All right, so I had to add to them.  I’m at Storylines Coffee Shop, my favorite place in all of Watkins Glen, next to Pizza Hut and Wal-Mart.

There are these people behind me, and I don’t know who they’re talking about, but it’s one of the men’s employees, and he’s saying, “Yeah, Houghton didn’t do him any favors.”
“Well,” the other man says, “I’m sure Houghton has good departments.”
The first man snorts. “Religious ed, maybe.”

HA HA HA HA HA HA

Almost as funny as George’s comment last Friday night:

“I cannot believe we are having this retarded conversation.”

I’m on the floor…

And so.

I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday, with a very annoyed doctor who rather brusquely informed me that I, personally, am an idiot.

Just in case I was wondering.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I once again ignored all the signs and let my B12 levels drop drastically, to the point where I was happily considering jumping off a bridge.  I blissfully ignored the mouth sores, exhaustion, tingling in my hands and feet, reduced sense of taste, altered sense of touch, irritated tongue, muscle spasms, heart palpitations, and increased psychological symptoms, and went on with my happy life.

“You are the only person I know,” my doctor(actually it was the physician’s assistant) said grumpily, “Who will ignore every single symptom until someone drags you in here kicking and screaming.”
“I can’t be the only one,” I said.
“Oh, yes, you are,” he replied.

Apparently, pernicious anemia can kill you, or, even worse, render you permanently insane.  And I should never have stopped the shots last summer.

“But the bloodwork said my vitamin levels were where they should be,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” he pointed back, “Because you were taking the meds! And now you’re in the later stages of pernicious anemia because you were an idiot and stopped the medication!”

Oh.

I’d like to pretend my doctor actually cares about me, and that’s why he was so upset, but I think it had more to do with an emergency appointment, and the fact that I’m in there so much that if I die, he’ll lose fifty percent of his yearly income.

He also shared with me the lovely fact that, apparently, if your vitamin B12 levels are low enough long enough, you, in fact, develop irreversible depression and psychosis! What fun!

Fortunately that shouldn’t happen–though, depending on just how bad the tests turn out, I may need blood transfusions– and though it will take three months to bring my levels up to where they should be and make sure there was no permanent damage by my “idiot lapse”, they stuck me in the arm and I was smiling six hours later.  I even went out, got my hair done, my eyebrows waxed, and Rachel and I went out for lunch.

And tonight is another one of her bridal showers, this time at my grandmother’s, and I am, in fact, looking forward to it.  I love my family, all my crazy, dysfunctional, insane family who make my life so much fun. 

February 18th approaches…and rumor has it my brilliant cousins Erica and Tami will be here for it.(Erica, my dad always held you up to me as an example of “really, really smart”, so I always attach the adjective “brilliant” when I think of you)  I’m really loosening up about this whole thing–yes, I think my sister is making a mistake, but she is, after all, my sister, and if it all goes bad, it will be my number she’s calling.

And if, hopefully, I’m wrong, then this will be the happiest day of her life, so I’m just shutting my mouth and smiling for her.

In other news, I discovered that the Watkins Glen school district will pay me $95 a day to sub. Good Lord in Heaven, I can afford to live again…

I was reading an old online journal(you’re not going to know the link, because I cannot believe half of the stuff I wrote on there.  I really need to learn to just shut my mouth and crawl under my bed sometimes), a journal from my last two years at Houghton(also, I need to learn to write some things in a private, locked journal, instead of posting them on the freaking internet), and I haven’t laughed so hard in so long.

I was funny.

Once.

But, Arlene, Dave, Tim, Julia, George, Brady, Brian, and Sharon, I miss our good times.

And in honor of all that, I’m going to post quotes from my brilliant self in my past, brilliant, life.

11.12.03
Sometimes…
What may be the best thing for you to do
Sometimes it the hardest thing for you to do

11.11.2003

Liz Hoppper: I’ve lived with you for ten weeks now, and in those ten weeks I have had more ridiculous, bizarre things happen to me then in my twenty-one years.
Sara Moore: I never promised you a rose garden.

(referring to the time someone, ahem, informed Houghton security that I was suicidal, and as I, personally, did not know I was suicidal, I had no idea what they were talking about when they showed up at my door along with the counseling department at 7:30 in the morning)

Sara: The first words out of my mouth were, “Oh, crap,” and the next was, “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”
Jen Sherwood: HAHAHAHAHA
Jen Sherwood: i love you
Sara: And then I realized this was for real.
Sara: oops.
Jen: aahhhHAHAHAHAHA
Jen: omg i love you again.
Sara: Is there any way we can blame Zoller for this one?

