In Search of an Urban Identity, or, Reasons Why I'm Not Cool

I am not cool enough to be here. This thought runs through my head on repeat as I walk through the East Village to meet my new friend Ben for open mic night at Sidewalk Cafe on Avenue A. I am not East Village cool. Some days I fake it better than others. Today not so much. I haven't done laundry in over a month so my wardrobe options are extremely limited. I'm wearing a grey v-neck t-shirt I found in the back of my closet this morning that seemed to be less dirty than anything on the floor of my room, a very old pair of jeans from the bottom of the drawer that are worn and ripping in between my thighs, my trusty old Converse All-Stars and a black cardigan that I wear every single day, and for some reason seems to avoid ever getting too dirty for me to not wear. And no underwear. I ran out five days ago and have been going commando ever since. It's actually kind of liberating... although going without underwear in my Morimoto uniform this morning was undoubtedly disconcerting. I don't know why it should be... my friend Kelly proclaims never to wear underwear with her uniform, and her skirt is much shorter than mine is. The point is, I'm painfully aware of how lacking my outfit is in the coolness I imagine to be requisite in the East Village music/variety scene.



Ever since I moved to New York I've been plagued with this stupid idea of what my life should look like. Truthfully, I've always had these ideas, this heightened sense of self-awareness regarding how I fit into my surroundings, and which surroundings I want to fit into. There's a cultural fabric to any urban community, woven by the collective aesthetic and idealstic consciousness of its inhabitants. I've never understood how people come to be part of a "scene". Maybe it's because of my nomadic upbringing that I've managed to accutely hone my ability to adapt to different environments; as an identity-seeking young adult, I am eager to find a scene to belong to, a communal tapestry to blend into. And so, I move through my urban adventures fluidly, observing with great care the rituals, fashions and attitudes of various communities, hoping to find one that will embrace me easily, as if I was always meant to be there.



It would make sense, one would think, that I should fall in with the Theater Scene. I am, after all, well versed in the audition vernacular, the rituals of post-show gatherings at various bars and diners in Midtown Manhattan, the geography of the Theater District, what with all its many rehearsal studios and theaters both big and small. I can talk Broadway talk. I still read playbill.com occaisionally, and I still check out the auditions listings, and although I rarely participate in the whole circus these days, I always know what's going on. These were supposed to be my people. I've been to enough open calls to know exactly what they're all talking about as they recap the day's audition lineup. I know who all the big agents are, who works for what agency, which casting director casts which Broadway shows, who's starring in what these days, and I know people who know people in every show on Broadway these days. I suppose I am a part of the fabric, though these days I feel a bit like I'm a loose thread dangling off the side, hanging on half-heartedly. My friend Molly includes me in her gang of theater friends occaisionally, and while they're all lovely, friendly people, and I can follow all their hours of shop talk with ease, I never really feel like I'm being integrated into the group. This, I'm sure, is no one's fault but my own. I suppose I could participate more actively in the conversation, though I don't really do the same kind of work that they do. Molly met her many actor friends on tour, in various regional productions around the country, several productions of 42nd Street, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, Oklahoma, White Christmas... splashy, flashy spectaculars. This is not the kind of work I was meant to do.



Last week I tagged along with my friend Heather to a rehearsal with this band she has joined with her friends from the tour of Gilligan's Island: The Musical. The atmosphere was undeniably different than any gathering of "theater people" I'd ever encountered; one of the kids instantly poured me a cocktail (Smirnoff and jalepeno peppers) so I'd fit into the vibe and I chilled out in the corner of the small studio as they jammed away on a number of original songs that Ben, who'd been the technical director on the tour, had written. It was fun, cool... a group of people I instantly felt comfortable around. It's pretty awesome to have friends like Heather who will tell everyone that you're super cool, talented, sassy, hilarious and hot, so that when they meet you, they instantly like you because Heather does (and Heather, of course, has all those rockin' qualities as well, so you see, she's quite a reliable source.) My friend Elyse does the same thing... she makes friends for me, before I ever show up, simply because she's so charming and everyone assumes that all of her friends are charming as well (which, well, they are. My college friends rock.)



Anyway, the next thing I know I'm being invited to a dinner party with Heather and her tour friends, at the home of her friend Dani (an awesome girl who's awesome boyfriend happens to be starring in Jersey Boys on Broadway right now) and Ben is inviting me to join his band and bring my "fiddle" along. (I don't have the heart to tell them all that a "fiddle" is really just a violin played by someone who has more guts and less training than I do, but I figure I can make do... it's breaking me way out of my comfort zone, and I'm at a place in my life where I figure that's the best thing I can do for myself.) And I'm thinking to myself, "okay. I like the way this life is starting to look to me. Oh wait, it's my life. That's right. My life is pretty cool after all."



Last week I had an impromptu reunion with my ex-whatever-he-was. I'd been eagerly anticipating such an encounter, despite the nausea-inducing anxiety it caused me, not knowing whether it would be excruciatingly awkward and painful or plain and simply comfortable. Thankfully, it turned out to be the latter... it almost felt as though nothing had changed, like no time had passed (although we both obviously knew it had and were tactfully avoiding discussing it.) I won't get into the details, but later I found myself feeling strangely assured, even though nothing had changed and I knew there was still no way I was going to get what I wanted from him.



