“You Didn’t Go After Her!?”

giphy (I in no way own the above GIF I found it on the internet)

“You didn’t go after her!?” a group of shocked young women sang together in chorus. Sitting still and bewildered-looking back has his inquisitive companions as they bombarded him questions. “What happened?” One lady queried. “Why did you let her go?” Asked another. “Why don’t you go after her?” Chirped in a third. “You were perfect together,” exclaimed a fourth. There he sat stuttering and stammering not knowing how to answer any of their questions.

Finally, I spoke up after managing to quiet down my companions of the Sunday afternoon ‘book club’. “Ladies quiet down our honorary book club member,” I began “since you asked for our help, I think you better start at the beginning.” Nervously my dear friend cleared his throat “ I don’t how to begin. I met her by accident, as you well know, like in some dumb girly movie. And from that day we have been together almost every day. Then I let her slip away because I became distracted. I let other things get in my way; I let myself become obsessed with things that would purposely distance us. She tried everything to make me happy, but the more she did the further I pulled away. So one day she finally had enough and left and now I just don’t know what to do.” It was here that our friend began to silently cry and it was here that he was both comforted and berated by a gaggle of women. After a few more moments of whaling and gnashing of teeth, we finally asked him if he went after her. Here my friend looked up at me tears dripping down his face and stared blankly at me. “What does that mean?” he asked with a sniffle. Again the ladies began shouting “How could you not know what this means? Go after!?”

Again my friend stared at me as if to silently beg for an explanation. For as kind and as sweet as my friend can be he is completely clueless and afraid of women. “But she told me she never wanted to see me again,” he said. “ It is important to be respectful,” I said, “But if you really care for her you will tell her how you feel and say you’re sorry for being a big jerk.” “But” my friend started to say but I quickly cut him off “No,” I said, “ if you want her back you are going to have to do something or she will never come back.” I should have never uttered those last words because the next thing I knew I was coerced into a scheme to win back the love of his life. Great I thought as I was hanging upside-down from a tree in a black sweater, boots, and black leggings, my hair in braids and I had a pair of binoculars spying on the lady in question, watching her every move. There she sat inside a coffee shop chugging her fifth Frappuccino in two hours as her tear-stained face tried desperately to read a book. Just as I thought about climbing down the tree to go confront her, about my friend, who has been pining away for her at home. I heard the rustling of leaves below me. Looking down from the tree to the ground I saw it large with gleaming eyes and sharp teeth was a large dog. Attached to the dog was a cop. I knew at that point no matter what I said I was going “downtown”.   There I sat in my cell looking over my shoulder as my cell mate Big Lucy creepily eyed me up and down picking her black teeth with a rusty knife as she gave me that certain gleam in her eye.

Big Lucy began to make her way over to me just as I heard keys turn in our cell door. “Thank you, God,” I thought, “ As I looked behind me to see my friend, his girlfriend and the entire ladies Sunday afternoon ‘book club’ to rescue me. Apparently, my friend’s girlfriend had spotted me in the tree and thinking I was a stalker called the police. Luckily for me my trusty book club followed me and was waiting in another tree just in case I did something “stupid like getting arrested”. They then called our friend and his girlfriend and told them of my woes. They then went down and badgered the officer until he let me go. However, my arrest brought the Lovebirds back together. Just a little word to the wise Gentleman, if your lady leaves and you know that she cares for you then, by all means, go after her. She may just want you to, don’t risk her not coming back. And save your friend from getting put in jail for trying to help your love life.

 

Until next time when I return to more stories and literary talk, I remain as always respectfully,

 

Cheyenne E. Mitchell

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“A Shayna Maidel”~ “A Beautiful Girl”

WASP (I in no way own this photo I found it on the internet)

Dear Reader,

Today I would like to speak to you about the art of playwriting and its relevance to a current production. As an actress, I will tell you that the written word is powerful and one of the most, if not the most, important element of an actor. The playwright is assigned with a delicate task of bringing to life every character in a story, whether it be a large play adaptation such as “Pride and Prejudice” or a play with a significantly smaller cast as the current Coach House Players production “A Shayna Maidel”.   Further, still, the playwright has to bring the sense “of the now” or whatever that time period may be conveying to the audience. I was first introduced to “A Shayna Maidel” written by Barbara Lebow; in the winter of 2016 through a Hallmark made for Television adaptation entitled “Miss. Rose White”. I immediately fell in love with the story and longed to read the original play. It is a moving and powerful story about families being separated and reunited due to war. Two prominent characters in the play are sisters, who have to learn to learn from each other and overcome traumatic circumstances. This play centers on both the start of and the end of World War II. Now if you, like myself, have family members who served in this horrific war you may have a very real sense of what happened at this time in our world’s history. However, my knowledge of this era did not include the heartfelt stories from victims.

