I am doing wardrobe on a film where I met an actor named Paul. I heard about this film through a makeup artist from a past film where I also met an actor named Paul. The first Paul and I did a film together last fall where I met an actor named Erik. Erik just sent me a trailer for a film he did featuring the second Paul I just met. And who assistant-directed this film? Katie, the girl who works in my office. Erik also just finished a play with Charlie that was seen by my alumni friends from NYC who were passing through town. Charlie (whom I met while doing the film with the makeup artist Andrea which is when I also met the first Paul that I did the film with last fall with Bri, the director who went to school with  the director I am currently working with) knows everyone, so it would be silly to list all the people we have in common.

It is just one big fuzzy ball of incestuous friendships, colleagues, lovers, and the occasional annoying - you would never talk to them again except you might have to work with them so you don't want to burn that bridge - kinda people.  ( none of the above fall into this category  )

"How can there be so many ripples in such a little pond."

Catching a glimpse of myself shuffling like an old woman in a window, I quickly straighten my posture and step onto the down escalator. I feel my abdominal muscles stiffen to support my upper body. How strange it is, I think, that we have this huge gap in bone support through an important area of our body. Just a measley spine, and those all-important "core" muscles. No wonder it is so easy to slouch forward with nothing solid there to prop us up. Why are the lungs considered important enough to cage in ribs but the intestines are not? Ribs, those amazingly flexible bones that rise and fall with each breath we take.  Flashback of Human Bio I: our diaphram constantly changing the volume and pressure inside of our lungs, forcing air in and out. What about when we die? Is the pressure in our lungs high or low when we go? Someone out there right now has studied exactly what happens to our flesh when we die...and I never will. My mind brushes on that great gulf of things that I will never know in my very short time on earth, because I will choose instead to try on clothes, drink champagne on roofs, and play make-believe on stage. Do I waste time? Would it matter if I didn't? My mind brushes it, acknowledges it, and withdraws before it is pulled into that lost and strange land of All There Is To Know. I reach the bottem of the escalator. Shoulders back girl, suck it in.

Ever feel like you are so obsessed with the proverbial forest that you are anxiously cutting down the trees surrounding you to have a clearer view of that elusive big picture?

I've been doing that, caught in an evil thought cycle of a thousand questions:

why am I in theater, is theater artistic masturbation, does it matter if it is, what will I look like when I am 40, who will hire me when I am 40, who will love me when I am 40, will I be homeless when I am 40? Is having children unethical, is organic food really organic, is Fair Trade a scam, are grad students really smarter or just more programmed, and of course, if none of it matters on a global scale is there any purpose for my existance?

Round and round I go.

The more I think, the less action I take, generally becoming everything I dread becoming.

sigh.

Guess it is time to save the trees, and hope the forest will take care of itself.

Last night I got an excited phone call from my little sister/roommate,

"Your worms are here!"

"YES!" said I.

I walked in the door, there, on the floor was a box.

A box labelled, "WORMS".

I gently carried the box into the kitchen. Three pounds of worms is suprisingly heavy. Felt like, well, like three pounds. I had all the ingredients for a horror movie. What next?

I had to clear out a dark, cool, slightly damp corner of the kitchen by moving everything else around,

"It's to keep you on your toes Melissa, it's good for you, it's not like I ENJOY moving everything around! Oooo, that looks so much better there..."

According to the instructions on my new "worm tower", I must first make a bed for my worms.

An hour and a half of damp newspaper, dead leaves, a little dirt, and rotten apples later, I was ready. I opened the box with shaking fingers. Inside, cushioned by newspaper, was a cloth bag full of dirt and WORMS. Millions of little red buggers. I tenderly laid them on their new bed. They seemed slightly groggy (jet lag I think ), but definitly happy to be there. We introduced ourselves, and began the arduous naming process,

"This is Slimy, and Slimy the First, and Slimy Junior...that's Slimy the 15th..."

I didn't want to stop watching them frolic in their new home, but every good mother knows when their babes need some shut eye. So I tucked some more soggy newsprint around them, left a night light on, and shut the door. Good night kids.

Why do I have three pounds of writhing worms in my kitchen you ask? Once they get over their jet lag and fully settle in (about a month) they will be consuming all our fruit and vegetable waste, as well as newspaper, cardboard, and tissue (cold season is a comin') That is going to be about a quarter of our garbage that is not going to a landfill. Instead it will be consumed slowly but steadily, and will create amazing odor free all natural organic fertilizer for my house plants and/or garden and/or my parent's farm.

It was my Christmas present to myself. It takes me back to grade school science class. There is suddenly a bit of natural magic happening in the dark cool corners of my kitchen.

More info on the fabulous world of vermiculture at www.composters.com.