On paper, this boy is perfect. Perfect in my estimation, at least. Early thirties but so childlike so there never seemed to be a serious age-divide, creative, goofy, genuine, sweet, with a whole slew of cool Brooklyn-hipster friends. Though he's not a hipster himself... he would be, if he cared at all what other people thought of him. He's one of those people who is inherently liked by everyone who meets him because he completely lacks pretension. He's just himself, his wacky, dorky, cool, fun self. He lives in this gorgeous apartment in one of the most charming parts of Brooklyn, works hard at a creative job which he is very good at, and has fun whenever possible. I must admit, part of the appeal of being with him was the idea of being integrated into his cool Brooklyn life, which to me seemed so ideal. His friends are all interesting, quirky, rad people, and they all adore the hell out of him. For a short time, I got to be the girl on his arm, the pretty girl who must have been pretty cool for earning such a great guy's affection. There was a part of me that loved the idea of being that girl, that felt so special and interesting and worthy of this awesome, charming, affable person's attention. Like I could see myself reflected in his eyes, and lo and behold, I was that cool, gorgeous girl that he was enamoured with. And I could be a part of such a complete life.



A complete life.



This is a great concern of mine. Living a complete life. A life that looks the way I want it to. The way I always imagined it would look. I've been obsessed with that idea since I was a teenager, going to performing arts school and dressing myself in avant-garde styles of my own creation, fashioned from self-tailored thrift-store finds and wacky accesories from costume shops and vintage stores I frequented with my best friend in dowtown Toronto. And then, converting to a SoCal girl in flip flops and jeans and sweatshirts in the winter, driving around the suburbs with my girlfriends on the weekends, making out with my junior prom date in his parent's convertible Mustang, and grabbing taquitos or Taco Bell on the way to rehearsal for the latest community theater show I was doing. And then, transforming into an urban college student, with tights and a leotard under my sweatpants for ballet class, running lines in the 6th floor lounge where all the theater kids congregated between classes, and then heading to the bar with my fake ID after rehearsal for a friend's birthday party.



Since I've lived in New York, I've yet to find my scene. I've dabbled in various places, be it with the hodge podge of creative kids who made up the service staff at Lunetta, the off-off Broadway crowd where artists make strange, overly ambitious art for free because it's the only way for them to work, or even the super-trendy team at Morimoto... where the maitre-d works part time at Gucci and everyone goes out after work to the clubs in the Meatpacking District. There are problems with all of these groups, for me. The kids at Lunetta all drank too much and slept with each other...too much drama in the workplace for my taste. The off-off crowd are mostly older than I am, and as much as I hate to admit it, they all represent a path I hope my career never takes... one of relative failure and settling for what one can get. They can be a jaded bunch. And while I dig all the Morimoto folks, I just can't keep up with that level of trendiness. If I had a ton of money and something to prove maybe I'd be all about the designer fashions and places-to-be-seen, but I just don't care. It all seems so silly to me.



And now? I seem to have lost out on one chance at being a part of the off-beat, low-budget Brooklyn scene, the first scene I could maybe see myself fitting into. Although, I had a moment, sometime after running into the ex-whatever, where I started to think, maybe my life is complete the way it is right now... maybe this is the way it's supposed to look after all. Just because I didn't get one big thing that I really, really wanted, a life that included this boy and his world at least for a little while, at least until it started to feel like my own... doesn't mean that can't still be a part of my life. It's maybe in past-tense now, suspended in the nether world of Things That Could Have Been or Things That Were For A Little While. Or maybe, it's one of those Things That Still Can Be...Just Not The Way You Thought They Would. After all, he and I are supposedly friends. That was the plan, anyway. We're certainly friendly to each other, and not trying to pretend the other doesn't exist. I have no doubt that I'll see him again, and relatively soon. I want him to be a part of my life...I always did. So maybe the feelings will fade from both of us and we'll be left at a place where we really can be friends, without romantic tension. Maybe. I hope so. That's my second choice...since I'm obviously not getting my first choice.



So maybe a life that is made up of many lives can be complete in it's own way. It's almost like I could draw a map, or a family tree of all the circles and scenes I can put my foot into. I have myself at the hub. Then all my glorious college friends around me in the center. They've all started to carve out their own niches in the city and now we share each other's niches when we can. Friends beget friends. Heather's tour friends, Molly's theater friends, Elyse's show friends, all the restaurant friends... maybe someday I'll get to share in Josh's niche as well... when we're really just friends.



My life has always been this strange montage of things. To paraphrase Tennessee Williams, I have always depended on others taking me under their wing. I've encountered a great deal of generosity in my life, a generosity I try to share whenever possible...I only wish I had more to offer others in return. When you're established in a community, you have the strength of that community supporting you. When you're a social vagabond like me, it's much harder to feel safe and supported. I am thankful to have a toe in all these different ponds, but none of them feels like mine.



I just want something of my own.



Ugh. Phoebe, your life is your own. It's all you've got. You can make it whatever you want. It doesn't have to be anything other than it is. What you've got is varied and spicy and full of potential. Can you focus on the potential for a second? Instead of fixating on lost opportunities? There are so many opportunities you can't know about yet! Just be patient!



Ugh. Patience is so not my strong point.

Life, Literature and the Pursuit of Happiness... By Any Means Necessary

"... those [women] whose partners were most symmetrical enjoyed a significantly higher frequency of orgasms during sexual intercourse than those with less symmetrical mates.

"Handsome men know this firsthand. Studies show that symmetrical men have the shortest courtships before having sexual intercourse with the women they date. They also invest the least time and money on their dates. And these handsome guys cheat on their mates more often than do guys with less well-balanced bodies. 

"This is not what we women would like to believe. Instead, we like the bonding hypothesis which says that women with kind, caring mates will have the most orgasms. But the reality is that men may just come in two different categories. There are the ones for hot sex and the ones for safety, comfort and child-rearing. Women are constantly longing for both wrapped into one package, but sadly science shows that this may be wishful thinking."

-From The Female Brain, by Louann Brizendine, M.D.

