It's Venezuela Out There

I have this habit of writing when I'm anxious or overwhelmed.

I used to do this a lot in high school. I'd flunk a test and come back the next day with a thirty page radio script. I am not an unintelligent person, but I'm often flustered by academics. The constant barrage of Things I Have To Do makes me nervous. Sometimes the only way I can feel like I have control over the things around me is to waste valuable time throwing all my energy into something that, ultimately, has nothing to do with anything.

Case in point, the following:

I was in the library with my friend, Jackie. The two of us met last year when I moved into the dorm room next to hers. I once woke her up at two in the morning to ask her to name a fake game show. At the time, she barely knew my name. Somehow, we became close.

Anyway. We were there. She was working diligently on something computer science related that I am, in no way, qualified to describe. I had several thousand things due in a variety of subjects including Spanish, mysticism, and science fiction, and was steadfastly refusing to do any of them. I was bored. I tapped my pen restlessly on the desk. I fiddled with my hair. I tried to summon from deep within me the motivation to be productive. I pulled out a notebook.

I sighed.

"What should I write about?" I asked.

Jackie looked up. She raised an eyebrow. I braced myself for a "don't you have work to do?" response. I should have known better. Jackie, being Jackie, did not question my intent. She thought for a moment, half her mind still clearly swimming in numbers, and eventually, delivered the following prompt:

A conflict between two female characters - JEAN-BOB and MRS. DARCY - containing the following things: 

1.) A used tampon. 
2.) A slug.
3.) Prune juice with hibiscus. 
4.) Venezuela 
5.) King penguins.

In addition, someone must say the following phrases: 

1.) "You resemble a beluga whale." 
2.) "Oh, whoa is me!" 
3.) "Why is that chair on the table?" 
4.) "That chair is sexy." 

I have been told that, were I to peek into Jackie's mind at the exact moment of this discussion, all of these things would make complete sense in relation to each other. I have concluded that studying computer science does strange things to one's mind. 

Regardless, by the end of the evening, I had, in fact, complete the prompt.  

And so, I give you, A Thing I Wrote While I Should Have Been Doing Other Things. 

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY

JEAN-BOB, 19, is working the register alone at an otherwise empty shop. She is preoccupied, staring into the distance in a way that suggest this is her default state of being. 

The door opens. In walks MRS. DARCY, 50's, in a rush. She hands over her credit card immediately. 

MRS. DARCY

Caramel machiado. Large. 

JEAN-BOB

That chair is so sexy. 

MRS. DARCY

I'm sorry? 

JEAN-BOB

That chair. The one over in the corner by the ironic, but stylish picture of a slug. In comparison to the slug, it's the most attractive thing in the room. 

MRS. DARCY

Why is it on the table? 

JEAN-BOB

The slug? 

MRS. DARCY

The chair. Why is the chair on the table? You're open, aren't you? 

JEAN-BOB

That depends on your definition of "open". 

MRS. DARCY

Should I go somewhere else - 

JEAN-BOB

If you define "open" as "We have a great abundance of prune juice with a vague hint of hibiscus" then no, we are not, in fact, open. 

MRS. DARCY

I see - 

JEAN-BOB

But, if you define "open" as "We are currently operating and are thus ready to accept your order of a highly caffeinated, most likely unhealthy beverage" then yes, we are open. 

MRS. DARCY

What is your name? 

JEAN-BOB

Jean-Bob. 

MRS. DARCY

Jean-Bob? 

JEAN-BOB

Jean-Bob. 

MRS. DARCY

I see. Jean-Bob, if you would like to continue to be employed, I suggest you turn around and begin making a large caramel machiado, which, if you'll recall, is what I ordered when I came in. 

JEAN-BOB

You know, you resemble a beluga whale. 

MRS. DARCY

Excuse me? 

JEAN-BOB

Or, at least, you would, if you accepted the world around you. 

MRS. DARCY

What? 

JEAN-BOB

I'm troubled. 

MRS. DARCY

So am I. 

JEAN-BOB

I'm starting to think that reality, as we know it, is a dying construct. 

MRS. DARCY

Can it be a construct with coffee? 

JEAN-BOB

Have you ever considered it...Mrs. Darcy? 

MRS. DARCY

How did you know my name? 

JEAN-BOB

It's on your credit card. 

MRS. DARCY

Oh. 

JEAN-BOB

But, have you ever considered it? Have you ever stopped and stared at the reality that we inhabit and imagined it crumbling to the ground that only may or may not exist? 

MRS. DARCY

If I say yes, will you get me my coffee? 

JEAN-BOB

We are human. Theoretically. We know that we are human only because we are not any other species on Earth, like beluga whales or king penguins, and human is simply the only option left. We, in particular, Mrs. Darcy, are women. Made of X chromosomes and used tampons. 

MRS. DARCY

I don't need this. 

JEAN-BOB

But I am troubled by the deep, ever present knowledge that at any moment, these facts might cease to be facts, and we may find ourselves adrift in a desert of nonsense and chaos. 

MRS. DARCY

Oh, woe is you. 

JEAN-BOB

Oh, woe is me! Oh, woe are us. We. You and I, and this cafe that is not a cafe. Woe to those who are secure with what they believe to be their permanent location in space!  

MRS. DARCY

I'm leaving. 

JEAN-BOB

But where are you leaving from? 

MRS. DARCY

Here. 

JEAN-BOB

But what is "here"?

MRS. DARCY

I don't care. 