11.09.03
It’s November now, years after that August. Dark comes early, swooping on the earth, settling on everything in its path. The sun leaves early, abandoning us to the wiles of the dark, leaving us to explore it on our own.
Some fight the darkness, expending all their energies trying to send light into it, trying to send the darkness to the corners and keep it there.
Others live with it, ignore it, pretend it doesn’t exist, that they can’t see it.
And then there are those who make friends with the darkness, exploring the nooks and cranies, making friends with the charm and danger of the darkness, until one morning, they wake up, only to discover that they, themselves, have become part of it.

10.22.03
This was the plan for this morning:
Shower. Dress. Clean out refrigerator, take out trash, run to meeting with Zoller, stop down at station and edit Phil’s script, make sure the show prep for Thursday and Friday was done–then attend chapel.
So I jumped out of bed, ready to do this, and as I was pouring my Lucky Charms I turned on the television.
Comedy Central is running a ventriloquist-stand-up marathon this morning.
My Achilles’ heel–it’s all over, it’s 11:08 AM and I’m still sitting on the couch, eating still more Lucky Charms, and watching Comedy Central.

10.01.03

I learned something vitally important today.
I learned that cooking has an adverse relationship on insurance rates.

Relearning to swim is hard.
It takes a lot of energy.
And a lot of deep breaths.
And sometimes, you just have to keep on reaching down into your soul, knowing that when you desperately need it, right before you run out of air, right before you die, the remembrance will spring back, and you will know what to do. (7.9.2003)

You are. You cannot spend the rest of your life in the coat rack, with your hands covering your eyes, repeating “if I can’t see you, then you can’t see me.”(7.31.2003)

What I have can be lost (and, trust me, it all was); what I am can be forgotten, but never really gone. I was always afraid that when someone finally figured it out, when I finally saw the documents or heard the stories, I would be left alone, and that there would be nothing left.
And when that all happened, I discovered that I was never alone, and that I have so much within me that can never leave. I am perfectly strong enough to make it on my own, to stop those who let greed control them, to shut up the naysayers and the critics. I am strong enough to stand on my own, by myself, when all the world seems against me. (8.9.2003)

Sometimes the hardest part is letting go of everything you thought was real. And turning around and facing that one awful truth you know is there, lurking below the surface. You know if you would only reach into the darkness, you could pull it out. But it will hurt as you grasp it, and hurt even more as you hold it up to the sun. And then, after the hurt goes away, you will have been given your life back. (5.25.2003)

I suddenly realized that I’d far rather be me. I know I look like an idiot most of the time, that my hair never lies the right way, that my eyebrows are mismatched and that my eyes and chin and nose don’t exactly look the way they should. I know that unlike Rachel or Miss America, I will never be a multi-talented person, and in fact, I very likely don’t qualify as a talented person at all. And suddenly I knew that was okay, because I can dance in the rain, and sing in the shower, and I have friends who love me.
And, best of all, I can burn stuff.
(9.24.2003)

In my literary criticism class today we had a pop quiz.
Of course I hadn’t actually done the reading, so here were my answers:

Name: Sara Elston-Moore

Directions: Define each of the following terms

1. deictics

Dietics For The Spellingly Challenged

2. hyper-protected cooperative principle

technical term for the witness protection program

3. Sapir-Whorf hypothesis

Something a wise old Smurf philosopher came up with after smoking opium

4. babble and doodle

This is best described by examples. See first three answers.
(9.5.03)

 I have no idea what sort of profession I will choose, but I doubt the words “fine and upstanding” will apply. It will probably involve the words “low pay and long hours.”
(9.1.03)

From my grandmother’s kitchen window, I could see the sun setting over the trees. There was a moment, every evening, when the sun would stand still, and you could believe that if you climbed the highest tree, on the highest hill, right there–that in that moment you could touch the sun.