Here we go. I need to publicly come clean about something. I have been sucked into the world of online dating. I'm not proud of this new dabbling of mine... dabbling that, alas, seems to be spinning itself into a full-blown anthropological fascination. I'll add myself to the ranks of frustrated career-minded women who've declared that they never, ever thought their curiosity would get the best of them and drive them to databases in secret, embarrassed hopes of finding some desperately needed intimacy. The irony is astounding... reaching out to complete strangers across divides both technological and geographical, in an effort to connect with another living, breathing human being. Intimacy is what reminds us that we're truly human. I'm seeking validation of my own humanity by sitting in front of a machine for hours, typing. Scanning through thousands of pixels, excavating for some impression of emotional truth. It's totally and completely bizarre. An oxymoronic concept.

And yet, millions of people are meeting this way. A girl I knew a million years ago from doing community theater in Vista, CA recently friended me on Facebook. A quick scan of her profile and I discovered that she was married and living in the midwest, after meeting her husband on eHarmony.com while he was in school and she was teaching English in China. The courted on Skype, and were already emotionally committed to each other by the time they met in person for the first time 6 months after being matched up online.

Freaky, right?

The online revolution never ceases to confuse, titillate and frighten me. My generation was the first to grow up with this kind of technology at our fingertips, and now as new generations evolve, we're all growing more and more distant from each other. It's a conundrum to me: the entire world is literally at our fingertips every single day, and yet we sit isolated in our homes, each glued to our own individual screen, communicating through snippets of text, video and picture, forming entire relationships with people we've never shared the same air with. Are we mover closer together as a species or farther apart?

My own personal journey into the ether of eRomance has come 180 degrees since my first trepidatious logon to OkCupid.com in late November. My friend Dan introduced me to the site on his iPhone one evening over sushi in the West Village. "See, it quantifies your compatibility with another person, so you can find people with similar interests and values. It takes away the random guesswork" he explained. Now, Dan and I are very different types of creative. He is a techno-geek, type-A, aesthetic-obsessed web designer/entrepreneurial hopeful. Symmetry and the ability to quantify commodities are of utmost importance to him. Whereas I'm much more adaptable to chaos theory. "But Dan," I said, " I just don't believe it's possible to predict chemistry, no matter what percentage of your interests and values match up. Chemistry, unlike common interests or intellectual compatibility, is totally random."

"All I'm saying is, it wouldn't hurt you to put yourself out there. You don't want your vagina to get cobwebs, after all." 

"Please don't ever say anything like that to me ever again."

The next day, I was called out of work. It was cold and rainy outside, so I decided to stay in bed all day and, well... Dan's offensive words still echoing in my brain, my curiosity got the best of me. 

The first two weeks I was hooked. OkCupid is like the Facebook of the dating world. It's free, it's mostly self-determined, there is all kinds of gimmicky, procrastination-inducing shit to play with... plus, the advent of being able to see who's out there is intoxicating. There are so many factors to weigh when sorting through potential candidates: besides the obvious (attractive pictures, appealing height/weight/occupation/location), there is selection/creativity of photos and information, grammar/syntax/spelling, creativity of usernames... I found myself quickly compiling a mental list of pet peeves: guys who use their actual first names as user names (i.e. Adam4562904), guys whose self-summaries start with "I'm an easy-going, laid back guy...", guys who post shirtless pics and/or pics of themselves in muscle tees (ew. Only acceptable on gay men. And maybe not even then.) I'll admit, I can be very judgmental, often judging a book by its cover. Being a girl, OkC gave me an acute appreciation of how much control we ladies have over our dating lives. Turns out, there are a lot of dudes out there who find me, or at least the online possibility of me, worth their time (and money.) Men truly are the chasers and women the choosers. I couldn't be happier with those circumstances, myself.

here was something that seemed very active about online dating. Like I was defying natural odds of meeting someone, and taking matters into my own hands. How many people out there might I be compatible with but never chance to meet? I'm a control freak about my life--it's difficult for me to leave things up to faith and luck. 

Then something completely unexpected happened. I met someone. His username was SuperHeroPowers and his entire profile was written in the persona of a superhero, revealing not one real fact about himself. His pictures, like mine, were quirky and obscured, revealing just a glimpse of potential hotness. He was clever, funny, creative and not taking the online thing, or himself, very seriously. We happened to give each other's profiles 4 out of 5 star ratings and then one night we started to chat at 2 am. We chatted for nearly 2 hours, and learned real things about each other. He turned out to be a very genuine guy, out there to see what there was to see. I've never been much of an outward romantic, and I've never been one to seek out boyfriend material, and something about our mutual open-minded aloofness clicked... loudly. A few more chats later, and I was completely intrigued. When he IMed me one morning and spontaneously asked me out, my heart leaped... I was dying to discover whether or not the virtual butterflies I had developed from our online correspondence would materialize into real ones upon meeting him. 

We had the most kickass first date. Low key, spur of the moment, no pressure... meeting up at a tiny bar, going to his friend's loft for an art opening, then following his friends to a super lame party... where he kissed me as some drunk hipsters on the balcony above us dumped full cups of sticky boozy beverage square on top of our heads. At 3am we stumbled out to split a cab to our respective Brooklyn neighborhoods, and I discovered that my wallet was gone. We retraced our steps, but it was nowhere to be found. So he gave me some cash for the cab ride, and when I tried to insist I'd repay him when we met up as planned a few days later for our second date, he would hear nothing of it. A day later, we were chatting online and he told me he'd deleted his OkC profile. I was planning on deleting mine, but I held off... just in case. Two amazing dates later, I deleted mine too, admitting, when the site prompted me to reveal the reason for my departure, that I'd met someone on the site. 