JEAN-BOB

That's good! 

MRS. DARCY

I'm going to Starbucks. 

The door opens. She exits. A moment passes. The door opens again, and Mrs. Darcy re-enters. Jean-Bob just smiles. 

MRS. DARCY

Um. 

JEAN-BOB

Hello, again. 

MRS. DARCY

It's Venezuela out there. 

JEAN-BOB

Indeed, it is. 

MRS. DARCY

But, we're in New York. 

JEAN-BOB

We're not anymore. 

MRS. DARCY

But...will we go back? 

JEAN-BOB

Maybe. 

MRS. DARCY

I have to go to work. 

JEAN-BOB

You don't have to do anything. There is no permanent reality. 

MRS. DARCY

Right. 

JEAN-BOB

Caramel machiado? 

MRS. DARCY

Uh, yes. Large. 

JEAN-BOB

Coming right up. 

MRS. DARCY

Thank you. 

She sits down at the counter. She glances around. 

MRS. DARCY

You know something? 

JEAN-BOB

What? 

MRS. DARCY

That chair is sexy. 

JEAN-BOB

I know, right? 

Jean-Bob gives her a coffee. They smile, content, and glance out the window at the Venezuelan street outside. 

THE END

So, were those two hours productive? Not really. Were they fun? Yes. Does that make it worth it? I don't know. But, here it is. 

I think I might go grab some coffee. 

An Open Letter to the Universe

Dear Universe,

I generally assume we're on pretty good terms. I am a born and raised Unitarian Universalist, after all, universe is in the name. Sometimes I stare, wild eyed, into the void and wonder what it is that you require of us, but for the most part, I tend to just take things as you throw them.

Recently, you've thrown quite a lot at me. Moving, classes, running a club, working for the girl scouts, bed bugs, infections, an inability to find a job that pays more than $100 a week, constantly washing and re-washing every article of clothing I have while wrapping everything else up in insect-proof plastic...but, you know all this. You gave me all of this. And I'm sure that, somewhere down the line, I will learn a tremendously valuable life lesson from all of it. I'm not here to ask you to change your MO. I would just like to ask for a simple amendment, to whatever cosmic plan you may have in place for me.

Have you ever listened to Janelle Monae? Her talent as a musician is such that I am skeptical that she originates from this universe to begin with. So, I thought I'd ask. If you, in fact, have not, take a look.



Did you see that? That is a life changing experience in three minutes and forty-four seconds. That is the face of the woman currently occupying a significant chunk of my ipod; the song I have sung so many times in the shower that I'm surprised even the bedbugs are willing to live with me. This is a performer who wrote an album so good that I once spent three days trying to download it from a mountain in Peru. Her lack of a grammy nomination makes me physically angry.

What I'm saying is, her music is important to my life.

And you know that, as the universe.

And yet, for reasons I'm fairly certain I'm not supposed to be able to fathom, you have yet to give me the opportunity to see her live.

Now, I understand that you are an ever changing force. I currently inhabit a world where pictures and videos are often more important than the experience itself. I get that. And, I understand that you have provided me with a wealth of such things to keep me going through the good times, the bad times, and those times I hear that she's going to be in New York when I'm with my family/in another country/at a wedding/showing turtle skulls to girl scouts. You know I'm grateful for this.

But, I suppose I'm somewhat old fashioned. I am rarely of the opinion that the "good old days" were actually as good as people say they were, but I do find myself with a distinct attachment to live performance. I like the thrill of standing in front of a stage, the feel of over-amplified music aggressively chipping away at my sense of hearing - I'm even a fan of that strange, awkward moment when you accidentally lock eyes with a random stranger beside you and you realize that he has no idea what's going on. You can't get these things from YouTube. Not without expensive sound equipment. And kidnapping. Probably.

Tomorrow, sometime after two, Janelle Monae will be performing at my school. This is the one time I have ever had any real interest in a visiting musical guest. It is my senior year. There are many, many reason why I should be in attendance. But, of course, I understand. I understand that, especially recently, you've had a lot for me to do. I understand that there is purpose in seemingly random things. I understand that I am supposed to be learning.

But given that you have been interacting with me quite a bit recently, and I have, in fact, been doing the best I can to carry out the things that I am supposed to carry out, I would like to - with great courtesy and respect, of course - ask for Saturday evening to myself.

You can have the morning. You already have the morning. But once the exterminator leaves, and I'm finished with the three hours of Spanish homework, and I've washed everything own for the third time in a week, is it at all possible that you could just give me those last few hours? Just those. Just while Janelle Monae is onstage. I don't need the rest of the concert.

Thank you, Universe, for taking the time to read through this. Should you need me, I have a feeling you know where I live. I have not enclosed a resume since, again, I'm fairly certain you know all that, and most of it isn't really relevant.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Nelly Nickerson

Time Is Kind of An Illusion, Sometimes.

I may or may not have become unstuck in time.

Granted, I live in an apartment where, if not for the use of clocks, it is impossible to tell whether it is night, day, or anything in between. Clocks are, of course, imperfect - with the very distinct exception of that atomic clock my grandfather once showed my mother that one time when she was five and having a brief crisis over the existence of measurable time. Sometimes, it seems, PM can be accidentally switched with AM, and you find yourself awake several minutes after your class started, but with the space around you looking, for all the world, like it was the middle of the night.

Admittedly, this environment does make it easier to deal with the ensuing panic.

