Some, not much

I've completed a couple of things, not many, but just enough to feel like I'm no longer a complete waste of space.

Tonight I'm listening to these old old folk songs, beautifully harmonized, and thinking about how elemental they are, how each song tells a story that could still be happening right now and be just as relevant.

My favorite on this cd is Clyde Waters (the original is Clyde's Water, I think, but it doesn't scan as easily in the song that way), about a man (William) who wants to go off to see his girlfriend.  His mother doesn't want him to go that night, there's a storm.  She ends up cursing him - if he goes, the Clyde Water will drown him.  But he can't care, he wants to see to see his Margaret, so he gets on his horse and heads off.

And he sings the most beautiful, most heartbreaking thing to the Clyde Waters as he travels by them:

"Make me a wreck as I come back; spare me as I'm going..."

Isn't that how we all plan to pay, every time we approach love?  We just want to get there - we know there's going to be pain, and death, that curses are inescapable, that hurt is unavoidable.  It is coming for us all, no matter what we do.  But just let us have the one we love first, and we'll face it.  
Because it's a ballad, of course, Margaret's mother is no better, and has turned William away by pretending Margaret is busy with other men.  Off he goes, to face his fate without love, without hope, without the comfort of whatever he hoped to get up to in Margaret's bower.  (And these ballads are mostly full of pregnant women, so I doubt she would have turned him down.)

He drowns.  The only comfort he gets is that Margaret, heartbroken that her mother turned William away, heads right off to Clyde Waters to drown herself too, so they can at least be dead together. It doesn't seem like much comfort to me, but it is a beautiful end to the song, Margaret walking into the water to hold William through eternity.

Knuckle down

A whole week to myself, and I accomplished exactly one and a half crochet projects.  SIGH.  Not another thing off my list.

Right.  I'm going to knuckle down and get to WORK.  Sort of.  If I have the energy.

At least I start a monkey...a crocheted monkey, that is.

Happy Memorial Day, folks.  I remember happily two years ago was the hottest day we'd had in Chicago for about six months - it was finally hot hot hot outside, and sunny, and hubby and I walked about six miles down by the lake out where everyone in the world was barbequing.  Sadly, today was chilly and overcast and drab, and the weather affects my mood more than I want to admit.  Still, some part of that warm, joyful ease of finally being hot again, of winter finally ending, is part of the memory of what Memorial Day is, and I'm trying to remember that.

Writing that, I'm realizing I'm really worried I'm staring down a winter of no acting work, an never-ending season of unrelenting cold.  I'm just trying to calm my anxiety by remembering work will come.  I need to be active to get it, but if I stop being lazy and start auditioning, something will happen.  Just because nothing is booked doesn't mean nothing will ever happen.

(Worse, the two recent quick and simple projects someone asked me to do without me lifting a finger to work for it were both things I would be out of town for, which is so disappointing.  I mean, here I am terrified I won't work, someone offers me something to do, and I can't do it because of prior plans.  I really feel like I'm shooting myself in the foot at those moments.  Oh, well.  I decided a long time ago I should try not to let my family time/vacation time be hostage to my "career".  Let's see how silly that decision turns out to be!)

Scratchy throat

Y'all.  I can't stop long.  After nearly the whole day in bed, reading and trying to get over a scratchy throat, I just opened this file that I never end up working on, that lingers in the back of my mind much of the time.

And it isn't horrible.  I make no claims for it's skill or interest, but I also opened (by mistake) an old draft of an email to an ex back in 2003 and by contrast, it is so painful I couldn't read it.  The strident whining, the complete lack of perspective - I understand them and I can't blame myself for them, but it's so ungodly painful.  I wish I could have just kept silent.

However, I gotta get back to my novella.  It may not be good, but it's readable, and that feels like progress.  It doesn't matter who ever sees it, but I'd like to finish it.  I'd like to finish something, I can't help thinking, as I indolently laze on the sofa still in my pajamas.  Something besides baking a cake.

So, I gotta go.  Thanks for putting up with me, since I can be both excruciating and overly-dramatic.  I appreciate you.

****
Update:  I read the whole thing and made minute corrections, but couldn't get myself to add any of the section I've been writing in my head for 10 months.  Sigh.  Instead I made nearly all of a crocheted moose.

I suppose one could make a case for the moose being more useful.

Luddite

I think the world of technology is officially moving faster than I'm interested in now, and I am going to turn all of this off and go read a book.