Four months later. It had been a short, but very meaningful roller coaster ride. Things had been amazing and perfect for the first 2 months. Then, as our individual lives began to challenge us more and more, he began to pull away from me. His infatuation waned, and though we still had a fun together and were extremely comfortable with each other and cared for each other truly, he became aloof, determined to keep our dating status casual, despite the fact that we'd been seeing each other exclusively the entire time. As our wants and needs drifted further and further apart, it became clear to me that it wasn't going to work, so I called it off.

This was the closest I'd ever come to having a real, grown-up relationship. I wondered if I was foolish and naive to think it could develop into something more, or worse, that I was foolish and naive to feel like our time together had been so meaningful to me... so much more than it had been for him, I imagined. Ugh. Before I knew it, the glimmer of intimacy had slipped through my straining fingers, and I found myself back in my stubborn, workaholic, hopelessly independent life. Changed of course, and truly for the better, but... isolated. Again.

And so I went back online.

I know it was totally stupid of me to hope that I'd log on and bam! lightning would strike twice, and I'd find someone who wanted me to care for them, and who wanted to care for me in return, someone to assuage the sting of disappointment and rejection. But I was lonely and my judgement was clouded by my wounded pride. 

I signed up for Match.com's 3-day free trial. Within the first hour of my profile being up (with pics, of course), I had received 15 emails and 25 winks. My ego surged and I thought... well, I suppose I could stay on... it's only an extra $25 a month... and as my roommate Richard noted, I could easily earn that back in free dinners. 

Match is way more intense than OkC, I imagine because you have to pay for it. Those dudes are looking for commitment with a capital C. The problem became clear very quickly: that I wasn't necessarily looking for commitment myself. I had wanted commitment from Josh, but not just for commitment's sake... I had developed feelings for him. In the real world, outside of my dreamy little faux-relationship, I wasn't necessarily looking to settle down. I have no desire to get married any time in the next decade, I don't want someone to tie me down to any particular location, I desperately need massive amounts of alone time...I'm a very autonomous person by nature. I dig being by myself...I am excellent company. But suddenly, the great importance of intimacy had been revealed to me. I'd had a taste of how much better I could be... how my body physically thrived from regular physical closeness. I have a ton of amazing friends who I can call when the earth seems to be splitting beneath me, but I'd never had someone hold me in the middle of the night when I broke down in tears from the weight of my own existential crises. It was literally like a drug, and without it I was in serious withdrawal. All the strength and confidence I'd developed in four months of playing "girlfriend" seemed to bleed right out through my pores. I'd spontaneously weep out all the good, self-loving energy in the middle of the N train on the ride home from rehearsal. I still don't want to be joined to anyone's hip, but my heart and soul are crying out for intimate connection to another's. They just can't grow by themselves. My heart and soul feel stunted, unable to move forward into any new understanding of myself and the world around me. There is only so much one can learn on one's own.

I've always had this tendency to seek knowledge the safe way. Sometimes I wonder if I should have skipped college altogether and dived right into my acting career, flying by the seat of my pants, falling on my face every single day and picking myself up again. After all, no one needs a degree to be an artist. But college was safe, predictable. Structured. I've always had a terrible fear of failure, and a desperate desire to do things the "right" way. I get totally preoccupied with figuring out what the "right" way is, that I lose sight of what really matters to me, what really inspires me,  rather than the path that is going to gain the most approval from others. It recently struck me that I really have no idea what my path is. This whole time, I've been on the path that seemed right in theory. A path that was impressive to my parents and my peers. A path that was logical and well-paved, that seemed to make sense. But how often does art ever make sense? Being an artist is a reckless decision, a foolish choice that determines a life of chaos, longing and painful, painful beauty. Did my silly little self actually believe that my path could be so straightforward?

In the last week of my romantic entanglement, I started reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I usually avoid bestsellers as a rule, but one of my former UArts summer program students recommended it to me and the next day I bought it. I don't know why... all of my best friends have read it and loved it, but a girl I knew for a month two years ago recommends it and I buy it? It seemed... right. I don't know. I quickly became hooked and finished the thing in a week, a few days after I ended things with Josh. It's so predictably like me... to seek answers in a book. (A few weeks later, I buy The Female Brain by Louann Brizendine, MD. I read it in five days: finally, some chemical answers to why communicating with men is so completely maddening! And why they find communicating with me to be so maddening! More to come on this subject in the future...) Did I find answers? Well, I found things to meditate on in a healthy way. There really are no answers to help us overcome fear, rejection and disappointment. But there are antidotes: gratitude, faith and love. Gratitude for the lessons I've learned. Faith in that I will continue to learn. And love for the people in my life who have helped me to learn these lessons, and also love for myself, for being brave enough to learn.

I've faced a lot of disappointment in my life. It seems that everyone in my family is constantly disappointing each other. The problem is that we all love each other so fiercely, with such intensity, that we end up with such high expectations of each other. We have some seriously intelligent, idealistic, passionate, attractive, talented genes buzzing around, and we all believe so strongly in each other's capabilities, that any misstep seems earth-shattering... but you have so much potential! How could you not live up to it?? This is the way I was brought up. This is why I'm such an over-achiever, falling into the depths of despair when things don't go the way I imagined them, the way I worked so hard to steer them. 

"The Bhagavad Gita... says that it is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else's life with perfection" writes Gilbert.

Some of these mornings I wake up and I know, inherently, that my life will continue to be full of heartbreak. My heart is sensitive... it bruises so easily. I know it will never break into so many pieces that I won't be able to stitch it back together. Because not only does my heart bruise easily, but it fills easily too. I'm working on learning that letting your heart fill does not have to be scary. In the past I've been afraid to let it fill too much, for fear that someone will come along and spill it's contents all over the place, or suck them dry and leave me hollow. But I know that's not true. My heart is self-replenishing. It's in a state of refilling as we speak... it's like my toilet tank lately, when it starts to refill, and stops short, running until I notice it's stalled. Then I reach in, jiggle some stuff around, and it fills again. My heart needs a little tinkering to get it refilling again. So I'm working on it.

