It's late, and I need some sleep fairly desperately, so this has to be quick.
But someone died today, and it was someone I loved. She was important for lots of reasons, but she was also kind and funny - not slip-on-banana-peels or make-crazy-faces funny, more the kind of sharp dry wit that slices through you so cleanly you don't know you were cut until the blood starts to pool. She was tiny and sometimes critical and painted beautiful watercolors, and had the graciousness to accept me into her family.
I married her son, and she never once begrudged me for it. He was very special to her, and I loved her for that, too. She held him in a very specific kind of esteem that almost no one else did, as one artist to another, and her pride in him was not just that of a parent for a child but the pride of an equal and a kindred spirit for one they recognize. Yet as special as he was to her, she didn't love any of her other children any less. Just differently, just as themselves, because they are each so different.
She was in poor health, and she died unconscious and at peace, and after having said all her goodbyes. I don't know what I think about an afterlife, but I like the thought that perhaps she is finally with her husband again, the man who loved her absolutely, with a fervor and a devotion and a completeness one doesn't often see.
I rode home on my bike from the theatre tonight, with the moon hanging in the sky like a cosmic doorknob. It hasn't sunk in yet. When it sinks in, it is going to hurt. A lot. But tonight, as I watch the blood start to gather here where the axe fell, before the synapses have had time to process the pain and transmit the news of such a severing to the brain, I rode home feeling more alive than I have in weeks. And grateful to still be here.
I sit watching the cut, knowing what's coming.
Goodnight, Ardyce. I liked you so much that I loved you. Thanks for your son, he turned out great. Say a good word about me to Dick - I'm not sure he would have liked me, so see what you can do about talking him around, ok? Don't worry. We've got your pictures hung all over our house, they are beautiful.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Monday, April 22, 2013
Incident
A bunch of upsetting things have been happening. I can't stop or change them. My only current course of action is to process them. What follows is one such attempt. It may not be very successful.
One of my co-actors in a current project is a total sweetheart, and took to writing haiku's for me last week. I found this in turns sweet, adorable, a touch creepy and a tad frustrating. He's lovely, very young, and definitely intelligent, but he's naive and kind in a way that makes me a little infuriated, because I can't figure out how he can stay that way, but I won't enjoy watching the world teach him any differently. He thinks everything is wonderful. And hey, for him it is, and I appreciate that. I don't want to mess it up for him. It's just that not everything is wonderful, and a life that doesn't understand that really doesn't have much depth. So he writes these haiku, and haiku is a form that really can contain the ineffable, that can distill large thoughts into tiny drops of wisdom, and his are sweet and heartfelt and without wisdom. Granted, he's not necessarily striving for wisdom, he's mostly just trying to make me laugh, but I feel I should be writing haiku's back, and my delight in complexity won't let me play in the shallows in that way. It's like the piece of art on offer is a turkey made out of a hand print - it's delightful and charming, but as an older person, you don't make a turkey hand print and think it's art.
So I wrote a sonnet as a response instead. It seemed fitting, a way of implying life offers more complexity.
The next morning, I read my sonnet to my husband. To my husband, who teaches other people writing. To my husband, who gets royalties for plays he's written. To my husband, who is working on an mfa in writing.
And he made a face of...he's since accused me of reading into it, and perhaps I have, but he made a face of distaste, of displeasure. Whatever he meant by that face, it wasn't positive.
Something in me crumpled. "OK, don't worry, I won't give it to him, I get it, it's a terrible poem," I said immediately. There was a lot of "I didn't say that" and subsequent discussion, none of which can undo this fact: the second I saw that face, I knew that poem was trash, and no one should ever be subjected to it. There were a lot more conversations where he said things like, well, was that just your first draft? Have you considered taking a poetry class? How long did you work on the poem? Maybe you should have someone else read the poem, I don't know that kid. None of these sentences made me think my poem was anything but a complete and utter waste of any one's time. None of them changed my opinion of "the look" being one of intense dislike.
My husband has finally (if accidentally) convinced me that I am incapable of writing anything of value. While, yes, I understand that sounds extreme, I think it's probably a valuable lesson. There are plenty of terrible writers in the world, no need to add to the pile of dreck. But I can't deny - it makes me sad. Really, really sad. It's hard to face up to being inept at something, hard to come to terms with your own inabilities.