I threw on some clothes. Once outside, confronted with the somewhat later than midday sun, it became apparent that I was late. I had not, in fact, been dreaming when my alarm failed to go off and I wandered my bedroom in a haze looking for socks. The real world is alarmingly real when you can feel its breeze and see its clouds and hear its too-fast New York cars in the distance.

The walk to class is a short one. It's about the length of "Way Down Hadestown". Sometimes, if I'm walking towards that other part of campus where the language and science classes are, I can get through "Hey, Little Songbird". On days when I'm distracted and I've been known to stop and contemplate the colors of a leaf, or an abandoned piece of paper on the ground, I get all the way to "When The Chips Are Down".

These are from Hadestown, by the way. It's a concept album by Anais Mitchell, and you should definitely look it up.

Anyway.

I climbed the steps of Breslin Hall, frantic and sweaty, still trying to shake the dreamlike feeling from my surroundings. At this point, I had only been to this class once. I knew where to go purely from muscle memory, as it was in the same room as the Nerd Club I had been attending for four years. Consciously, there was a good chance I was completely unaware of what I was doing or where I was going. I opened the door. I was expecting a classroom of people. I expected to find myself on the wrong side of a room full of eyes - interrupted, and perplexed.

Instead, the room was empty.

I closed the door. I took a step back. I took a deep breath, shook my head, and opened it again.

Still empty. Still strange.

There are several steps that must be taken when arriving at an empty classroom that should not be empty.

1. CHECK THE WHITEBOARD

Or, alternatively, the blackboard. Often, an empty classroom just means that class is being held outside. In this case, the board revealed only the details of a class on marketing. Or economics. Or, possibly, existential terror. I've never been very good at business.

2. CHECK THE DOOR

There is a good chance you have missed a sign on the door saying that class has been cancelled or moved. These signs are usually small, half-unintelligible, and complicated. The only thing on the door of 211 Breslin was a spider - small, white, and quick moving.

3. CHECK YOUR E-MAIL

This is when it get truly complex. Both the general step, and in the context of my story.

Professors like to e-mail you during those moments you are least likely to check your e-mail. It's different for everyone. If you check your e-mail before bed, they will write in the morning. If you check your e-mail right before class, they will have e-mailed you last night, and the message will be lost. All of these e-mails will be to the school address you never use. They will then complain that students never check their e-mail.

If you have a smart phone, this step may or may not be easier. If you have an old, fairly temperamental smart phone, this step will only be slightly easier. In my case, I spent a good twenty minutes standing awkwardly in the wide, cavernous hallway of Breslin, desperately trying to convince my four-year-old iPhone 4 that it would be a good idea to log into my portal. It was only after this task was completed that I noticed a poster on the wall announcing that the Hofstra smartphone app had finally been rebooted and updated.

The poster was literally at eye level. An impressive feat, considering I'm only just under six feet tall.

My inbox contained three new e-mails. Out of the three, only one of them said "I am sick, and therefore will not be able to teach class today." It was from my Eastern Philosophy professor.

The Eastern Philosophy professor I had three years ago.

I opened the e-mail.

Sure enough, it explained, apologetically, that my professor would not be in class today, and that we would continue our discussion of Taoism on Tuesday. I remember this discussion on Taoism. I remember jumping back and forth between note taking and a film pitch about trailer parks and Freddie Mercury. I remember it being moved from a Thursday to a Tuesday. I remember being a sophomore with cherry red hair and pants that were too big for me.

I checked the date. It had been sent today.

I looked around me. The hallway was empty. Faintly, I could hear other professors giving lectures on things I couldn't make out. I heard the sound of an elevator. I heard someone order coffee from the coffee stand downstairs. There was nothing strange about this space. There was everything strange about this space.

I sighed. I put in my earbuds, and returned to Hadestown. I walked back to my timeless apartment. I tried to watch The Daily Show, but the only full episode that would load was one from a week ago. I contemplated the past. I ate breakfast at two in the afternoon. I wished, not for the first time, that my grandfather was still alive to take me to his atomic clock, and reassure me that time was, in fact, real.

The next time I left my apartment, it was dark. I hadn't noticed it change. I sighed again, itched a bed bug bite, and went to class.

Bedbugs or Vampires? Is There Really a Difference?

There are a number of similarities that can be made between bedbugs and vampires.

The obvious one is, of course, the fact that they are both active only at night. As the sun sets and you slip into a deep, dreamless sleep, a vampire emerges from the shadows and stands silently at your helpless, unconscious form. You cannot see the vampire. Even if you were awake, the vampire would not want you to. Similarly, and simultaneously, a bed bug emerges from the dark folds of your used mattress. It ponders your skin. It creeps soundlessly around you, until it stops.

Both the bedbug and the vampire see you as their prey. Their perception is accurate.

In the case of both creatures, the lore that is associated with them is often difficult and contradictory. Can a vampire be killed with a wooden stake, or do you have to set it on fire? Can you use a bug bomb to save yourself, or do you have to call a professional fumigator? Is it possible to sleep with your mattress encased in plastic while you wear a chain of garlic around your neck - and will either of these things actually protect you?

The short answer is that there is no answer. The only answer is possibly. Rituals, in their many and complex variations, are never guaranteed to be successful. This is as true in black magic as it is in insect extermination.

Returning to your bed, both the bedbug and the vampire are feeding. Blood is, of course, life. Your life. And at present, it is being drained from your body to feed the life of another.