Am I a Luddite?  I guess so.  Do I now feel a thousand years old because every three seconds there's some new interface on a product/site I use a lot and it screws with everything I liked or knew about said platform or interface?  Yes, absolutely.  Does it feel as if I can never, ever catch up with the memes, in-jokes, information available?  Without question.

On the up side, I was out watching real people in a play tonight and that was wonderful.  Afterwards I spoke to them, in real life, conversations were had.  I enjoyed it thoroughly.  

Right.  Book.  I'm off.

Terror

I wish I could go running.  It's the only time I feel really in control nowadays, on the lakefront, either biking to work or running my five mile loop.  I'm a little stuck right now, between projects, between lives, between being convinced by myself and utterly unconvinced.  When I strap my running shoes on and head out, iPod on shuffle, life opens up again and feels possible, even if the sensation fades as soon as I slow to a walk.

Knowing this, one would think I'd be running non-stop, but naturally, I find it hard to motivate sometimes.  This morning, however, I'd do it, but the weather is truly suspicious and I fear I'd have a ton of rain dumped on my head.  So inside I sit, and I try to convince myself to clean the house instead.

I just need to mean something, produce something, finish something.  Not being in a play or having a theatre project to work on always leaves me unfocused and uncertain.  This time I'm afraid it will be a long, long time before I book another project, and I fear the length of that time.  How do I survive it?  How do I stay alive long enough to re-open delight and investment?

As I write that, it feels pretty entitled.  No one guaranteed me delight.  Still, today I envy those with the talent and luck to move from play to play to play or project to project, whatever it may be.  I still hope to be one of those people someday.

Narrowing

I've been flitting about, half-engaged by events and distractions.  Not quite committed to anything useful, but not fully present while being entertained.

Then last night I picked up a book.

It was like turning the lens on a Mag lite so all the diffused glow becomes a single, concentrated beam.

If you need something, I'll be reading this novel.  Actually, both of these.  The internet can go to hell.

Transforming

I went to see a concert tonight - no, not a concert, that sounds like a pale, weary word for something electric and alive - I went to see people sing and play music at the Old Town School.  I knew it would be good, because the name I was following was Anais Mitchell, writer and performer of Hadestown, a transcendent folk musical based on the story of Orpheus. (Never heard it?  Oh, I'll wait.  Click through.)   But recently Anais teamed up with another folk performer, Jefferson Hamer, and they've written/re-written/arranged some folk ballads from The Child Ballads.

Someone else tonight compared listening to these two play to the warm and relaxing sensation of taking a bath - it was like that, and it was also like being pumped so full of oil that all the rusty, awkward parts of your heart finally swing free and open up, leaving you vulnerable but also gloriously free.  No more squeaky sounds as you try to feel.

I spent an ungodly amount of money on cds (and a tshirt) tonight, but I suspect the truth is the recordings, though brilliant, will not be able to recapture the performances - at best they just refresh the memory of something glowing and vibrant and necessary.

It's a good reminder to me that sometimes the best thing to do is leave your house, because the amazing talent and fascination of the people outside of it are worth exploring.

Unexpected but completely enchanting was the opening duo, Mike + Ruthy, two-thirds of the now-defunct group The Mammals. They opened with a ukelele, a harmonica, and Ruthy's bluesy low voice.  It was gorgeous.  I was just a little afraid Anais wouldn't be able to match up to how effortlessly charming those two were, chatting with the crowd about their two children tucked in the soundproof green room and writing songs and finding other people's great songs.

I shouldn't have worried, of course, Anais and Jefferson were absorbing in their own perfect way.  But now I have three new cds and that doesn't even cover all the ones I wanted.  Sigh.

Also, I have to go to bed, because it's getting insanely late.  But at least I was up reading the lyrics in Old English to the Child Ballads, and not watching some lame tv sit-com rerun.  I was learning things tonight.  And relishing them.

Confession

I've got the waiting on a stranglehold - I've figured out how to pretend that the news I have to wait to hear doesn't exist, so the anxiety is down to a dull roar.

I have not, however, figured out how to turn off that news awareness without also turning off my ability to accomplish anything at all.  Today has turned into a time suck of a day, and I mostly wasted Friday making a cake and in other non-work producing shenanigans.

So the laundry continues to pile, assignments languish, friends go un-emailed, and projects continue only as a gleam in my eye.

But you know what?  Tonight I'm going to settle down with a book and read it.  A physical book, with pages I can turn, with heft and new, uncrinkled pages.  (I have nothing at all against e-readers.  I applaud any and all reading.  I just like real books a lot.  Whatever works for you, go to it.)