He'd like to take that face back, because he feels guilty that he made me see my own inadequacy. But what good does it do either of us to pretend I am good at something if I am not? Look, if the world had been throwing praise at any of my writing and this one face was an anomaly, I could ignore it. But any writing I do has been uniformly rejected over time. You'd think I would have figured out by now: I am not good at stringing words together.
Wait. Even if the world at large has been unimpressed with my writing but I believed what I wrote was still good, I would fight on, I would tell you how subjective such a thing can be. But I look at any single piece I've written...it doesn't hold up. I can see that. I can see it failing to express any of what I wanted.
Ha! Hilarious - only I could write so much about finally understanding all my "writing" was garbage. I know this page isn't frequented by very many people, so I don't count this blog. This is words in the ether, this is the long slow howl of defeat. I'll continue to write things here, in an attempt to understand them. But I won't bother you with any fiction or poetry unless someone else wrote it. I won't bother my husband with it. I won't go to open mic nights or submit anything to journals or otherwise pollute the world.
And as sad as that makes me, in sum total, isn't that a win?
One of my co-actors in a current project is a total sweetheart, and took to writing haiku's for me last week. I found this in turns sweet, adorable, a touch creepy and a tad frustrating. He's lovely, very young, and definitely intelligent, but he's naive and kind in a way that makes me a little infuriated, because I can't figure out how he can stay that way, but I won't enjoy watching the world teach him any differently. He thinks everything is wonderful. And hey, for him it is, and I appreciate that. I don't want to mess it up for him. It's just that not everything is wonderful, and a life that doesn't understand that really doesn't have much depth. So he writes these haiku, and haiku is a form that really can contain the ineffable, that can distill large thoughts into tiny drops of wisdom, and his are sweet and heartfelt and without wisdom. Granted, he's not necessarily striving for wisdom, he's mostly just trying to make me laugh, but I feel I should be writing haiku's back, and my delight in complexity won't let me play in the shallows in that way. It's like the piece of art on offer is a turkey made out of a hand print - it's delightful and charming, but as an older person, you don't make a turkey hand print and think it's art.
So I wrote a sonnet as a response instead. It seemed fitting, a way of implying life offers more complexity.
The next morning, I read my sonnet to my husband. To my husband, who teaches other people writing. To my husband, who gets royalties for plays he's written. To my husband, who is working on an mfa in writing.
And he made a face of...he's since accused me of reading into it, and perhaps I have, but he made a face of distaste, of displeasure. Whatever he meant by that face, it wasn't positive.
Something in me crumpled. "OK, don't worry, I won't give it to him, I get it, it's a terrible poem," I said immediately. There was a lot of "I didn't say that" and subsequent discussion, none of which can undo this fact: the second I saw that face, I knew that poem was trash, and no one should ever be subjected to it. There were a lot more conversations where he said things like, well, was that just your first draft? Have you considered taking a poetry class? How long did you work on the poem? Maybe you should have someone else read the poem, I don't know that kid. None of these sentences made me think my poem was anything but a complete and utter waste of any one's time. None of them changed my opinion of "the look" being one of intense dislike.
My husband has finally (if accidentally) convinced me that I am incapable of writing anything of value. While, yes, I understand that sounds extreme, I think it's probably a valuable lesson. There are plenty of terrible writers in the world, no need to add to the pile of dreck. But I can't deny - it makes me sad. Really, really sad. It's hard to face up to being inept at something, hard to come to terms with your own inabilities.
He'd like to take that face back, because he feels guilty that he made me see my own inadequacy. But what good does it do either of us to pretend I am good at something if I am not? Look, if the world had been throwing praise at any of my writing and this one face was an anomaly, I could ignore it. But any writing I do has been uniformly rejected over time. You'd think I would have figured out by now: I am not good at stringing words together.
Wait. Even if the world at large has been unimpressed with my writing but I believed what I wrote was still good, I would fight on, I would tell you how subjective such a thing can be. But I look at any single piece I've written...it doesn't hold up. I can see that. I can see it failing to express any of what I wanted.