In the meantime, I'm off Match and back to OkC for now... I'm sure I'll tire of it shortly, but for now, I'm being selective and keeping an open mind. I like that people on OkC have fewer expectations. They're just there to see what there is to see. A number of the guys I talked to on Match were just too conventional for me. They had stable, steady jobs, made good money, many of them had derailed artistic aspirations... good guys. Kind-hearted, stable guys. A surprising number of good-looking guys. Last week I went on a date with a guy who was just the type of guy you'd want to marry: good looking, funny, smart, kind, kind of dorky... the guy who's still pining over the one that got away. The guy who will most certainly get over her (because she's obviously not the devoted, conventional girl he wishes she was) and meet someone simpler, softer, someone who will appreciate his sweet honesty, without exploiting it, and they'll get married and live happily ever after. I am clearly not the girl for this guy. I'm the girl who, if I decide to give him a chance, will undoubtedly bruise his heart when I fall for someone chaotic, unstable, afraid of commitment, unavailable, but exciting, challenging, and oh-so-sexy. I think that's just where I'm at. I crave a good challenge. I embrace a little drama here and there. I want intimacy and comfort with a guy who can't provide it... a guy who craves it himself, but is desperate to hang onto his own autonomy. If I have to choose between wild, passionate, but fleeting infatuation and safety, comfort and stability, you'd better believe I'm choosing the former. 

I believe I am at the threshold of great adventure in my life, so long as I can my mind and my heart open to finding their own unique way.

"This is a good sign, having a broken heart. It means we have tried for something."

-from Eat, Pray, Love

Yoga to the People!

The inevitable has finally happened: after years and years of viewing my life through neurotic, stress-colored glasses, I've become a yoga addict. I love yoga. I love the way it feels to wake up (without an alarm!) and know that yoga will be a part of it. Some days, I fit yoga into my busy schedule. And some days, yoga is the highlight of my schedule. I'm content to sleep until noon, lounge around my apartment cooking and cleaning and snuggling in bed with hours of TV on DVD if I know that at some point during the day, I will leave the house and go to yoga. If I accomplish nothing else, I still feel productive if I go to yoga.

How has this happened? Me, a type-A, ambitious to a fault, self-flagellating control freak content to complete only one activity in an entire day?? I never thought I would be this person...and I LOVE it. I feel like I'm finally tapping into my best, most true self. I'm taking better care of myself than I ever have before...because taking care of myself is my main priority. It's awesome.

The stage for this phase of self-discovery is itself a great part of my motivation. Yoga to the People is a donation-based yoga studio on St. Marks Place, right in the heart of the NYU campus. In a musty old beautiful building with four studios on three floors, the studio is open 7 days a week to anyone with an inclination to show up. There is always a surplus of NYU students, dancers and actors, but there are all kinds of other people too. The teachers are all young, fresh-faced and encouraging. It's like an open yoga forum--anyone can come and everyone is welcome, even those who can't afford to make a donation. I used to take yoga at the 12th Street Gym in Philly, for the few sweet months I could afford to be a member, and though I always loved the classes, it had a much more somber ambiance. Since Yoga to the People is open to any and all who want to participate, the classes are often stuffed to the max...sometimes you'll be sharing the same stale, sweaty air with a hundred other people. It's a little slice of New York City in every class: overcrowded, full of people all striving to be at their best, isolated, and yet a part of a whole at the same time. Each person's practice is individual, personal, and yet we share the practice with each other. It's beautiful The teachers encourage everyone to smile whenever they feel compelled, and not take their practice so seriously. They also consistently remind everyone to thank themselves for doing such a good thing for their bodies by taking the time to come to yoga. I find it so rare in my life to be reminded that the things which are best for us should be enjoyable.

Tonight, I decided to jump off the proverbial cliff and attend my first hot yoga session, at YTTP's midtown hot yoga studio. Being an overachiever, and still a little high from yesterday's awesome afternoon class, I decided to forgo the 60 minute Vinyasa class and go straight for the gold: the 90 minute traditional Bikram class. I was told upon entering that I was required to have a towel, which I assumed I would do without since I don't generally sweat as much as most of the other people in my regular class, and so I rented one along with my mat. The hot yoga class isn't donation based, but a class is only $5. I settled into the steamy studio, thinking to myself how the heat felt like a big bear hug, and waited for class to begin.

Holy crap.

I mean...wow.

First of all, I had no idea my body was physically capable of sweating that much. I felt like I'd sweat out half my body weight in the first half hour. Sweat dripped off every inch of my body and didn't stop for an hour and a half. I hadn't thought to stock up my body's H2O supply before class, so it wasn't long before I started to feel nauseous. I probably spend half the class in corpse pose on the floor. However, the work I was able to do felt amazing. Poses that are often difficult for me to hold (particularly poses that have to do with balance...I have the hardest time stacking my hips solidly so that I can balance) came so easily. I felt more focused that ever, I'm sure because my ego was being sweat right out my pores with all the toxins in my body. An hour into the class, when we got to the floor work, I started to feel a remarkable sensation. The very center of my body, right between my groin and my belly, was opening up and suddenly I realized that was exactly the spot where my intuition lives. Isn't that amazing? When you become in tune with your body, when you become able to listen to it, you can find where your senses and emotions are physically located! Like when you're utterly heartbroken and your whole chest feels crushed, as if a sumo wrestler were putting all his weight on your poor sternum. Your heart, the place where your sense of compassion and love and longing come from, is literally located in your chest. In an instant, I learned where my intuition was located...and how beautiful it could feel when it was fully opened, impossible to be ignored. The breathing exercises at the very end of class became spiritual to me. My head was spinning and my heart was opening and I felt so emotionally and physically free. There was no stress, no worry. Only joy and gratitude for the opportunities that this moment in my life possessed. I knew everything I'd ever need to know. It was amazing.

