My mother's generation had been completely sedated for labour and strapped down. They woke up to find out what baby they had.
I don't know that my mother had that experience. "It wasn't something we every discussed." All I know is what I had experienced. All my friends had babies the same way and after each birth experience, we compared the ups and downs and intricacies of our labours. Giving birth was, as one of my daughters described it , initiation into "the club". There was a feeling of understanding and sharing at a visceral level of an experience that is as intense and life changing as no other. Although we couldn't really share the experience or know how it was for someone else there was a kinship in the having been through it.
My own daughters live in a different context. Epidurals are the norm. Pain is possible to remove from the birthing experience entirely. To do otherwise is the oddity. Now armed with this new information about the contextual nature of birthing practice I had a new lens to process the birth of the latest grandchild. I had become over the last few years less willing to judge and interested in this change. What did I think about it? I wasn't sure. I couldn't help wondering whether it really was a good choice. I was a child of the sixties after all. Would it be the same as baby sleeping positions. What was absolutely right in the seventies would become absolutely wrong in the 21st century. Would new research about epidurals eliminate the practice or had the experience of birthing changed forever? I really didn't know.
I was surprised then, when a feeling of absoute sadness swept over me as I learned of the epidural. It was intense and deep and took some time to consider. What was my emotional response about? What did it mean? What did I think? As I considered this I realized at first that it was about not being able to share what was one of the central experiences of my life with someone who mattered a great deal to me. I did not understand the experience that she had had and it felt as though she could not really understand mine. But, it was much more than that.
It was about the sharing of all experience across contexts. It was about the value of my own experience and the nature of wisdom. Wisdom has been something I have cherished and longed to develop. I have long been aware of the paradox," The more I know the less I know". I am even more sure of the truth of that now. In this era of constant and ever increasing change, the shelf life of knowing is very short. Everything must be tentative because the context changes so quickly. What are universal truths and what are out dated prejudices? What are best practices and what are just habits?
I guess things haven't really changed for me. I still want to be better at thinking. I need to be better at identifying the context and understanding its impacts. I need to become faster at understanding how my values are shaping my perspective. I need to be better at sharing my perspective in a way that people understand that I view my perspective as just that, my best guess at the time. I need to be become more skillful at and more open to experiencing vicariously the perspectives of others. The bottom line is that I need to become comfortable with taking action that is not based on knowing but is based on being open to possibilities.
Well thinking is still about using words, making decisions, understanding what others say and figuring out how to do things. But even more than before, it is about figuring out what things mean and considering what the best answer is at the time, knowing that there may not ever be a right answer.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Its all about dress-up
Today was Sunday and a day to dress-up. Yes , I mean it in both senses of the word. I do mean to put on "dressy" clothes and also in the sense of wearing a costume. I realized that every day of my life (and that is only a mild exageration), I have planned the night before, what I will wear. I remember doing this in earnest in junior high and high school but I am sure the practice began many years earlier. You see I think that what dress-up is, in the Sunday sense of the word, is only a bit removed from the game of dress-up that was my passion as a child.
I would have to say that there is nothing that defined me more as a child than dress-up. I wore bright red lipstick to church when I was four and gypsey scarves to school when I six. The latter behaviour must have become an imbedded gene as I had a child who at four wore stretch pants on her head. There was a dress-up room, a never used entrance, in our house at Boundary Creek ranch. There I kept my beautiful curtains that I draped around myself and stored the high heels that made every exotic outfit complete. I dreamed of having high heels that fit. My mother bought me a pair of toy ones ones once. It was a dream come true. They were hard plastic and really just a sole that fit on with elastic straps. They were beautiful with sparkles imbedded in the plastic. Being the '50s, and the plastic industry very new, they were brittle and lasted only for two days before they snapped in two. I was broken hearted.
The dress-up venue changed when we moved to Lethbridge. I had a whole unfinished basement to fix up as a play house. The costumes were consistent, still the curtains although now being taller I could actually use old dresses of my mothers and older sisters. The game expanded to include friends, Laurie Maxwell, Connie Johnson, and Marlene Selman. In Scandia, it became solitary once more with no interested companions and finally was replaced when I went to Junior High, with wardrobe planning.