Ha! Hilarious - only I could write so much about finally understanding all my "writing" was garbage. I know this page isn't frequented by very many people, so I don't count this blog. This is words in the ether, this is the long slow howl of defeat. I'll continue to write things here, in an attempt to understand them. But I won't bother you with any fiction or poetry unless someone else wrote it. I won't bother my husband with it. I won't go to open mic nights or submit anything to journals or otherwise pollute the world.
And as sad as that makes me, in sum total, isn't that a win?
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Illness
I've got things I'd like to write about here, but I feel awful. I think I need to conserve my energy to get through a show tonight. Sadly, I just had to waste a bunch of it doing a birthday party.
Seriously. I feel miserable. Nor do I have a name for whatever is wrong, which is uncomfortable.
I'm gonna lie down and hope I can get back up later.
Seriously. I feel miserable. Nor do I have a name for whatever is wrong, which is uncomfortable.
I'm gonna lie down and hope I can get back up later.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Poetry Month
April, I'd forgotten, is poetry month. A friend had posted a swath of poems, one for each day, and I started rolling through them and the images started to attack me the way branches you hold aside snap back and slap you. I'm tear-eyed and thoughtful this evening, emptying long dusty pockets of memory and longing with lines of Frost, Chuck Miller, Bukowski, Lisel Mueller, and Vassar Miller coursing through my veins like alcohol.
I need to read more poetry. Oddly, I had a plan earlier this month that involved going to the big downtown library and checking out Anne Sexton, Theresa Rebeck (she writes plays not poems), Bukowski and Bernadette Mayer. I stalled that plan when I realized I hadn't done my taxes yet.
But they are done and I need poems instead of spreadsheets. It is spring, I feel bereft and lacking and maybe I can fill that empty space up with poems, other people's really evocative, living, breathing poems, not my own wretched fumblings towards a grace I cannot grasp.
Here's one that really, truly got to me tonight, had me weeping in seconds. Oh, how how I yearn for that golden envelope of light.
http://www.tylercoreshootspeople.com/poetry/april10-miller.html
I need to read more poetry. Oddly, I had a plan earlier this month that involved going to the big downtown library and checking out Anne Sexton, Theresa Rebeck (she writes plays not poems), Bukowski and Bernadette Mayer. I stalled that plan when I realized I hadn't done my taxes yet.
But they are done and I need poems instead of spreadsheets. It is spring, I feel bereft and lacking and maybe I can fill that empty space up with poems, other people's really evocative, living, breathing poems, not my own wretched fumblings towards a grace I cannot grasp.
Here's one that really, truly got to me tonight, had me weeping in seconds. Oh, how how I yearn for that golden envelope of light.
http://www.tylercoreshootspeople.com/poetry/april10-miller.html
Friday, April 12, 2013
The past is not even past
So I'm trawling through a lot of old email because I'm gearing up to change my email address for the first time in sixteen years.
It feels weird.
Like any move, I only want to port the addresses that are useful, so I've spent the afternoon deleting and merging and cleaning, even emailing a few people whose addresses had no name and no identifying information. (I'm really really curious about throw_something@blahblahblah.com - it teases at my memory, but I just can't place it. It was someone I once could identify, so not a totally casual address, but I just can't remember.)
As I was merging a contact, it occurred to me I used to email the merged individual at an entirely different address. So I went looking to see if I still had the original address (so I could include it in the merge). No, I didn't. Which made me curious enough to loop back through my email archive to see whether two years ago (our last contact) I had used the old address first or the new address.
Turns out, I had deleted several messages I know once existed. I mean, I had an email I had sent (because sent mail gets retained automatically), but I had deleted the response. (I remember getting a response, and its general content, though no specifics.)
Y'all. Y'ALL. For a quasi-stalker who is stuck in a current surveillance mode she can't quite relinquish (and thoroughly despises), this is FANTASTIC news.
Because it means I really can let some things go. I can let things go and not even notice they are gone.
That's good. That's progress.
Now comes the bigger question, though. This person in particular, but also some others in the same wash of addresses, do I let them know when I change addresses? It seems polite, as long as there's no follow up or overly personal framing. And of course I can delete whatever bounces back.
I'm leaning towards yes, though that's more because it seems a complete and utter pain to have to divide out every email - much simpler to just send one blanket email saying, here's the new way to reach me if you need to - and leave it at that.
Hmmmm. Change is hard. Yuck.
It feels weird.