It took me a full half hour to recover enough to even be able to stand and put my mat away. My body felt so weak and I know I was very dehydrated. But I felt empty and full at the same time and it felt fantastic. I felt yellow...if one can feel a color, that's what I felt. I went to the market below the studio and bought a container of cut-up pineapple and a small bunch of daffodils. As I was walking down 6th Ave to the D train, I almost crossed the street right in front of a taxi who had a green light. I stopped myself in time, and the cab driver honked a brief warning. Out of habit, I heard myself mutter "fuck you" and then stopped in my tracks. How funny! The way we are conditioned in our daily routines to foster stress and anxiety and frustration! It's been so drilled into my nervous system that I don't even realize it! I was so aware of everything, of this silly impulse that had flown out of me despite my state of zen. And I thought, I must go back and try again. Every time I go, it will get easier. And no matter how hard it is, I will never regret going.

On the subway ride home, I wrote the following in my journal:

"...my body feels great. It feels right--it feels like mine. I own this body. It's my only truly meaningful possession. My heart, my soul, my mind, my body. My breath. My experience. My feelings. I feel so wealthy. So fortunate to have this body. So fortunate to have these chances. Everything is a chance! Everything is an opportunity! My god, what a revelation! It seems so simple, but it's so profound. Every breath is an opportunity--to say or do something meaningful. Why would we spend our time wasting these opportunities? This is my revelation. This is my answer. Every moment holds an opportunity to make a choice. What choices will I make? How will I seize these opportunities? Every day I have a chance to be happy and to make others happy. To learn and to teach. To breathe and to grow. You miss so much by closing yourself off to any opportunity. The opportunity to really know another person. To be close to them. To see yourself in them, through their eyes. Every relationship is a chance to grow and should never be viewed as anything different."

I know I have a tendency to wax poetic, and I know I was in a hot yoga-euphoria, but I do believe these to be truths.

I've learned that when I focus exclusively on money, I'm unhappy. When I focus exclusively on my career, I'm unhappy. When I focus exclusively on my relationships with others, I'm unhappy. But when I focus on myself, I can see what each of those other things truly means to me, and how they can work in tandem to create a rich, full life that I'm thankful and proud to live.

What I must work on now is my ability to balance...both literally, and figuratively.

there will be no correct clothes

there will be no proper payment

there will be no right answers

no glorified teachers

no ego no script no pedestals

no you're not good enough or rich enough

this yoga is for everyone

the sweating and breathing and becoming

this knowing glowing feeling

is for the big small weak and strong

able and crazy

brothers sisters grandmothers

the mighty and the meek

bones that creak

those who seek

this power is for everyone

yoga to the people

all bodies rise



-YTTP's Mission Statement

April Showers Bring May Flowers

A week ago, my father sent me a giant bouquet of red and yellow tulips to congratulate me on closing The Irish... They're wilting now, decaying at an accelerating pace. I know I'll have to throw them away tomorrow. I want to hang on to them as long as possible, cherishing the memory of walking into the dressing room at the theater and seeing them displayed at my seat in all their sunny, optimistic glory.

It's 4pm and I should be getting ready for work. Instead, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, staring at my dying tulips and thinking. I'm thinking my way through what I'm feeling. Forgive me for this second self-indulgent post in a row, but I'm going through some complications right now and I'm trying to work them out.

I don't understand men. I don't understand their behavior. They'll work so hard to win us over, and then the minute they have us they lose interest. Every single romantic entanglement I've had (with two exceptions) have ended by the guy losing interest. Time and again I've consoled myself by realizing that they clearly didn't care enough for me to begin with. It's like I told Alee last night, we all know that when you truly care for someone, it doesn't go away. You don't wake up one day and stop caring. Even if you stop seeing or talking to them, you'll always care. The only boy I've ever truly loved and who has ever truly loved me is still in my life long after we've stepped off the roller coaster. So there.

Is it the thrill of the chase? Is that what happens? When they win us over too easily, do they lose interest? I don't think of myself as being someone who is easily won. I need honesty and kindness and compassion to be won, and these things are scarce in the dating game. Honesty, kindness, and compassion always fuck me up. When someone tries to take care of me, although I resist initially, I'm lost. Compassion makes me trust you. How can you be compassionate at first and then pull away?

I'll never understand how men can tell you that they're feeling things they're not sure they feel. How it takes them so long to figure out what's going on with them. You can see it in their eyes, the wheels turning, trying to figure out what they want, fighting their own vulnerability. Women aren't more vulnerable than men--they're just more honest about their feelings, and less frightened of them.

I know what it's like to be afraid of committment. I used to be terrified of being let down, and even more terrified of letting others down. In the aforementioned two exceptions to a guy losing interest, I was the one pulling away. I've pulled away when things got hard in my own life and I didn't have anything to give the other person in return. I've pulled away when I've been scard of how deeply the other person felt about me, or how deeply I felt about them. I've pulled away when I just didn't want to deal...when there seemed to be too much at stake. I've been selfish. I've hurt people with my selfishness, and I've regretted it deeply. And in one case, I've worked hard to make amends.

It's too easy to look out at the world and all the people in it and feel isolated. Isolation from others makes us so desperate for a real connection that the minute it comes around, we're so quick to jump it and hold on for dear life. Even when a connection is fuzzy, we try to convince ourselves that it's clear because having something faulty seems better than having nothing at all.