But, y'all.  This book I'm planning to read, possibly after eating a piece of cake?  It has no intellectual value whatsoever.  None.  Now, I'm a fan of books with substance, as a rule, but tonight, avoiding thinking about all manner of things, I'm going to settle down with a good, fluffy, consuming novel and go to it.  I will also probably eat more cake.

Just for fun, and to remind myself what I really ought to get back to tomorrow, here's a short list of things I can avoid by reading:

• the 350 word article I need to write for the neighborhood association
• the thing I'm waiting to find out about that is driving me nuts
• the entire disturbing conversation on the internet about rape jokes and why male comics (and their fans) seem to get disproportionally bent out of shape when anyone questions the wisdom (or humor) of rape as a source of hilarity (I can't figure out why anyone at all is yelling and screaming at sady doyle, who seems to me to have been a model of calm clarity in stating her objections, and I'm horrified to note that merely questioning the rape-as-joke mentality seems to invite men and comics to name-call and belittle said questioners.)
• my lack of progress in cleaning the bedroom
• my forever losing battle with ants in this apartment.  If I ever move somewhere that doesn't have ants, it will be a miracle.
• the event I'm behind in planning

Wait, gracious!  Good lord.  I am wasting reading time telling you about all the things I am not doing by reading.  Sin upon sin.  Everybody - no fighting for a couple of hours, and kiss your mothers if you can. I've got a book to disappear into.

Bored/Not bored

The internet at my house has abruptly stopped working.

The worst part about that is finding out how depending I really am on such a thing.

More when the internet comes back on.

Holding pattern

Ever had to wait to find something out?  Time passes very slowly.

Here are some thing I should be doing with the endless time:

• Balance my checkbooks.  I have no idea what's going on with my money right now, and whether I have the faintest chance in the world to earn enough to pay the bills I currently have, much less buy anything new or travel.
• Finish the two separate crochet projects I have in progress.  One's nearly done, the other barely a glimmer in my eye.  But both are for specific people, so they need to get done. (Hey, JRA, one's for you!!)
• Mail a birthday present to my best friend.  (Hey, girl, if you're checking this out!)  It's sitting in my living room being all adorable.  Her birthday was in April.  I sort of suck.
• Write a different friend a letter.  (Hey, P, if you're checking this out!)  I got a why-can't-we-go-have-coffee-all-the-time note from him recently, and it would be lovely to respond with a real life, analog, honest-to-god letter, because the truth is I think of him often and my life would be greatly improved by being able to go have coffee with him more often than, say, once or twice every eight years.
• Clean the bedroom.  Extensively.  Throw a bunch of things away (really, this means to give them to Goodwill/the Brown Elephant, but it amounts to the same thing:  those items should leave my house and go be useful to someone else). If I clean the bedroom I can rearrange the bedroom, and I have a feeling that either I will absolutely love the bedroom in a new configuration or it just plain can't be done. One of those.
• Work on my novella.  What, you don't think I have one?  I do.  It's just I haven't touched it for about 18 months.  Oh, wait, and recently I discovered everything I write is worth nothing.  But I could at least finish it before I decide it's worthless and throw it away.

Of course, I have accomplished none of these things.  I have barely managed to dress and feed myself, and my recent cleaning of the house was cursory at best.

I remain preoccupied with waiting until I find out certain pieces of information.

Blank or clean slate?

I feel hollowed out, the way a doll no one is playing with lacks personality.  I'm not animated by anything.

It's preferable to feeling miserable, I suppose.

When the wonderful husband is around, I know exactly how to behave, or at least how to try to behave. I have been in support mode for about 5 days, and I understand that.  There's purpose in being someone's lifeline.

And truth be told, there was a moment today when I thought something really cool was happening for me.  (The husband would have been excited about it, too.)  And then, abruptly, it was clear it wasn't.

There are lots of little kids in the family that just gathered for this funeral, and we've been playing with them over these past few days.  One of them has one of those boards you write or draw on and when you push a slide across the board, it wipes it clean and you can start again.

I feel like that, only, as I sit here, I can't decide...what should I draw next?  What should I do next?


I think maybe I'll just sleep and go running a lot.  Also, maybe it will help to do a show tonight?  I'm not sure about that.  This is a hard show to be doing at this time.  I feel disconnected from that, too.

Oh, well.  I'll go to bed early and sleep late and see what appears on the horizon.

Marking the Day

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.

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?

  

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.