After reading this powerfully written play I wanted to understand more. More of how and what these people went through. So I began researching and watching interviews and read stories about survivors of the Holocaust. I sat there for the first time perhaps; truly understanding and feeling to an infinitesimal degree what these people must have gone through. I now began to understand the lives of those both of my grandfathers fought so hard to save on the fronts and my grandmothers who fought so hard at home to try to keep America stable. I began to feel as if I knew these people. My Nana (which is Italian for grandma) would tell me stories on how she would sew soldiers name tags in jackets from morning until night, hoping that sending them a warm coat could keep them going. My grandmother volunteered with the Red Cross to help send provisions across seas. All the time knowing that they were fighting for something much bigger than themselves and doing all of this out of love for their fellow neighbor.

After these reflections I re-read “A Shayna Maidel” with new eyes, realizing just how important her words really are, not just to remind us to remember our pasts but their characters prove as hopes for the future and new lives that they would build.

I was elated to find that my local theater company would be producing this play. For how more important is it to not only read about something but also to see it portrayed, to allow its sorrow, pain, and joy to resonate with you.

And As I feel research is so important I have left a link below to the play house’s website for those who may be interested, as well as, a link to some interviews I watched, in case you want to find out more about the people affected by this tragic liberation.

Until next time I remain as always respectfully,

Cheyenne E. Mitchell

 

Coach House Players: http://www.coachhouseplayers.org/seatreservation.html

Guta Blass Weintraub:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lnd6gd_9NMw and

The Second Letter to Tennyson #loveguru

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( I in no way own the above image I found it on the internet~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lithograph published in The Modern Portrait Gallery, 1890.)

Dear Mr. Tennyson:

I must admit I am quiet astonished by your reply to my last letter, first of all because you are long dead, but secondly because you do not agree that this was an adequate example of loosing love. Is not lacking love the same as loosing it? You say that it is ‘self-love therefore the only one really loosing out was the gymnast’ and on this point I must agree with you. If you feel that the first story was lacking then please afford me the favor by reading my next anecdote and tell me what you think of this ill-used persons plight.

Case the second:

The Story of the Pig (or The of the Programmer):

This relatively short anecdote was relayed to me, by my friend, Jackie when she too was lured into the world of online dating. Jackie is fairly level-headed and a black and white type of person unlike Emily who I previously told you about, but Jackie too was suckered into a potentially, shall we say compromising situation. One evening after a particularly exhausting day of swiping left or right on men’s pictures Jackie finally found one that she thought looked “safe”. He was tall with floppy black hair and big glasses, sweater, scarf and computer equipment. So she swiped right, and the programmer instantly responded with a customary hello. Jackie who was well acquainted with how this app works responded. They exchanged the usually pleasantry’s before he responded with “Let’s talk about what you are looking to get out of this app” “Ok” she replied “ Well I guess I am looking or someone who wants something real that is looking in the same direction as I am. And what about you?” It took the programmer a minute to respond and when he did this was the response she received “I guess I am looking for someone to laugh with, but mostly I am looking for someone to sleep with and if you aren’t any good you can always make it up to me by doing other things for me” #metoo. Jackie was so flabbergasted that she did not respond, but instead she deleted him immediately and blocked him. Thankfully she has more self-worth then to scum to the whims of a pig.

Tell me then Sir what advise would you give to a person seeking love but only has a pig like the programmer to contend with? I continue to await your response.

Sincerely,

Cheyenne

Dear Readers Two New Blogs

My Dear Readers:

Much has happened and much time has passed since the last time I wrote you. My next two blogs will be experimental. I have chosen to touch on a subject that most of us have been through. The subject is love and online dating. I have taken stories that I have heard and compiled them in a way that I hope you will find entertaining. Now in these stories I focus on the horror of online dating, this is not to say however that I am against it if it works for you. I have known many that have met their soul mates through the use of an app. If you find them entertaining and wish to hear more please leave me comments below.

 

Thank you.

 

As always I remain respectfully,

 

Cheyenne E. Mitchell

John Keats

Unknown (I in no way own the above image I found it on the internet nor have I written the Poem portion of this blog below that belongs to John Keats.)

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.”- John Keats

When I read words such as these, my mind cannot help but wonder at the joy and the pain that Keats must have known in his relatively short life upon this earth.  I unfortunately know all to well the quiet still hand of death that touches the lives of many of us.  Who takes away lives too soon, or just when that person’s soul needs to be released?  Death never is an easy thing to understand and oftentimes feels as though there is no way to recover from the pain to those that it leaves behind.  However I can take some comfort, as small of comfort as it may be, in poetry such as this, for I know that I am not alone.  Here centuries later the fear of death, unrequited love, never fulfilling your own expectations, was felt as truly then as it is today.  And though this is often thought of as a taboo subject and one that is not necessarily a thing you associate with poetry. It is a comfort to think that it doesn’t have to represent the end of everything, but a beginning of a new chapter.  Here, of course, I do not necessarily refer to a physical death but of closure in life.  Here Keats I feel try to explain to us in almost a romantic way (for that was the genre/era in which he wrote) that it is “ok” to explore the idea of ones own mortality… He is not trying to conjure the idea of suicide but more of where does he fit in to in comparison to the world as he understood it. Perhaps he wants us to explore the idea of what would happen if he did or did not take some chances before his mortal life ended?  Perhaps I digress. Perhaps, I read too much into this poem?

Until next time when I return to more literary talk, I remain respectfully,

~Cheyenne E. Mitchell

Storyteller