Routine is important. The vampire drinks from the same place on your body it always has. It will return to this place - your neck - over, and over, and over again, never straying from this fixed place. It is both practical and a compulsion. Vampires are, by nature, compulsive beings. They have a long, ancient history with obsession - obsession with numbers, with counting, with practice.

Bedbugs are similar. In the morning you will wake up covered in red marks. You will notice that these marks tend to cluster. There is never only one. Once the bedbugs have learned how your blood travels through your body, they will find a place and feed again, and again, and again. The marks they leave will pile onto you, change you - the layers of enflamed sores distorting the familiar topography of your skin.

What happens next varies in both cases. The sun will rise. The bedbugs and the vampire will retreat into the shadows, quenched. You will wake up and somehow things will be different. You may itch in places you did not itch before. You may be lightheaded, pale, with a thirst for something you can't entirely put into words. You may not even be human. Or, at the very least, you may not feel like you are.

I should mention that I have it under relatively good authority that my apartment is, in fact, infested with bedbugs and not vampires. But you can never really be sure, can you? Tomorrow I could begin the last year of my undergraduate education as an entirely different being. Either way, I will certainly be an itchier one.

Trails Without End

The other day I walked twelve straight miles without stopping, and didn't realize it. I began at the edge of a dark, seemingly endless trail - the entrance of which can only be found by those who accidentally stumble upon it while wandering "Historic Huguenot Street" in a fit of profound unemployment. I had heard legends, myths even, about the so-called "Rail Trail" that extended from Gardiner to "just South of Kingston". With my starting location of New Paltz, I assumed I would, eventually, find the end.

I did not.

I walked for six hours. In the beginning, I passed joggers and bike riders. Locals walked their dogs. Children sat bored in strollers as their mothers power walked. People cut across to get to the strangely Lynchian pizza place down by the Salvation Army. No one seemed to think it was odd. No one seemed distressed or disturbed. I was reminded of walking through Swazey Parkway in my hometown of Exeter, New Hampshire. As I became more comfortable, lulled into a sense of familiar small town security, I resolved to walk the whole trail. It was well maintained, and clearly frequently used. The sun wouldn't set until 8:30, so I assumed I had plenty of time.

Then I looked down. Not at my watch, of course. Who wears watches these days? I looked down at my phone which was, at this point, busy trying to keep Spotify running in the middle of the woods, and it was then that I realized, I had been walking for two hours.

Now, that doesn't seem like too dramatic a realization. But, to keep the tension up, I will here add that I had not eaten anything, and had only packed one small, store bought water bottle.

I looked the trail up and down. Behind me, I could no longer see where I had begun. Before me, there seemed to be no end in sight. Around me, there was a suspicious lack of people or animals.

But, as has been made abundantly clear to me over the course of this summer, I am a girl scout. I do not get intimidated by the idea of an endless trail, nor do I, apparently, feel physical exertion while hiking one. The trail had been laid out online, so it obviously had an end. I took a deep breath - taking care to remind myself how lucky I was to have oxygen in this air - and strode onward.

It should be noted that it is not uncommon for me to go for a walk in the woods and end up gone longer than anticipated. In New Hampshire, I had a habit of wandering off into the woods, getting lost, and having to call someone to pick me up by the side of some highway far away from where I had started. But the thing about trails in New Hampshire is that they have endings. If you walk too far in any direction, you'll end up in another state, which will inevitably bring you to some semblance of civilization. This is one of the side effects of being from a small state. You may feel trapped, and claustrophobic, but at least you know where you are.

New York, as I am constantly discovering, is a different beast. Aside from a few driving habits, I have basically acclimatized to metropolitan New York. I understand the mentality of Long Island. I can generally figure out how to get places in the city without having to check a subway map. I know who to ask about what and what to never mention to others. In a way, my Long Island/New York City experience has been somewhat similar to my New Hampshire upbringing, in that I always know where I am. Walk too far on the island, and you'll hit a beach. Walk too far in the city, and you'll hit the suburbs. It's easy.

But upstate, even somewhere only ninety minutes North, like New Paltz, is not the city. It is beautiful, like New Hampshire, but unpredictable, like New York. Walk too far in any direction and you...will still be walking. Forever.

As I kept hiking, the trail seemed to extend. I walked across bridges, through bogs, past rivers, through horse farms, past secluded houses, and empty baseball fields. There were moments when the trail seemed to be raised, at the top of an incline, only to suddenly be below the ground beside it. There were pieces of it that seemed to go straight through people's private properties, and then I would walk for an hour never passing a single building.

It was somewhere around hour five when I started to realize that I no longer had the physical stamina to keep going. Well, that's not true. I could have kept going. I wanted to keep going. But my stomach was clawing at me to feed it and my throat was beginning to feel like Spongebob in that episode where he dries out in Sandy's house. I wanted to keel over, or at the very least, sit down, but there was nowhere to do so. I passed a sign that, I assumed, would signal the end of the trail, but instead simply told me that from that point onward, the trail hadn't been properly "maintained" as if the Wallkill Valley Rail Trail Association had, themselves, simply given up trying to understand the length and whims of the trail.

Bizarrely, turning around and walking to a part of the trail I recognized as being close to my house seemed to only take me about an hour. This is most likely due to my actually paying attention to the passage of time, and to my house being slightly closer than my original chosen trail entrance...but it was still strange. I wasn't walking faster, if anything, I was moving slower due to the increased presence of hunger and thirst.

For a road that goes straight for miles and miles, it is surprisingly maze-like.