This brings me back to my original thought, that dressing up is really just about playing dress-up as an adult. This week-end has been a case in point. In mulling over what to wear to church today, I considered the new yellow cotton blouse with a beige and grey hounds tooth skirt and a grey jacket - kind of a country business look. Decided against it. Skirt too uncomfortable and somehow it just wasn't right. The weather is snowy so wearing my new elegant black boots with long toes and high heels with a thick cozy green wool turtle neck would be a relaxed comfortable look and feel. Problem is I didn't feel like being approachable today. I'm in a quiet, reflective, introverted mood so I opted for the highly intimidating black on black look. It was hard core dramatic sophisticated and designed to scare people away. Black jacket, skirt, boots, turtle neck with just a dash of colour - a splashy blue scarf I got from a supplier for Christmas. I figure that if I wanted to soften the impact I could make the first move and smile and talk. Otherwise I would be left alone. I think it worked pretty well.
Friday was the Sweetheart's ball. I opted for Romance. A soft gauzy ruffly almost transparent beige blouse with a sophisticated long black skirt and my gold stiletos. A new look for me. I had rejected the sparkley sophisticated clingy top with a low neck top I had worn last year. Just not what I wanted to be. I considered a gold brocade jacket but it's formality didn't reflect my escapist mood - too much like work or mother of the bride. The blouse was perfect. I felt almost transformed - soft doey eyed, fragile..... .
I now know that really I am still playing dress up. All those nights at Scandia that I spent hours trying on outfits to decide on what to wear the next day were not expressions of insecurity but of escaping into the world of make believe. In front of my mirror I could try on ways of being, exploring what and who I wanted to be. Did I want to be the artist, the professional, the jock, the good morman girl, the trendy Twiggy in a mini. So many possibilities. All I had to do was decide and figure out how to make them work.
The question that I have now is, "why do I have such a limited cast of possible characters". Take the retro look for example. I tried on two retro dresses on my last shopping excursion at a consignment store. One was a pretend early 20s velvet. Interesting but pretty wierd on me. Maybe just too much like a costume. The other a sparkley early 60's shift and jacket. I couldn't help thinking that maybe someone would think I wasn't retro and that I hadn't really left the 60s behind. I have daughters that can pull off all kind of looks from retro to artist,and even high fashion, New York New York really well. I often just feel kind of pathetic. You know how you feel watching a really bad amateur actor that you just feel sorry for because there is nothing really believeable about their performance. That's how some looks seem for me. I just can't believe them.
Maybe its that when you pretend to be something, you have to want to be it. I wanted to be a Gibson Girl for my wedding and it would have worked for me if my hat would have been right. I wanted to be a medieval princess for high school graduation but couldn't find the right kind of tapestry brocade. I settled for the Classic Vogue and felt okay in my beige crepe blouse and long velvet wraparound. No one else had anything close. I can really pretend to be a high powered business woman in a suit. John T Malloy would be proud. I like to pretend to be a cowboy, a runner and a pioneer. I try to pull off being a skiier and I would dearly love to be able to be a mountain woman and a dramatist. I could do those with more money and more places to play the role. I can sometimes feel close to getting it right. I almost always feel pathetic trying to be cool, trendy, and sexy however. Well, maybe, after all, it does take more than wanting it and getting the costume. Maybe I should take that clown course or improv class I've been thinking about and increase my acting skills after all.
I would have to say that there is nothing that defined me more as a child than dress-up. I wore bright red lipstick to church when I was four and gypsey scarves to school when I six. The latter behaviour must have become an imbedded gene as I had a child who at four wore stretch pants on her head. There was a dress-up room, a never used entrance, in our house at Boundary Creek ranch. There I kept my beautiful curtains that I draped around myself and stored the high heels that made every exotic outfit complete. I dreamed of having high heels that fit. My mother bought me a pair of toy ones ones once. It was a dream come true. They were hard plastic and really just a sole that fit on with elastic straps. They were beautiful with sparkles imbedded in the plastic. Being the '50s, and the plastic industry very new, they were brittle and lasted only for two days before they snapped in two. I was broken hearted.