And many years ago, I climbed the mountains,
even though it is forbidden.
Things are not as they teach us.
The world is hollow.
And I…I have touched the sun.
(8.27.03)

The truth, my great-grandmother says finally, will forever scream to be heard. There is more to this world than we can see, and you can choose to scream the truth yourself, or you can continue to fight it, but the truth, in the end, will be heard.
(08.26.03)

And it is only now that I truly realize I should have stayed, but staying was a choice I had to make, a choice no one else could make for me.
They let me choose, and I chose wrong, but at least it was my own choice.
I have spent a decade of my life choosing wrong and holding onto the pain. I have spent too long in a world of surreal beauty when instead I am far better suited to the bright and splashy reality of another world. It is time to let go, to embrace the joy that is there, to accept the solid core that years of self-destruction has built. It is time to move on.
The regret, I think, will always be there. You can let go, you can move on, but when you’ve given away part of your soul, you never truly get it back. I am sure there are things that will always haunt me, shadow my footsteps, try to entice me back.
I no longer accept those things as part of my life, but they will always be there.
How will I look back on these years? They have not been unfruitful, although I have moments when I still, foolishly, believe that they have left me barren. I suppose I will look back on them with a passing regret for my self-made foolishness, for all the words never said, for all the love never shared, for all the hearts broken. Still, there is much to be gained; there is courage, and calmness, and poise. There is patience, and trust, and joy. There is love. These things were bought at a great price, but could never have been purchased at a cheaper market.

Smile.
What? Great, now you’re crazy. Fine, let’s just all dance around and grab imaginary butterflies.
Are you going to shut up?
Fine. Talk. What is it you were saying?
Smile. I don’t care if your broken ankle is screaming in pain and your other leg is going to collapse and all the vertebrae in your back have chosen this moment to rebel, and you want to lay down and die but you can’t because you’ve gotta be at the studio by 5:15 tomorrow morning, you smile.
If that turns out to be my life, I’m gonna know who to blame. Okay, okay, staying on subject.
You are not doing this alone. Whether you like or it not-whether you accept it or not-a lot of people are watching you right now. They’re watching to see how you react, what you’ll do next. Do not turn your back on the audience. And smile. Always, always smile.
So what am I supposed to do next?
Whatever is next.
But I don’t see a next.
Do you know why you can’t see a next?
Um, no. If I knew, I’d probably be able to see it, now wouldn’t I?
Because you’re not looking.
I don’t want to look.
Look.


And he grabbed her hands and wrenched them off her eyes, and she screamed as the light that had not reached her eyes in many years filled them, and the pain was immense. And as the light seeped through and burned away all the darkness, causing tears of pain and sorrow and grief to course down her cheeks. And when it was over, and the pain and the fear had finally passed through her, all that was left was solid and pure.
(7.31.2003)

(From a never-mailed letter to an ex-boyfriend’s mother)

And someday I will look back, and I will thank you, because you have inadvertently given me back what I had lost…passion, desire, and pride. You have given me back my drive, the part of me that propells my aching body out of bed at ridiculous hours of the night, that part of me that makes me practice out gorgeous summer evenings when I want to be out with my friends, that part of me that makes me work when I want to be at movies. And I may make it, and I may not, but you won’t know, because you won’t be there. In that moment, I will think of you and smile. And I will lift my chin just a little bit higher, because then there will be one less thing I cannot do.

***
So this is what it takes for me to understand.
To forgive, and to let go.
This is what it takes for me to remember my life, my dreams…this is what it takes for me to be free.
***
I have to be jobless, friendless, carless, futureless? Anything else going to be thrown at me?
I don’t know what more of my world can shatter, but I’m betting it’s going to.
***
(7.17.03)

I miss his sense of humor. How he’d tease me. The time that he and Rachel and I went to the mall and bought a minature toilet coin bank that made real flushing noises whenever you pulled the handle, so of course we wandered around for hours in the mall yelling, GOTTA FLUSH MY TOILET NOW! and pulling the handle, just to see the looks. That time in the mall that he walked into a three-hundred pound angry man, and the time that he tripped me on purpose and I fell into the fountain. The time we tried to book a Caribbean cruise using his mom’s credit card, or the way we’d harass waitresses at the Olive Garden, demanding that they put olives into ALL of our food. I miss our complaining about school and work and life in general, until our complaints dissoved into hysterical laughter.

I slip out the door, into the dark night that no longer holds any fear, and down the lighted path towards home. (9.26.2003)

I still think it’s funny.

If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we’re all OK
And not to worry ’cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these
I won’t be made useless
I won’t be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear

My hands are small, I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn’t steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn’t ever after
We’ll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what’s right
‘Cause where there’s a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing

My hands are small I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
I am never broken

In the end only kindness matters

I will get down on my knees, and I will pray

My hands are small I know
But they’re not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
We are never broken

Such a weird world it tis. Yes, I have seen The End Of The Spear, and though I thought perhaps some of it was too much, I rather enjoyed it. Especially considering that it was filmed by a “Christian” film company(whatever the heck that is), and usually those sort of films make me want to hang myself from the nearest tree.