Upon finally arriving home, eating something, and mindlessly staring at the television for a bit, I did a bit of research. The Rail Trail, as the name suggests, used to be a railroad that ferried produce from Ulster County into New York City. By 1977, the barely used railroad closed, and naturally, lay abandoned until 1985, when the various towns it ran through started buying it up. It didn't open as a recreation trail until 1991, when the town and village of New Paltz (which are, apparently, two different things. Who knew?) managed to purchase about 12 miles of it. The website claims that the trail today is "24 miles of Linear Park from Gardiner to just south of Kingston" and much discussion is had about Gardiner and the south side of the trail, but of the north side - the side I eventually discovered was the side I hiked - not much is spoken of.

Railroads, and by extension, their remains, are man made creations. In the late 19th century we decided we needed a rail road, so we built one. In 1985 we decided we needed a hiking trail instead, and so we changed it and built that. Now we're left with a road that seems to lack purpose - eternally going somewhere, but never quite seeming to begin or end. There is a sense, when walking down the trail for hours at a time, without a local's sense of location, that the trail exists independently of us. What would that space have been had someone not decided to build a railroad? Who knows? But, for some reason, I can't help but feel that people would still walk up and down it, blazed or not, trying to find the end of something, and inevitably fail to do so. Something about the path wants you to keep walking forward, to lose track of time, to think you understand it only so that it can prove that you do not.

It's been a strange summer. But, all things considered, it's been a pretty great one. At the very least, my leg muscles seem to have developed super-human strength. Any previous summer, I would have decidedly noticed that I had walked twelve straight miles without stopping before reading about it hours later on the internet.

Having the Week Off Leads to Ridiculous Questions

The other day I posted this video on my YouTube page:



Yeah.

My friend Casey and I have an incredibly old inside joke that I somehow felt was relevant to the fact that I had missed her birthday. That was, literally, the only motivation behind this.

And yet, a day later, I received the following comment:

"I expect a Sailor Moon Crystal review from you now that you're back on Youtube. :) Okay. Goodbye." 

Sailor Moon Crystal is, for those unaware, a shiny new anime based entirely on the original Sailor Moon manga. It's basically the Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood of Sailor Moon - but with significantly more sparkles.

I can only assume the comment in question is referencing the previous Sailor Moon videos I made, back when I thought I might like to go into ThatGuyWithTheGlasses-style video reviewing. In those videos, I clumsily made my way through two episodes of the English dub that I had fond memories of watching over and over and over again as a kid. The editing was terrible, the audio was beyond poor, and I mocked my way through them so much that people apparently wondered if I was Sailor Moon fan at all.

For every comment like:

"I'm DYING right now!!!!!! This is TOO much!!!! I absolutely LOVE your videos!!!"

I got another one like:

"i don't want to be mean but pelase hang yourself !"

Which, honestly, kind of just seems like the circle of life as far as YouTube is concerned.

I was pretty sure the world had forgotten about these videos, and for the most part, I was right. I'm still getting comments asking for new videos, despite having not updated beyond the above video in about three years. With this video, I've even gotten a few private messages (which are, apparently, still a thing.)

So, I guess, I'm left wondering...should I?

Dabbling in YouTube is a bit like dabbling in Salem style witchcraft. It could work out really well for you, but it could also come back to painfully bite you wherever you'd find it the most painful.

Things Have Been Happening

So, you know how I mentioned I was writing a screenplay?

Well, I finished it! 120-something pages, and I can now say I've written a feature film. Not one that's been filmed, mind you. Just scripted.

But yeah! Suck it, fifteen-year-old me sitting around writing Doctor Who scripts while thinking I wanted to be an actor. Tough luck, you're a screenwriter!

...or, uh, an aspiring one. At least.

But, as if finishing the thing wasn't exciting enough, a few days later it won Best Feature Screenplay at the Hofstra University Film Festival! AHHHHHHHH!!!

I was very excited. Words can't really describe how excited I actually was - it can only truly be expressed by leaping up and down screaming. I would demonstrate, but I have new roommates I'm rather determined to have a good impression on. Considering how early on in the relationship I had to text one of them to let me in after locking myself out, I really do need all the decent impressions I can get.

But, yes. In the space of about a day I went from some chick with a thing for Legends of the Hidden Temple to an award winning amateur screenwriter. And then, several days later, I went from award winning amateur screenwriter to my cousin's bridesmaid.

It was a particularly transformative couple of weeks.

After spending five days and four nights in Cleveland - wearing a lot of wisteria, having my hair cemented into being unrecognizable, drinking, wearing heels, riding in a limo, having my name announced to the Doctor Who theme - I then immediately moved to New Paltz, NY to start my job as a Theater Program Specialist at a fairly local girl scout camp.

New Paltz is a bit like Twin Peaks, if Twin Peaks was on the East coast and crossed with Portland, Oregan. On my first night, I sat in a local bar and chatted with a group of people who had been here their whole lives, and the consensus was that New Paltz is "different" from other towns in New York. Indeed, the people are laid back and friendly, the food is relatively inexpensive and almost always good, there are three used book stores within a street of each other, and the coffee is wonderful. The population is divided between young, usually white, college-age hipsters, and older, grizzled locals in some variation of plaid. The hipsters live in coffee shops and vinyl record stores while the locals haunt dive bars and creaky, wooden churches.