Like any move, I only want to port the addresses that are useful, so I've spent the afternoon deleting and merging and cleaning, even emailing a few people whose addresses had no name and no identifying information. (I'm really really curious about throw_something@blahblahblah.com - it teases at my memory, but I just can't place it. It was someone I once could identify, so not a totally casual address, but I just can't remember.)
As I was merging a contact, it occurred to me I used to email the merged individual at an entirely different address. So I went looking to see if I still had the original address (so I could include it in the merge). No, I didn't. Which made me curious enough to loop back through my email archive to see whether two years ago (our last contact) I had used the old address first or the new address.
Turns out, I had deleted several messages I know once existed. I mean, I had an email I had sent (because sent mail gets retained automatically), but I had deleted the response. (I remember getting a response, and its general content, though no specifics.)
Y'all. Y'ALL. For a quasi-stalker who is stuck in a current surveillance mode she can't quite relinquish (and thoroughly despises), this is FANTASTIC news.
Because it means I really can let some things go. I can let things go and not even notice they are gone.
That's good. That's progress.
Now comes the bigger question, though. This person in particular, but also some others in the same wash of addresses, do I let them know when I change addresses? It seems polite, as long as there's no follow up or overly personal framing. And of course I can delete whatever bounces back.
I'm leaning towards yes, though that's more because it seems a complete and utter pain to have to divide out every email - much simpler to just send one blanket email saying, here's the new way to reach me if you need to - and leave it at that.
Hmmmm. Change is hard. Yuck.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
The Ughs
I have them - the ughs. I'm not feeling well, but I'm not sick enough to cancel work and sit around being indolent. I'm eating chicken noodle soup and hoping it won't make me feel worse. (It's not a cold or flu, so chicken soup may turn out to be a mistake.)
Plus I have to teach a new class in an hour and I feel unprepared.
Oh, Horse Doctor, I need an episode of you, but I don't have enough time. Have I told you all about the Horse Doctor?
It doesn't matter. I just need a story to take me out of this story, the one I'm currently living in which I feel terrible and have nothing interesting to say or even think about.
Chicken Noodle Soup, you are my only friend.
Plus I have to teach a new class in an hour and I feel unprepared.
Oh, Horse Doctor, I need an episode of you, but I don't have enough time. Have I told you all about the Horse Doctor?
It doesn't matter. I just need a story to take me out of this story, the one I'm currently living in which I feel terrible and have nothing interesting to say or even think about.
Chicken Noodle Soup, you are my only friend.
Sunday, April 07, 2013
If only I can always feel like that
Recently I mentioned I am in the midst of a "year of no bitterness". That's the plan, at least. A couple of years ago, when every audition ended with, "Nope, not you," I got discouraged. Deeply discouraged. That discouragement ended up taking the form of a great deal of bitterness - why did that person get picked, etc. etc. Why why why. What's wrong with me, blah blah blah.
Trust me, I didn't enjoy it either. But somehow, I couldn't stop. I couldn't let it go, because I was losing so often there was no refuge, no safe place to leave my brain.
About eighteen months ago, I got lucky. Technically, I guess my luck shifted two years ago, when someone called me up out of the blue and said, hey, can you be in this show? We needed you yesterday. Nope, you don't need to audition, we know you can do this, just show up. It was the boost I needed to get myself back in the game - it wasn't easy, but I started showing up to auditions with a more positive attitude and the faint hope that I had something to offer.
Then a stroke of real luck came my way - a shockingly awesome project - a big step forward in terms of my resume, my experience, my realm of contacts. And as any of you who might be following this will remember, I also really really enjoyed it. I enjoyed the hell out of it. It changed the way my brain worked, I enjoyed it so much.
There's no getting around the fact that I was lucky to get cast in that project, and in everything that's come my way since then. So this New Year's, I resolved that there was no place for any bitterness in a life that has this kind of luck in it.
Recently, I went to see a play I was not in, and I watched someone play a role that I couldn't help thinking I could have played. I wasn't falling into bitterness, though, I was just noticing it, clocking possibilities. After the show, I was hugging people I know and genuinely praising everyone's work (it was a lovely production), when I ended up in conversation with that actress and a few other people. And that actress made the comment that anyone could have done her track, and shortly after that, someone else mentioned the show I had done and how lovely that production was, and I made a similar comment that lots of people could have been cast in my track as well.