I, who am blissfully removed from Christian pop culture, had no idea that there was even a movie coming out about Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, and the other murdered missionaries, until last Friday when I read an article in the local paper about it.  It was a good review, though I agree with the reviewer that, perhaps, there was a good bit of human arrogance in that they met with the locals without a full interpreter or understanding of the culture, both of which contributed to the murders.  And then two days later, I discover that Christian pop culture has found yet another thing to complain about–that Chad Allen, who plays Nate Saint and the adult Steve Saint, is an outspoken homosexual.

Oh, my good Lord, I thought, what will they think of next.

When I go to the doctor, I don’t ask whether he’s gay or whether she’s a militant feminist.  I ask how good they are are fixing bodies.  When I get my car repaired, I could care less whether the mechanic has a wife, or three wives, or a boyfriend.  I care about how well he fixes my car.  If I was casting a play–which I do from time to time–or a movie, I wouldn’t care or ask if my actors were gay, straight, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, black, brown, white or pink.  I want to know how well they can act.

I really feel like the Christian world–once again–is overlooking the most important fact.  Jesus Christ died so that Chad Allen can live, and, who knows, perhaps appearing in this movie and learning the stories of Nate Saint and the others, and working with these people, is exactly what God will use to draw Chad Allen, outspoken homosexual, to  Him–just like God used a variety of circumstances and people to draw Sara Elston-Moore, sinner, to Him as well.

Shamelessly stolen from Julia’s blog. (www.pundicity.blogspot.com  How such an intelligent woman can be a Republican, I will never understand.)

1. if you know what the southern tier is
   
   
2. you sometimes forget they put a four-way stop in front of the bank and try to whiz through the intersection
   
   
3. your hometown has no stoplights
   
   
4. your town used to be inhabited by indians, but they were killed by General Sullivan
   
   
5. you know who General Sullivan is
   
   
6. you know that Tommy Hilfiger, Mark Twain, Eileen Collins, Hal Roach all lived here
   
   
7. you know that the only famous people from your town got famous by leaving
   
   
8. you remember the scare when wal-mart was coming and how the mall management thought they were going extinct
   
   
9. you know that the elmira-corning regional airport is really in big flats, and it only has about three flights a day
   
   
10. Arnot is pronouced are/nit, Chemung is Sha/mung and Steuben is stew/ben
    
    
11. the best thing to do on a summer’s night is go to the drive-in and see two movies for 6 bucks under the stars
    
    
12. you know what the joke “praaaaatsburg” really means, and you never really want to explain it
    
    
13. you can find hornell, wellsburg, or catlin
    
    
14. you not only live 1/2 mile from the fruit and vegetable stand you have worked it to earn extra money in summer
    
    
15. everyone goes “to the lake” on weekends
    
    
16. the city is NYC, and you have to tell everyone you are from upstate
    
    
17. your shopping mall is one story
    
    
18. you understand the magic of Wegman’s
    
    
19. the term mom and pop store or gas station referred to your mom and pop
    
    
20. you think you are better than pennsylvanian’s
    
    
21. you have almost no discernable accent accept for the word milk (melk)
    
    
22. thursday night is retro night at tag’s, but you’ll probably run into your boss and his wife there
    
    
23. you pick strawberries and blueberries in the summer
    
    
24. you know the old men who drink coffee at 3 pm every weekday and use them to tell time
    
    
25. you know more about glass, gliders, western art and wine that should be humanly possible
    

Here are random comments I wrote while sitting in class this last week:

Monday:

I couldn’t find a parking spot, so I wound up fifteen minutes late, and I walk into this and they’re deep in an intellectual discussion on–Mick Jagger.  I suspect this has something to do with philsoophy of art, but I’m not sure.  And if I think too much about philosophy of art, I will be taken back to sophomore year at CCC–Vince Lisella, Dave Higgins and John Marmysz teaching triple, talking about velvet Elvis and Dave Higgins’ college roommate, who wore foil on his head to block out alien radio transmissions and was later diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic.  And Pink Fingernail Lady, who wore bright pink fingernails and turned every class discussion into a listing of her personal emotional troubles.  Ben, who amassed 171 credits(only 120 needed for a bachelor’s) before he dropped out to become a ski instructor, hated her until he saw one of her glass creations, and then insisted she was that pinnacle of creation, a True Artist.  And Suzette, who’s husband died in Afghanistan, and Jason, who I still see occasionally.

