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LionQueenAkima
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Name: Kimberly
Country: United States
State: Texas
Metro: College Station
Gender: Female
Interests: Let's see: I like reading just about anything. I LOVE lions and everything to do with Thailand--food, culture, people, scenery, and getting to do everything at your own risk!!! --- and don't forget Star Trek Voyager
Expertise: Well...hmmmm. I'm a serious golfer and I play guitar. I also am pretty good at embarrassing myself.
Occupation: Student/ Missionary kid
Industry: Missions
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
MSN: kimdawn1990@yahoo.com
Yahoo:  kimdawn1990@yahoo.com
Member Since:
11/25/2004
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| For English Class My eyes groped for light upon entering the frigid void. A stony emptiness impregnated the air—the emptiness akin to earth’s initial starkness before the birth of creative thought. And then there came light. Gargantuan fixations of illumination suddenly flooded the world with visibility, defining the shadow of a curtain and the edge of a three-foot precipice. Thence came a booming voice: “Now, heathens! Find your seats on the stage!” This class was sure to be an easy one. After all, thought I, theatre is merely about pretending, right? I was a genious when it came to pretending. However, the thunderous vocals of Mr. Williamson rudely broke my personal interlude. What was he wanting from us “heathens” now? The human megaphone began: “In this theatre class, we are starting off our first unit with body language and its importance. Now, did you know that your movement and posture are the most convincing communications on the stage? For example, I know what each of you is thinking at this moment as you sit cluelessly in your little plastic chairs.” His beady, spectacled eyes scanned the swarm of potential victims before quickly resting on my rigid, crossed form. “You are judging me,” he quipped without hesitation. I started. I had not expected this swift unraveling of my calm, collected façade. Perhaps I needed to lend further attention to his cunning and cavalier methods. I waited for my chance to oppose his folly, and chance granted so with his following question: “Can anyone tell me what the purpose of theatre is?” A devilish curve crept along my cheek as I raised my hand. “Mr. Williamson, the purpose of theatre is entertainment and enjoyment.” He halted and met my challenging eye. To my surprise, his shrewish gaze softened into a brief emotion which I could only equate to dull pain. He actually cared about this class? I did not understand his pause at first, but his reply served as a compelling invitation. “Hmmm…well, yes you are right…but really you’re not. I personally believe theatre is more than entertainment. The purpose of theatre is to change the way people think—the way they perceive the world.” “But you use lies; you only pretend it’s real.” “That’s the beauty of acting, isn’t it? Telling the truth with lies, ha! Besides, we’re all actors and pretenders when you really think about it, so I don’t see the difference between what you call ‘real’ and ‘pretend.’ ” After Mr. Williamson’s introduction of the first day and throughout the course of my year of discovery, my skeptecism melted into insatiable curiosity and imagination. This world of the stage opened to me with beckoning arms—appealing to my own introverted nature while simultaneously dissolving it. This class would be an exhilarating experience. My feet trod the familiar path through the cool sheet of darkness. Feeling the electricity of the blank canvas beneath me, I checked to see that the powerful lights aimed in the most effective direction to illuminate the birthing of my creation. The world would see my story. The world would understand my true message through pretending, and perhaps someone would change. My actors swayed behind the shadowy curtain, giddy for our success. The guiding voice of Mr. Williamson rang forth calling for my play’s introduction. I approached the precipice and scanned the invisible crowd enveloped in cold darkness—knowing from whence I had come. | | |
| When I was eight years old, I thought that everyone was supposed to be a missionary. Not a missionary of the figurative sense such as when Christians claim that we are all automatically missionaries because we are supposed to "spread the word," but I meant (as usually eight year olds do) that every person is destined to literally become a missionary: get out of America, preach, learn another language, perform miracles, and eat bugs. I believed that the hundreds of plump Sunday school-goers and suit-and-tie preachers were getting by cheap just staying in America--"praying" for the missionaries, sending money through the annual Christmas offering, and slurping free re-fills at the local Taco Bell. When I was twelve, I began to suppose that maybe I had been too hard on our faithful money-supporters in the States. After all, sometimes the churches would send us Christmas presents or a package filled with Taco Bell fire sauce at our request. I supposed that the term "missionary" could--after all-- be taken in a more flexible light. Or perhaps, some are called to be pew-warmers. (Those seats would sure be awfully cold for our behinds without them.) But really, the pew-warmers are nice people. It would just be gratifying if they could understand what it's like out there on the field. That's why us missionary kids had to break in the volunteers who actually did leave the pews for a short while to get a glimpse of the action. We dutifully tested their faith with ice cubes in the bathwater, fried bugs for breakfast, and coconuts under the sleeping bags. How else were we to know if the Americans were staying strong in the faith? Honestly, now, it's hard to say who a missionary is, but I'm tending to give my eight-year-old self some credit. Everyone ought to be a missionary--a player on the field. Some just need to understand that there's a whole world out there that doesn't have a Taco Bell around the corner. Live a little less comfortably and go pour a free re-fill for some kid half-way around the world--do it. | | |