It finally struck me: all the time I spent being jealous and bitter about roles I hadn't gotten, someone out there was probably thinking (and rightly so) that they could have done the roles I did get better than I did.
Some of those actresses are right - they would have been better than I was. (And occasionally I am right and I would have been better than they were.)
So is there really an objective rhyme or reason to every casting decision? Is it really the most talented person getting the work every time? Maybe, but there are a bunch of us on about the same level up for a finite number of roles. I finally realized, it's such a waste of energy to be worried about the ones you didn't get. Let those go. I won some of them.
This is easier to say when you do win some of them. But I have, and as much as I always want more, I want to move ahead cheering all of us on, believing that my turn will come if I keep my best self out there.
So, Year of No Bitterness. At the very least, I'm much more fun at parties.
I should be clear - I don't think this attitude makes me any better than any one else - it just happens to make me happier, and I hope, more fun out in the world.
Trust me, I didn't enjoy it either. But somehow, I couldn't stop. I couldn't let it go, because I was losing so often there was no refuge, no safe place to leave my brain.
About eighteen months ago, I got lucky. Technically, I guess my luck shifted two years ago, when someone called me up out of the blue and said, hey, can you be in this show? We needed you yesterday. Nope, you don't need to audition, we know you can do this, just show up. It was the boost I needed to get myself back in the game - it wasn't easy, but I started showing up to auditions with a more positive attitude and the faint hope that I had something to offer.
Then a stroke of real luck came my way - a shockingly awesome project - a big step forward in terms of my resume, my experience, my realm of contacts. And as any of you who might be following this will remember, I also really really enjoyed it. I enjoyed the hell out of it. It changed the way my brain worked, I enjoyed it so much.
There's no getting around the fact that I was lucky to get cast in that project, and in everything that's come my way since then. So this New Year's, I resolved that there was no place for any bitterness in a life that has this kind of luck in it.
Recently, I went to see a play I was not in, and I watched someone play a role that I couldn't help thinking I could have played. I wasn't falling into bitterness, though, I was just noticing it, clocking possibilities. After the show, I was hugging people I know and genuinely praising everyone's work (it was a lovely production), when I ended up in conversation with that actress and a few other people. And that actress made the comment that anyone could have done her track, and shortly after that, someone else mentioned the show I had done and how lovely that production was, and I made a similar comment that lots of people could have been cast in my track as well.
It finally struck me: all the time I spent being jealous and bitter about roles I hadn't gotten, someone out there was probably thinking (and rightly so) that they could have done the roles I did get better than I did.
Some of those actresses are right - they would have been better than I was. (And occasionally I am right and I would have been better than they were.)
So is there really an objective rhyme or reason to every casting decision? Is it really the most talented person getting the work every time? Maybe, but there are a bunch of us on about the same level up for a finite number of roles. I finally realized, it's such a waste of energy to be worried about the ones you didn't get. Let those go. I won some of them.
This is easier to say when you do win some of them. But I have, and as much as I always want more, I want to move ahead cheering all of us on, believing that my turn will come if I keep my best self out there.
So, Year of No Bitterness. At the very least, I'm much more fun at parties.
I should be clear - I don't think this attitude makes me any better than any one else - it just happens to make me happier, and I hope, more fun out in the world.
Friday, April 05, 2013
Anniversary
Right. I don't ever do what I'm about to do. But I drank cappuccino this morning and my edit system is awash with caffeine.
There's good stuff and bad stuff happening, and maybe five years down the line the narrative of my life will look different in retrospect. Today, this is how it looks: today is the fifth anniversary of my wedding. (Full disclosure - I was nervous as hell at and during my wedding. I was not your typical thrilled-beyond-belief bride. It was enjoyable in parts, but getting up in front of people and making promises that I am still not sure I can keep forever was terrifying. I didn't (ironically) love being the center of attention (even though my spouse did a great job of carrying some of that load). I didn't love having to say things to another human being that I just cannot predict. Do I hope I love my husband forever? Absolutely. Do I know enough about the world to understand that I can't control exactly what happens to us? Yes.
Today, we've been married five years.