It was only six years ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

I had not really intended to be here.  I truly thought I would have fallen in love and married by now, or at least fallen in love, and it never occurred to me that I would be incapable of having a relationship that lasted longer than three weeks.  Or that no one would ever really be interested in me.  I still find this amazing.  I’m smart, educated, have a good job, and am not entirely unattractive, and yet no one looks twice.  And my younger sister can actually meet someone and fall in love and get married.

Did I tell you we’re studying “The Taming Of The Shrew”?  I rather like Kate.  I think I shall be a shrew.

Tuesday:

Sitting in class, pretending to pay attention wile the professor blathers on about independent variables in psychology.  I am beginning to think the class is going to get an experiment in the psychology of suicide pretty soon if this rapidly doesn’t become more interesting.

I forgot one of my quizzes that was due today.  I know exactly where it is–in my car–which is sitting in my driveway because the brakes are bad.  I’m driving my father’s garguantan Chevy Silverado, which is a mammoth truck, and it has everything from XM radio to it’s own phone number.  There is no actual phone in it; the voice comes through the radio speakers and somehow is received through something in the winshiled.  Why someone thought this was I good idea, I don’t know.

Further, I can’t imagine why I am missing Tuesday’s “American Idol” so I can attend this class.  The prof keeps saying “phenomenon” and all I can think of is that horrid diet cherry vanilla whatever soda it was commercial.  Nasty, nasty stuff.

What is the point of neckties? Who first said, “Oh, I think I’ll take brightly colored strips of cloth and tie it around my throat,” and why did he think that?

I found out I’ve only “conditionally” been accepted into EC, because my transcripts from Davidson haven’t shown up yet, and those theater classes are counting towards my certification.  Sigh…no matter how far away I get, it’s always those damn theater classes at Davidson holding me back.

I knew I should have gone to Wake Forest.

Last night in class, we ended with a short video performance by the Reduced Shakespeare Company.  Three men doing Hamlet in ten minutes was sight to behold–and, quite honestly, the funniest thing I’ve seen since Nate wearing a dress.

And it made me…homesick in an undefinable way.  It was not quite improv, not quite scripted, just very, very funny. I found myself longing for stage, yet once I thought about it more, I found myself wanting to be touring again.  This on-stage-twice-a-year-for-three-shows is great and wonderful and I’m so glad to be there, but…but I realized my heart is longing to go on the road. 

And when I really pin it down, my heart is telling me that I love the short comedy. I love just the small three-four person group, in your face, doing what we do best because it’s who we are.

Except my heart is also telling me that my place, for the time being, is the incredibly boring town of Bath, where you could not find a creative person if you brought in the FBI.

Sigh.

How is it possible to want so much out of life, and to be completely unable to get it?  Also, Chris Stanley just walked past me.

Now that’s disturbing.

Addendum:

Butch, go away.  I’m very sorry you don’t like the title of my xanga, but that’s just life, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.   I have no intention of changing any more of my life to satisfy anyone else’s whims, and I like my name, and my title, and everything else about myself, so why don’t you just go back home and build more peace parks or whatever it is that you people run around doing?

So there.

Signed: Sara, who is in a bad mood because her back hurts, her eye is starting an infection, and creepy people are emailing her creepy messages, and she wishes they would all just go away. 

Things you’ll never hear at Houghton:

“I told him I couldn’t be his boyfriend–I’m not reboundage!  Besides, like I said to him, I’m just not his kind of man.”

Elmira may have whacky purple road salt, but it does have a variety of interesting characters.

Yes, I’m here, at the computer, thinking about the neuropathology of juvenile delinquents, though, mostly, I’m thinking about how my life got to be so remarkably pathetic.  I’m tired and bored and…bored.  I called Sharon today, and we had absolutely nothing to talk about.  Is this the way it goes?  You just eventually no longer have anything in common with anyone?  And then what?  Do people actually just go through life without relationships?

I am also beginning to really notice the lack of young adults in this area.  Possibly because most have enough brain cells left to flee at the first opportunity(April 2007.  We will have a grand party when I graduate with my master’s degree, and then I will be on a plane to somewhere I actually want to be.) , or maybe because most of the people here seem to have married young.  This disturbs me.  What is it about people who want to get married at 21 or 22?  Do they simply have nothing else left to do? 

I would really like to go do something exotic.  Instead, I’m going to give up this grumbling, and go to Subway and grab some dinner, then come back and go to my Shakespeare class until 9, then go home and collapse into bed for an ridiculously short amount of time, and leave home tomorrow to go to work before the sun rises–and then do it all over again tomorrow.

If you need me, I shall be having a nervous breakdown…