Being a clear outsider, but not a SUNY New Paltz student, I'm somewhat of an anomaly - a designation that extends outside the village to my job at camp.  In general, a conversation about my place of origin will go somewhat like this:

EXT. SOME SORT OF WOODSY STRUCTURE - NIGHT

An OLDER PERSON smoking a cigarette in a quiet, dark corner stares at me with a raised eyebrow. 

OLDER PERSON

You're from where? 

ME

New Hampshire. But, I've been living on Long Island for a few years. 

The older person takes a drag, nods. 

OLDER PERSON

Ok. Where on Long Island?

ME

Well, right now, I'm actually living in New Paltz.

OLDER PERSON

Ok. Let me see if I can get this. You grew up in New Hampshire, but you lived on Long Island for how long? 

ME

Around five years, but for half of one of those I was living in South America. 

OLDER PERSON

What? 

ME

Yeah. 

OLDER PERSON

But, now you're in New Paltz? 

ME

Yes. Just for the summer. 

The older person sighs, takes yet another drag, shakes their head.  

OLDER PERSON

I'm too old for this. 

So, yeah. No one's entirely sure how to react to me. Do they treat me like someone from the quiet, idyllic trees of New Hampshire? As a New Yorker? As a traveler? Without a distinct category, everyone seems to have just settled on "not from here" which, as a native New Englander, I can appreciate. 

So, with a feature film script under my belt, and a girl scout pocket knife in my bag, I have arrived in a fairly familiar, but utterly alien new world. 

Salem: The Television Event of 3 AM

It was late. And by that, I mean, it was early. Very early. So early that the only people still awake were drunk, having sex, or watching Netflix. I was doing none of these things.

I was watching Hulu.

No one things straight at two in the morning when you're running on about five hours of sleep from the previous night and you're trapped in a small glass booth. You tend to make poor decisions like buying one dollar black magic books on Amazon, or giving more than a minute's thought to the fate of Shia Lebeouf. This particular evening I found myself in that strange part of Hulu between the 60's horror anthologies and the high budget shows about scruffy white dudes doing things. In my quest for something mindless to watch I came upon a show called Salem.

The description read as follows:

"As the wife of a wealthy but ailing town elder, Mary Sibley holds the distinction of being the most powerful sorceress in 1692 Salem. Ruthless, yet vulnerable, Mary leans on her ageless accomplish Tituba to help advance her supernatural agenda - but Mary's world is turned upside down when John Alden, her long lost love, finally returns home from years at war and starts asking questions that threaten to expose Mary's darkest secrets." 

Naturally, with a paragraph as deeply rooting in historical fact and analysis as this, I had to watch it.

It's produced by WGN America, and is, as far as I can tell, the only original program WGN America currently airs. It's plastered all over the channel's website, complete with a three-minute behind the scenes documentary that dares to ask the question "Was Salem Real?"

My immediate answer is yes. I've been there. I bought an iced coffee at the Dunkin Donuts. It had too much sugar.

But WGN America's answer is that "the story is fantasy, but the magic is real." What does that mean? Your guess is as good as mine. Currently, the pilot's the only thing up.

This is what I retained.

EXT. SALEM CENTRAL SQUARE PLACE - NIGHT

People are gathered around a large stage in the middle of the night. There's two people in stocks, and a very angry old Puritan guy with a whip and some hot irons. 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

There's sin all over the place, and these two are all up in it! I'm going to brand it into their face because that's kind of what they did in the Scarlett Letter, right? 

The people in the crowd make vague loud noises that vary from enthusiastic cheering to gossipy whispers. The camera lingers on some CHICK IN BLACK, who isn't expressing an emotion beyond "I'm sexy, but I'm PURITAN sexy." 

Suddenly, a random SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE shoves his way through the crowd. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Unrelated Bible Verse! 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

Very wise. I smile at you, but in fact, I don't give a shit. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

But this is so cruel! 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

So? We're Puritans! Burn them with hot pokers! 

He brands the two people in the stocks, and for some reason, despite having probably seen this kind of thing before and cheering for it moments earlier, the rest of the Puritans choose this particular moment to be all "Oh god, how cruel!" 

EXT. RANDOM PURITAN BUILDING - NIGHT

The aforementioned Chick in Black runs off toward some white building. It can be assumed that this is MARY SIBLEY because she is showing the appropriate level of hair and cleavage to be the female lead. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I'm going to war. 

MARY SIBLEY

I'm thinking of signing a contract with the devil.

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

What? 

MARY SIBLEY

Never mind. 

EXT. SALEM CENTRAL SQUARE PLACE - DAY

Mary is walking with TITUBA, the only black person in Salem. 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

Good day. Would you be interested in a confusing double entendre that hints at my knowledge of your sexual indiscretion? 

MARY SIBLEY

Not particularly. 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

Well, here's one anyway. Puritan burn. 

TITUBA

Don't worry. We'll get him later. 

ANGRY OLD PURITAN

I'm sorry? 

TITUBA

Nothing. 

EXT. DARK WOODS - NIGHT

Tituba leads Mary through a dark, foreboding, and frantically edited forest. Occasionally, there are demons and flashbacks to sex happening. 

MARY SIBLEY

I'm suddenly not sure if I want to do this! 

TITUBA

Do you want to have a baby out of wedlock?

MARY SIBLEY

Not really. 

TITUBA

Then lie back and give yourself to the devil. 

She lies down, and Tituba starts spreading oil all over her. We get seemingly random flashes of demons and of the Scruffy White DUDE, who is now heavily implied to be the father of the baby. 

Mary starts screaming. Black goo stuff starts spreading all over her now mostly naked body. 