Yesterday, I had a chance to go audition for exactly the kind of project I want to be doing. Will I get it? Who knows - I have to say the chances are slim, because the director could pick any actor in this whole town and as well as other towns. But I was asked to be part of the pool, and that feels terrific. I liked going and auditioning more than I want to buy a house or have a fancy car or have tons of money. And I looked at my husband across the table this morning and thought about how every time the choice is: money versus what I actually want, he encourages me to strive for the things I actually want.
Joseph Campbell talks about following your bliss: "...if you do follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. [...] I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be."
Look, if your bliss is owning a house, or going on trips, or awesome gadgets, or softball or movies or hustling pool, more power to you and I hope you are following that bliss. I'm not judging anyone else's choices with what I'm about to say about myself. I'm just grateful today that I married someone who pushes me to be the person I really want to be instead of allowing fear to decide what I think I am capable of doing. Am I afraid I'm never going to be good enough to work consistently on the level I want? Unquestionably terrified. Am I worried I can't keep the wolf away from the door long enough to keep trying? Absolutely. Are there things I want out of life that I'm anxious I can't have if I stay on this path? Truth.
How lucky am I that when I turn to my husband and my fear says out loud - maybe I should quit, maybe I should give up and get a job that pays consistently instead of chasing this crazy impossible dream - he always says, no, I believe in you, stick with it. We'll make it work.
Five years. I feel lucky. Ask me again at ten, but I feel pretty lucky.
There's good stuff and bad stuff happening, and maybe five years down the line the narrative of my life will look different in retrospect. Today, this is how it looks: today is the fifth anniversary of my wedding. (Full disclosure - I was nervous as hell at and during my wedding. I was not your typical thrilled-beyond-belief bride. It was enjoyable in parts, but getting up in front of people and making promises that I am still not sure I can keep forever was terrifying. I didn't (ironically) love being the center of attention (even though my spouse did a great job of carrying some of that load). I didn't love having to say things to another human being that I just cannot predict. Do I hope I love my husband forever? Absolutely. Do I know enough about the world to understand that I can't control exactly what happens to us? Yes.
Today, we've been married five years.
Yesterday, I had a chance to go audition for exactly the kind of project I want to be doing. Will I get it? Who knows - I have to say the chances are slim, because the director could pick any actor in this whole town and as well as other towns. But I was asked to be part of the pool, and that feels terrific. I liked going and auditioning more than I want to buy a house or have a fancy car or have tons of money. And I looked at my husband across the table this morning and thought about how every time the choice is: money versus what I actually want, he encourages me to strive for the things I actually want.
Joseph Campbell talks about following your bliss: "...if you do follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. [...] I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be."
Look, if your bliss is owning a house, or going on trips, or awesome gadgets, or softball or movies or hustling pool, more power to you and I hope you are following that bliss. I'm not judging anyone else's choices with what I'm about to say about myself. I'm just grateful today that I married someone who pushes me to be the person I really want to be instead of allowing fear to decide what I think I am capable of doing. Am I afraid I'm never going to be good enough to work consistently on the level I want? Unquestionably terrified. Am I worried I can't keep the wolf away from the door long enough to keep trying? Absolutely. Are there things I want out of life that I'm anxious I can't have if I stay on this path? Truth.
How lucky am I that when I turn to my husband and my fear says out loud - maybe I should quit, maybe I should give up and get a job that pays consistently instead of chasing this crazy impossible dream - he always says, no, I believe in you, stick with it. We'll make it work.
Five years. I feel lucky. Ask me again at ten, but I feel pretty lucky.
Thursday, April 04, 2013
I don't really know how that went
I had a fantastic time today at an audition. Now, I was also very nervous, and I admit fully that even if I showed off my best self, there's a significant chance my best isn't good enough for this level.
But I had a really nice time auditioning in a completely beautiful room overlooking all of Chicago, and with a lovely bevy of people watching. I can't tell you how I did, except I didn't blow it. It felt pretty good - I'm obviously not sure what everybody on the other side of the table thought but they were kind, and laughed at my choices (in a good way, in the sense that I was attempting to be funny and it produced the noise of laughter), and asked me to sing something additional.
And one of my favorite people was behind the table, someone I like unreservedly, just because he's both talented and really enjoys what he's doing, no matter what it is. I can't tell you how often you run into people at the top of their careers who sound really put-upon with all their success, as if getting what they want is a burden. I know everyone's life has a little rain, but come on, we pretend things for a living, and sing songs. It Should Be Fun, at least most of the time. (Everybody's got bad days, I get it.) Anyway, behind the table was someone who always seems to be having a good time. The sheer joy makes me happy. I pretty much want him to work forever, in anything he wants.