I often feel isolated but I never feel alone. I have a strong, loving, expansive family who supports me all the time. I have a rich, full emotional life that I'm not ashamed of. I'm in touch with who I am and what I want. I'm not afraid to be alone. I'm so fortunate to have more love and support than many lonely people have.

I don't need this crap.

I don't need these games, this uncertanity. I don't have time for fear and baggage. I don't need to settle for being anyone's temporary girl, to be used for comfort and security at someone else's convenience then pushed away the moment the flame gets too hot for them to bear. My feelings run rich and deep and I'll share them with anyone in a heartbeat. They're my treasures, and if they frighten you then I'll find someone else to share them with, someone who appreciates them, someone who is open to learning from them. I don't need anything from anyone that I don't already have. I'm proud of who I am and I'm not looking for anyone else to define me. All I want is to have experiences that help me learn and grow as a person. My only expectation is that I be treated with respect at all times. I deserve honesty and trust. And if that is too scary for anyone else to bear, then, alas, it may be time to move on to the next adventure.

Tomorrow I will throw the tulips away. On Monday, I will trek through the Greenmarket and buy myself a new bouquet of something fresh and springy and cheerful to brighten up my little apartment. Maybe daffodils. Or hibiscus.

It's spring, and I'm growing.

How lovely!

There's No Place Like Home...For Now

And so, at long last, I've returned to the blogosphere! And at a much shorter last, I've returned home to Brooklyn. You see, a great deal has happened in the 3+ months since I've written.

In December, I had some adventures in online dating, got stranded at the Crowne Plaza in San Fransisco on Christmas Eve, and revisited my roots in Vista, California. In January, I took a weekend trip to New Haven and auditioned for Yale's MFA acting program. In February, I returned to Philadelphia to start work on The Irish...Redux at the Kimmel Center, while simultaneously maneuvering through multiple auditions for Columbia's MFA program. In March, The Irish... opened to mixed critical reviews and massive ticket sales, just 3 days after my final callback for Columbia. And now, having received official letters of rejection from both graduate programs, having closed the show with the possibility of yet another revival hanging ominously in the air, and having no intention of returning to my formerly back-breaking New York schedule, I've landed back in my tiny, cozy Brooklyn apartment.

I haven't worked in 5 days, I don't feel an ounce of guilt for the luxurious relaxation I've been revelling in. Instead, I've been reorganizing and prioritizing my life to center around the constant pursuit of my own peace of mind. I've put myself on a low-carb, high-fiber, pescatarian diet and have been taking yoga every other day. I quit caffeine at the beginning of February to promote better vocal health for the show, and have decided to stay off it. I'm going back to work 2-3 shifts a week at Morimoto and filing for partial unemployment to supplement my income. For now, I'm going to avoid getting a second job. I'm starting rehearsals for a new play with my friends at Untitled Theatre Company #61 in a couple of weeks that will keep me semi-occupied throughout the spring. And I've become determined to jump back on the audition horse and ride it very slowly and recreationally for now. I've learned that having creative stimulus is absolutely crucial for me, but also that I desperately need a more even balance between my career, my day job, and my mental and emotional well-being.

Anyway.

Sitting in my cozy kitchen this morning, eating my gluten-free frozen waffles with strawberries and vanilla soymilk, gazing out at the drizzly mess outside, I got to thinking about the impermanent nature of belonging.

When I was a freshman in college, I fell in love with this boy who lived down the hall from me. He was my first real friend in college and from the moment we met we were inseperable. We had most of the same classes together, and after class we would always settle down in my apartment or his to do homework, watch movies, make pasta, do laundry, and snuggle on my cheap KMart futon. He had a girlfriend back home, so we never truly became an item, but for two months we were eachother's rock, a shoulder to cry on at any time of day or night, another lonely, confused teenager trying desperately to come to terms with adulthood and all that it entailed. One night, we took a walk around the city and he kissed me. I was ecstatic--for the first time a boy who I felt truly close to, who I cared about deeply, was going to be mine! To hold and to comfort throughout all the scary pain of learning how to take care of oneself. Now we could take care of each other!

A couple of days later, however, he snubbed me in ballet class and I was pissed. After class, I went over to his room and asked him what was going on, what had changed. He told me he thought he would feel something when we kissed, but he didn't. I was devastated. I cried for a week. Then, I got really, really drunk for the first time at a party and the boy carried me home to the dorms, only to be caught by the campus security guard as I puked my guts out on the sidewalk in front of our building. Security sent me to the hospital to make sure I didn't have alcohol poisoning, and the boy came with me. I don't remember much about the night, except that I was pretty hysterical, and that he stayed with me until 6am when they finally released me.

After that, we hardly talked at all for months and I became totally reclusive. I felt like I'd lost my security blanket, like I had no one else to turn to when I was tossing and turning in the middle of the night. And so, I went on amazon.com and ordered this book by this Indian spiritual guru called On Love and Loneliness. I wish I had it here to quote, but alas, I think it's in storage in Philadelphia. Anyway, the book was all about how human beings are always trying to possess one another and that is why we are always so lonely. Once we realize that we belong to nothing and no one and nothing and no one belongs to us, we can begin to truly understand what love is. Love is selfless and without expectation. Love is transient, taking all forms. Love is something that we never lose, because it does not have an owner, rather it is fluid, moving between us all, connecting us in a much deeper way. You can never truly love someone that you feel you possess. As a 17-year old kid trying to cope with not my first but certainly my greatest disappointment, there was only so much of what the book was saying that I was able to grasp. But for whatever reason, my wiser, more content 23-year old self was remembering this book today and realizing how much sense it now makes to me, now that I've truly come into my own in this nomadic, bohemian life of mine.