TITUBA

Let it inside you!

MARY SIBLEY

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THIS IS WHY WE NEED TO PROTECT ABORTION RIGHTS!!!!

Some confusing, poorly edited stuff happens. 

FADE TO BLACK

TEXT: SEVEN YEARS LATER

EXT. SALEM CENTRAL SQUARE PLACE - DAY

Scruffy White Dude, now looking significantly more scruffy, wanders slightly dazed into town. He looks up at a tree - there are three bodies hung there. He shakes his head. 

He wanders through town and we see a bunch of random people wandering around yelling about damnation and hell - basically, just your average day in a Puritan settlement. Eventually he comes across a house that, presumably, was once his. 

INT. SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE'S HOUSE - DAY

He wanders around the house with the same boring quality he had outside. It's sad, things are covered in sheets. 

Suddenly, a guy with a gun shows up. 

GILES COREY

Scruffy White Dude! You're back from the war! 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I am! I thought I'd angst about it for a while. 

GILES COREY

Would you like some exposition? 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Most certainly. 

GILES COREY

The Old Angry Puritan has been replaced by the possibly psychotic Cotton Mathers, everyone's extra scared of witches, and your ex-girlfriend married a sick, old, rich guy. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

This all makes me generically unhappy. 

GILES COREY

I thought it would. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Mary Sibley is doing some evil needlepointing in her elaborate living room. Her husband, a practically comatose guy in a wheelchair, sits by her doing nothing. 

A guy who kind of looks like RORY from Doctor Who comes in. 

NOT-RORY

Mrs. Sibley, here are some packages. 

MARY SIBLEY

Ah, thank you. 

NOT-RORY

Also, your ex-boyfriend from the woods is back. 

MARY SIBLEY

Oh good. I think I'll not react at all. 

NOT-RORY

Very good, Mrs. Sibley. 

INT. SOMEBODY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

COTTON MATHERS, a guy who looks unnervingly like an insane, bearded Ben from Parks and Rec, is being led through some random guy's house to the bedroom of the guy's daughter. 

RANDOM GUY

She's flailing around like in the Exorcist! 

COTTON MATHERS

(gleefully)

Oh, yes. 

We're taken upstairs, where a teenage girl with lots of scars is, as mentioned, flailing around like in the Exorcist. 

COTTON MATHERS

WHO ARE THE WITCHES?!

POSSESSED GIRL

FL:KKGFJ:SOIGHGHGOISP"IJGDSLJGHGHOISGDOIHS

COTTON MATHERS

This is clearly a spectral attack. 

INT. MEETING HOUSE - DAY

It's a typical Puritan church service. 

COTTON MATHERS

We are sinners and there is sin and it's giving us a witch problem so we should KILL EVERYONE. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

As the generic male protagonist, I loudly disagree with you despite having been raised Puritan. 

COTTON MATHERS

Because you're the protagonist, and you just got back from the war, I'm not going to hang you for blasphemy. Church is dismissed!

Everyone gets up and shuffles for the back. Scruffy White Dude and Mary catch sight of each other and their sexual tension. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

You've become quite enigmatically evil since I left. 

MARY SILBEY

You should come to my house for dinner. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

THat sounds like a great idea. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Mary is standing enigmatically on her balcony. She glares at something, then immediately strips off all her clothing and walks inside. 

Her sick, old husband is sitting in his wheelchair. She does something vaguely magical, and a frog comes out of his mouth. She smiles, and lets it suckle from her leg. 

MARY SILBEY

It's a good thing I took off all my clothes for this. How else would you know I'm evil? 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S DINING ROOM - NIGHT

The most posh of the Puritans are sitting around for dinner. Scruffy White Dude is unnerved because he's "not posh" and he's sitting across from Mary. Next to him is SOME REDHEAD GIRL, who is young, but uncharacteristically adventurous for a Puritan. 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

I bet you saw all kinds of interesting stuff at war! 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

French and Indians, mostly. 

RICH PURITAN LADY
Oh, those savages! 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL
They're not savages, Mother. You're so unenlightened. 

MARY SILBEY
Hey, Scruffy White Dude, what are you thinking about? 

Scruffy White Dude looks down at his pants and sees the Redhead fondling his junk. The Redhead then becomes Mary. It's weird. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Um, I'm gonna go. 

EXT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Scruffy White Dude is engaging in some late night angsting.

MARY SILBEY

I thought you were dead. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

That's no excuse! We're Puritan! Women aren't allowed to have fun. You know that. 

INT. RANDOM GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Cotton Mathers is still hanging out with the possessed chick. 

POSSESSED GIRL

:DSKLGJ:SOGIHGOIGF:SFG:LKJSDFG!!!

COTTON MATHERS

Sexy. 

He creepily strokes her leg and has a decidedly not safe for work flashback about sleeping with a hooker...or something. End scene. 

EXT. PATH IN THE WOODS - DAY

Scruffy White Dude has decided to leave. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I'm going to leave!

NOT-RORY

Wait! You can't leave! I have to show you something! 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Who are you?

NOT-RORY

I'm the guy from the stocks in the cold open. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Oh. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Tituba and Mary are hanging out in the bedroom, getting ready for the Sabbath. 

MARY SILBEY

You know, I'm starting to have second thoughts about this whole "witch" thing. 

TITUBA

This is literally the only interesting thing a woman can do here. 

MARY SILBEY

Fair enough. 