So that person is working on this project! And whether or not I get to be involved after today, it helps knowing awesome people are working, and that I've worked with a bunch of them, which means I might get to work with them again. If not this time, some other time.
But I had a really nice time auditioning in a completely beautiful room overlooking all of Chicago, and with a lovely bevy of people watching. I can't tell you how I did, except I didn't blow it. It felt pretty good - I'm obviously not sure what everybody on the other side of the table thought but they were kind, and laughed at my choices (in a good way, in the sense that I was attempting to be funny and it produced the noise of laughter), and asked me to sing something additional.
And one of my favorite people was behind the table, someone I like unreservedly, just because he's both talented and really enjoys what he's doing, no matter what it is. I can't tell you how often you run into people at the top of their careers who sound really put-upon with all their success, as if getting what they want is a burden. I know everyone's life has a little rain, but come on, we pretend things for a living, and sing songs. It Should Be Fun, at least most of the time. (Everybody's got bad days, I get it.) Anyway, behind the table was someone who always seems to be having a good time. The sheer joy makes me happy. I pretty much want him to work forever, in anything he wants.
So that person is working on this project! And whether or not I get to be involved after today, it helps knowing awesome people are working, and that I've worked with a bunch of them, which means I might get to work with them again. If not this time, some other time.
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG
Wow. And then sometimes, something cool just happens. You don't deserve it, necessarily, or maybe you do, but SOMETHING COOL HAPPENS.
Like getting an email from the biggest theatre in town asking you to come audition tomorrow for the biggest director in town. Ok, fair point that the director probably won't be there tomorrow, it'll probably be the casting director, but still...
THE GATEKEEPERS TO WHAT I WANT ARE ASKING ME TO COME GET WHAT I WANT.
Y'all.
I'm freaking out right now. And there's no one I can tell but you. You, dear reader.
So, stay with me here, I'm gonna tell you a story:
When I finished drama school in the UK, I had to move back to the States, and I chose to move to Chicago to start trying to act. I arrived in mid-October. It sucked. Or rather, it was a very difficult transition. I was exceptionally sad. I thought a lot about how much easier it would be to just be dead. I didn't want to commit suicide, per se, I just thought a lot about how, since I was now away from all the people who cared about me and I was desperately unhappy, being dead seemed like a really great alternative and that seemed like a good time to do it - no one would miss me any more than they did anyway, and I would be free of feeling like everything was meaningless and impossible.
For Christmas, I asked my parents to buy me a ticket to the UK to see my friends for New Year's. They were sweet about it, but they refused.
I let that refusal sink in for about 24 hours, then I just charged the flight and went anyway. I had no idea how I'd pay for it, and I was not a person who ever bought things without money to pay for them, but I needed to go. So I went.
And it was glorious. It was outrageously fun and happy. I was gleeful to see my friends, it was a joy to be in the place I'd felt so very happy, and it was a relief to understand my unhappiness was temporary. I wasn't stuck in it forever. It was situational, and could still very well have been chemically influenced, but if I could find one way out, then more existed. That trip kept me going for a long time after that, the way you can endure a prison sentence when you know it will end soon.
Let me be clear - Chicago was not the prison sentence. The sadness was the prison sentence, and it would end. I would survive it. It was a thrilling lesson to learn. (I worked 7 days a week for the next 6 weeks to pay for it - one of the first balances I ever carried forward. Within 2 months it was paid off. Worth every second of work and every penny of interest.)
I tell you all that to tell you this:
I think I need to learn the same thing about being in really cool projects. Every time one ends, I worry (rightly so, because actors can't depend on anything) that I will never do another, that I will never, in essence, be happy again.
Y'all. I just got an email asking me to audition for the biggest project in town. Will I book it? Oh, who knows, I haven't auditioned yet so I can't tell you how I did. BUT THEY ASKED ME. I am a person they ask to do these things. I'm not sure if my recent audition there is why they asked, or one of my favorite people might have recommended me, or maybe they just saw my picture in the file and said, oh, she's the right age...I don't care why it's finally happening, I just know that for once, a really cool project is asking me if I want a shot at it.