The dress-up venue changed when we moved to Lethbridge. I had a whole unfinished basement to fix up as a play house. The costumes were consistent, still the curtains although now being taller I could actually use old dresses of my mothers and older sisters. The game expanded to include friends, Laurie Maxwell, Connie Johnson, and Marlene Selman. In Scandia, it became solitary once more with no interested companions and finally was replaced when I went to Junior High, with wardrobe planning.
This brings me back to my original thought, that dressing up is really just about playing dress-up as an adult. This week-end has been a case in point. In mulling over what to wear to church today, I considered the new yellow cotton blouse with a beige and grey hounds tooth skirt and a grey jacket - kind of a country business look. Decided against it. Skirt too uncomfortable and somehow it just wasn't right. The weather is snowy so wearing my new elegant black boots with long toes and high heels with a thick cozy green wool turtle neck would be a relaxed comfortable look and feel. Problem is I didn't feel like being approachable today. I'm in a quiet, reflective, introverted mood so I opted for the highly intimidating black on black look. It was hard core dramatic sophisticated and designed to scare people away. Black jacket, skirt, boots, turtle neck with just a dash of colour - a splashy blue scarf I got from a supplier for Christmas. I figure that if I wanted to soften the impact I could make the first move and smile and talk. Otherwise I would be left alone. I think it worked pretty well.
Friday was the Sweetheart's ball. I opted for Romance. A soft gauzy ruffly almost transparent beige blouse with a sophisticated long black skirt and my gold stiletos. A new look for me. I had rejected the sparkley sophisticated clingy top with a low neck top I had worn last year. Just not what I wanted to be. I considered a gold brocade jacket but it's formality didn't reflect my escapist mood - too much like work or mother of the bride. The blouse was perfect. I felt almost transformed - soft doey eyed, fragile..... .
I now know that really I am still playing dress up. All those nights at Scandia that I spent hours trying on outfits to decide on what to wear the next day were not expressions of insecurity but of escaping into the world of make believe. In front of my mirror I could try on ways of being, exploring what and who I wanted to be. Did I want to be the artist, the professional, the jock, the good morman girl, the trendy Twiggy in a mini. So many possibilities. All I had to do was decide and figure out how to make them work.
The question that I have now is, "why do I have such a limited cast of possible characters". Take the retro look for example. I tried on two retro dresses on my last shopping excursion at a consignment store. One was a pretend early 20s velvet. Interesting but pretty wierd on me. Maybe just too much like a costume. The other a sparkley early 60's shift and jacket. I couldn't help thinking that maybe someone would think I wasn't retro and that I hadn't really left the 60s behind. I have daughters that can pull off all kind of looks from retro to artist,and even high fashion, New York New York really well. I often just feel kind of pathetic. You know how you feel watching a really bad amateur actor that you just feel sorry for because there is nothing really believeable about their performance. That's how some looks seem for me. I just can't believe them.
Maybe its that when you pretend to be something, you have to want to be it. I wanted to be a Gibson Girl for my wedding and it would have worked for me if my hat would have been right. I wanted to be a medieval princess for high school graduation but couldn't find the right kind of tapestry brocade. I settled for the Classic Vogue and felt okay in my beige crepe blouse and long velvet wraparound. No one else had anything close. I can really pretend to be a high powered business woman in a suit. John T Malloy would be proud. I like to pretend to be a cowboy, a runner and a pioneer. I try to pull off being a skiier and I would dearly love to be able to be a mountain woman and a dramatist. I could do those with more money and more places to play the role. I can sometimes feel close to getting it right. I almost always feel pathetic trying to be cool, trendy, and sexy however. Well, maybe, after all, it does take more than wanting it and getting the costume. Maybe I should take that clown course or improv class I've been thinking about and increase my acting skills after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)