She lies down on the bed, much like she did in the woods, and Tituba again starts putting oil on her. 

TITUBA

"Here's some stuff about the Devil

He's totally on another level." 

MARY SILBEY

Word. 

Suddenly, Mary's eyes open, and she can see some really creepy stuff happening in the woods. 

EXT. CREEPY WOODS - NIGHT

Meanwhile, Not-Rory and Scruffy White Dude are watching all the crazy shit go down in the woods. This includes dove killing, people wandering around in live animal heads, black goo orgies, and fire. 

NOT-RORY

THIS IS TOO MUCH FOR ME! AHHHHHHH!!

CREEPY ANIMAL HEAD GUY

There's totally people watching us. 

They run away. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Mary suddenly sits up. 

MARY SILBEY

The circle was broken! 

TITUBA

What circle?

MARY SILBEY

You know, the circle. 

TITUBA

It's always been more like a vague blob to me. 

MARY SILBEY

Well, whatever it is, it's broken. 

TITUBA

Fuck. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Mary comes downstairs to find Giles Corey sitting in her living room. 

GILES COREY

I know what you did last summer. And I'm going to tell. 

MARY SILBEY

Why?

GILES COREY

Scruffy White Guy has a right to know that your dead child was his! 

MARY SILBEY

Did he face social exile for this kid? No. Was it inside of him? No. I'm going to get you. 

INT. SOMEBODY'S HOUSE - DAY

Cotton Mathers is still hanging out with the possessed chick. She's even more messed up than usual. 

COTTON MATHERS

WHO ARE THE WITCHES?! 

POSSESSED GIRLS

SDFSLK:JSDGL:JGHGSOISGJL I CAN'T TELL YOU! 

COTTON MATHERS

Then I hope you like leashes. 

EXT. SALEM TOWN SQUARE THING - DAY

It's normal day in the town square. All our central characters happen to be there. 

Suddenly, Cotton Mathers shows up with the Possessed Girl on a leash. This is not a joke. 

COTTON MATHERS

NOW! FIND THE WITCH! 

GILES COREY

What the fuck? 

POSSESSED GIRL

SNARL SNARL HISS HISS DSF:LFLKJGD:OGSI

The Possessed Girl freaks her way over towards Mary, who gives her a look that clearly says, "This is not the witch you're looking for" The girl then heads for Giles Corey. 

COTTON MATHERS

HE IS THE WITCH! 

GILES COREY

Wouldn't I be a warlock? 

COTTON MATHERS

HE'S A WITCH! 

EXT. OUTDOOR JAIL CELL - NIGHT

Giles Corey is locked up in a jail cell. Cotton Mathers is watching him, crazy like. Mary comes up behind him. 

GILES COREY

This sucks, I'm definitely not the witch. 

MARY SILBEY

I take it he's the witch. How disgusting.

COTTON MATHERS

Heee heee heeee. I think I'll stone him. 

MARY SILBEY

Sounds good to me. I hate witches. If you know what I mean. 

COTTON MATHERS

I don't. 

EXT. CEMETERY - DAY

That random redhead chick from earlier in the episode is drawing in cemetery with Scruffy White Dude. 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

They say that drawing and anything fun is idolatry. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I'll show you idolatry. 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

What? 

At that moment, Mary approaches the scene. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

I have to go. 

He leaves. But Mary comes closer. 

MARY SILBEY

Interesting place to draw. 

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

I have no fear of death! 

MARY SILBEY

Interesting. Have you ever considered the Devil?

SOME REDHEAD GIRL

What?

MARY SILBEY

Apparently not. 

EXT. SALEM TOWN SQUARE PLACE - NIGHT

Cotton Mathers drags Giles Corey through a screaming crowd of Puritans ready for a stoning. 

GILES COREY 

This is really ill-advised! 

COTTON MATHERS

Um, it's God-advised, thank you. 

The stoning begins. It's really violent and bloody. Suddenly, Scruffy White Dude appears. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

Giles! What are they doing to you?

GILES COREY

I believe they're stoning me. 

SCRUFFY WHITE DUDE

This is a travesty! I'm going to give an enlightened, boring, protagonist speech about why this is wrong! 

From her balcony, which is now inexplicably next to the square, Mary rolls her eyes. 

MARY SILBEY

I hate speeches. Also, I'm just now realizing my ex-lover might be kind of a problem. 

She turns and walks inside. 

INT. SICK OLD RICH GUY'S HOUSE - NIGHT

She steps inside, and addresses Tituba. 

MARY SILBEY

That thing that happened in the woods last night can never happen again. 

TITUBA

Ok. 

She turns, and a bunch of Puritans who I think we're supposed to recognize are standing around, presumably also working for the Devil. 

MARY SILBEY

It's time to get shit done, understand? Only by doing vaguely evil things like driving a teenager crazy and convincing our minister to stone a guy can we make sure that Salem is FINALLY OURS! 

RANDOM DEVIL PURITAN

Aren't we in Salem Village? 

MARY SILBEY

NO. We're going to take over SALEM. Because that's what the Devil wants - complete control over a random English settlement with more trees than people. Now join me in an evil laugh! 

They all laugh. Evilly. 

EXT. ABOVE SALEM - NIGHT

The camera swoops above Salem towards the moon that seems to be perpetually full. On this image, we fade to black. 

I may have left out a few key details. It was three in the morning. If this intrigued you, Salem can be watched on WGN America Sundays at 10 PM, and on Hulu + the day after it airs. I know I'll be keeping up.