I. DO.
Like getting an email from the biggest theatre in town asking you to come audition tomorrow for the biggest director in town. Ok, fair point that the director probably won't be there tomorrow, it'll probably be the casting director, but still...
THE GATEKEEPERS TO WHAT I WANT ARE ASKING ME TO COME GET WHAT I WANT.
Y'all.
I'm freaking out right now. And there's no one I can tell but you. You, dear reader.
So, stay with me here, I'm gonna tell you a story:
When I finished drama school in the UK, I had to move back to the States, and I chose to move to Chicago to start trying to act. I arrived in mid-October. It sucked. Or rather, it was a very difficult transition. I was exceptionally sad. I thought a lot about how much easier it would be to just be dead. I didn't want to commit suicide, per se, I just thought a lot about how, since I was now away from all the people who cared about me and I was desperately unhappy, being dead seemed like a really great alternative and that seemed like a good time to do it - no one would miss me any more than they did anyway, and I would be free of feeling like everything was meaningless and impossible.
For Christmas, I asked my parents to buy me a ticket to the UK to see my friends for New Year's. They were sweet about it, but they refused.
I let that refusal sink in for about 24 hours, then I just charged the flight and went anyway. I had no idea how I'd pay for it, and I was not a person who ever bought things without money to pay for them, but I needed to go. So I went.
And it was glorious. It was outrageously fun and happy. I was gleeful to see my friends, it was a joy to be in the place I'd felt so very happy, and it was a relief to understand my unhappiness was temporary. I wasn't stuck in it forever. It was situational, and could still very well have been chemically influenced, but if I could find one way out, then more existed. That trip kept me going for a long time after that, the way you can endure a prison sentence when you know it will end soon.
Let me be clear - Chicago was not the prison sentence. The sadness was the prison sentence, and it would end. I would survive it. It was a thrilling lesson to learn. (I worked 7 days a week for the next 6 weeks to pay for it - one of the first balances I ever carried forward. Within 2 months it was paid off. Worth every second of work and every penny of interest.)
I tell you all that to tell you this:
I think I need to learn the same thing about being in really cool projects. Every time one ends, I worry (rightly so, because actors can't depend on anything) that I will never do another, that I will never, in essence, be happy again.
Y'all. I just got an email asking me to audition for the biggest project in town. Will I book it? Oh, who knows, I haven't auditioned yet so I can't tell you how I did. BUT THEY ASKED ME. I am a person they ask to do these things. I'm not sure if my recent audition there is why they asked, or one of my favorite people might have recommended me, or maybe they just saw my picture in the file and said, oh, she's the right age...I don't care why it's finally happening, I just know that for once, a really cool project is asking me if I want a shot at it.
I. DO.
Active
I'm trying to invest in preparation (she wrote while avoiding learning lines, making breakfast, or washing her face).
Hmmm. I think I see a problem here. In general, I'm trying to do more things instead of wallowing - clean the kitchen, go running, sit down and write something. The sunshine helps - I don't think I'm ever aware how much I'm affected by seasonal disorder until the weather lets up and I perk up. Granted, I'm really bad at realizing why I might be low, unless something specific has happened, and really good at blaming myself without considering chemical imbalance.
However, the "problem" is that I was going to sit here, cozy on the sofa, and write a little today before going to have my hair dyed. Hair dyed!! Yay!! I'm gonna wash the blue right out of my hair. But if I do that, I won't eat breakfast.
So, later, I guess. There's never enough time to both procrasinate and get things done, I'll tell you that.
Hmmm. I think I see a problem here. In general, I'm trying to do more things instead of wallowing - clean the kitchen, go running, sit down and write something. The sunshine helps - I don't think I'm ever aware how much I'm affected by seasonal disorder until the weather lets up and I perk up. Granted, I'm really bad at realizing why I might be low, unless something specific has happened, and really good at blaming myself without considering chemical imbalance.
However, the "problem" is that I was going to sit here, cozy on the sofa, and write a little today before going to have my hair dyed. Hair dyed!! Yay!! I'm gonna wash the blue right out of my hair. But if I do that, I won't eat breakfast.
So, later, I guess. There's never enough time to both procrasinate and get things done, I'll tell you that.
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