| Ahhhhhhhhhhh, Christmas break. It's glorious. The King and I is finally over and I have my life back. Now all I have to worry about is Christmas shopping. My parents also just got back from Thailand yesterday, and I am soooooooo glad they are back. I love my grandmother, but let's just say she runs a tight ship. I'm also estatic that my favorite television show on Earth is having marathon re-runs. Star Trek Voyager--I had almost forgotten how much I love it. Anyway, there's nothing significant to report so I'd better get back to my cross-stitch project or maybe I should make some kind of headway on my two reading assignments for the holiday: Catcher in the Rye and The Killer Angels. Oh, wait! I might as well post this funny version of the 12 days of Christmas that my friend sent me. Enjoy, --Kim The Politically Correct Twelve Days of Christmas ON THE TWELFTH DAY of the Eurocentrically imposed midwinter festival, my "Significant Other" in a consenting adult, monogamous relationship presented to me, with the expectation of receiving similar-valued merchandise in return: TWELVE Percussionists connecting with their "inner warrior" through ritualistic pounding on cylinders topped with the stretched hides of cruelly slain bovines, ELEVEN Members of the Pipers Union earning their living (plus an 18-member pit orchestra consisting of members in good standing of the Musicians Equity Union as required in their contract even though they will not be asked to play a note), TEN melanin-deprived, testosterone-poisoned Scions of the Patriarchal Ruling Class springing athletically in Step Aerobics Class, NINE Culturally Advantaged Females in formal attire moving in rhythmic, physical, artistic self-expression to musical accompaniment, EIGHT disadvantaged Rural Young Women, extracting (through economic pressure) lactose products from enslaved Bovine-Americans, SEVEN endangered Swans a-swimming on federally protected wetlands while being relentlessly pursued by barbarous NRA supporters, SIX enslaved long-necked Fowl-Americans honking in obvious protest to the affront of being made to produce non-right-to-life ova for human consumption, FIVE Golden Symbols of culturally sanctioned enforced mutual monogamy, (NOTE: After the Animal Liberation Front threatened with prosecution, the Calling Birds, French Hens and Partridge have been reintroduced to their native habitat. To avoid further Animal-American enslavement, my Significant Other has revised the remaining items of the midwinter package as follows FOUR hours of recorded Whale Songs, THREE Sierra Club Calendars printed on recycled reprocessed tree carcasses, TWO endangered Sea Turtle website addresses, and a "Save-the-Spotted-Owl" activist chaining himself to an old-growth Pear Tree! p.s. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Felice Navidad. Oh, heck! -- Happy Holidays!!* * Unless, of course, you're suffering from Seasonally Affected Disorder (SAD). If this be the case, please substitute this gratuitous call for celebration with a suggestion that you have a "thoroughly adequate December." | | |
| THENaming of Cats
By T.S. Eliot The naming of cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm mad as a hatter
When I tell you a cat must have three
different names.
First of all, there's the name
that the family use daily,
Such as Victor, or Jonathan,
George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names
if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen,
some for the dames;
Such as Plato, Admetus,
Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you,
a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that is peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he
keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers,
or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind,
I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quazo or Coripat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellyrum--
Names that never belong
to more than one cat.
But above and beyond
there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you will never guess;
The name
that no human research can discover--
But The Cat Himself Knows,
and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought,
of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
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| Well, tonight was opening night for The King and I in which I am one of the king's wives. It was awesome, and I have 4 more performances this weekend to look forward to. (Then we perform again for every day of the next to weekends.) I am extremely sleep deprived because of the past week of rehearsals. Also, to top it off, my parents are leaving for Thailand on a mission trip--TOMORROW. They'll be back for Christmas thankfully. Then we'll go to Georgia!!! I'm so excited. It's just too bad that I had to miss my golf tournament in San Antonio this weekend because of The King and I. Oh, well. Anyway, I'd better go wash off my stage makeup before it stains my skin or something freakish like that. --Kim | | |
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