I've been living in this apartment in Brooklyn for 7 months now, longer than I've lived anywhere in two years. I've taken on such complete ownership of my space, obsessively working every day on improving it, making it my own safe haven. And yet I'm not even on a lease! I don't own this apartment, I don't even officially live here. And yet, it feels more to me like home than any place I've lived since college (and I've lived in a lot of places.) Returning home on Monday after the show closed was such a huge relief, to a girl who's moved more than 25 times in 23 years, who is constantly grasping at newfangled definitions of "home", trying to find one that fits. And you know, I think for me home is a transient idea that doesn't depend on any particular four walls and a ceiling (although they're certainly appreciated), or any particular address, or even any particular city. Home is wherever and whatever I make of it. Home is a state of knowing where you are in relation to the rest of the world. That address and these four walls help me to orient myself in the world, to know where I'm coming from and where I'm going. When I'm away from them, I feel displaced, though it would be just as easy for me to rearrange myself in a different location.

Recently I was discussing committment in relationships with a boy. He said he thought of relationships like cars (such a stereotypically testosterone-filled analogy, I know): either you're taking it for a test drive, you're renting short-term, or you're leasing. Or, I suppose, you could pay for it all at once if you're loaded. Anyway. And I thought, what a close-ended way of thinking! "Committment" in relationship terms is such a problematic concept to me. How can we know how long someone will be in our lives? Trying to compartmentalize our lives into time frames is so limiting. If we try to know how long something will last, we can so easily end up smothering it.

Today, I am content. I know where I am. I love and am loved. I appreciate the peace and the stillness I currently have at my disposal. Today I am free of obligations. I know that everything is temporary. My apartment is temporary. My unemployment is temporary. Even my peace of mind is temporary. And as director Whit MacLaughlin once said to us in rehearsal, "change, if we consider it a constant, can be a comfort." All I know is that things will change. And so in this moment, I am thankful for the opportunities and the people in my life. Although I know they will flow in and out of my life like the tides, the lessons I learn from them will stay with me permanently. Everything leaves its residue on us. Someday, I'll look back fondly on this time in my life and remember what it was like to not know...how freeing, how exhilirating it can be to be unsure.

I am no longer afraid of not knowing. I am no longer afraid of loss or failure or even rejection. I am living without expectations, without certainty, without trying to possess or be possessed. This life I get to live right now, in my cozy apartment, with my lovely friends around me, with creative work to do, with a snuggly boy on the side, is just one of the many lives I've lived. All I'm certain of is that there will be many more to come.

When the Walls are Too Thick To Break Down, Try Climbing Over Instead

"You want to experience the anticipation for what's around the next bend, but there's just too much stuff for you to do right now before you can allow yourself to feel the excitement. You have big decisions to make as the Sun moves through your 12th House of Destiny for the next month. Choose carefully, for your current choices will likely have a lasting impact."

-my Google horoscope for Sunday, December 21st

It's almost four o'clock in the morning and I've been torturing myself for hours, days weeks...

I have become completely and totally nocturnal in the past few days. If my insomnia was bad before, it may now have reached irreversible. The problem is, I'm too anxious and too excited about my life to sleep. Sleep seems so irrelevent, so expendable right now...there is just too much to do, to much to think about, to ruminate on... possibilities overflowing all around me. I am sometimes hit by these amazing periods of inspiration, of total openness and awareness of all that I am capable of receiving from the universe, and how much I am capable of giving back in return.

I know I sound totally esoteric and a little insane. I've been sleeping about 4 hours a night for the past couple weeks. And consuming far too much coffee and alcohol.

Tonight I got home and was determined to finish my grad school applications. I've nearly done just that. I've put my documents to bed for the night and will reopen them tomorrow to be printed out. I may edit again tomorrow night, but I've decided: they go out on Monday. No exception. I must lift this weight from my sloping little shoulders. I must cease the self-torment. I could edit until I'm dead. I'm choosing life instead. Que sera sera, as they say. C'est la vie. Soon it will be out of my hands and into the universe. And the hands of Kristin Linklater, head of acting at Columbia, my dream school.

Yes, that's right. She has her own technique. I can't handle my affection for this ivy-league institution. It's reached an obsessive, all-consuming level. I'm completely infatuated.

My friends are amazingly supportive. I feel like I should come with a disclaimer: Difficult, Exhausting, but Unendingly Loyal and Eternally Grateful! Will Challenge and Enhance Your Life With Her Presence!

It never ceases to amaze me how little we change over the years. Yes, we grow and learn and devise ways of coping with our neuroses, but they remain embedded inside our psyches, nonetheless. The childhood baggage, the insecurities...these things are irremoveable parts of who we are. Yes, we can turn down the volume, shut them away in drawers and cabinets, yet they always remain. Our vulnerabilities are part of what makes each of us special, and understanding and embracing them gives us immeasurable strength. However, every so often when they peek out from behind closed doors and cause us momentary lapses in sanity and coherence, we have no choice but to collapse under the weight. For a moment. To release it. My insecurities are like poltergeists: they just need to be acknowledged and released. They have unfinished business, and when it's completed, they retreat. Except they're never fully evicerated. They just lie dormant for a while, until roused the next time.

I may have a tired emotional cycle. But it's much shorter now than it used to be.

And now I think I have a personal statement.

Here goes nothing:

Though it's been a year and a half since I finished my BFA, I never really stopped feeling like a student. All that's changed is that the walls of the classroom have faded away, or rather have receded out of sight so that now I look out at the world and can see no walls, no boundaries. I am a student of experience, not only of the theatre, but of the streets, the subway, the restaurants I work in, the city of New York and beyond.

For more than half of my undergraduate career, I was still a teenager, vigorously working toward discovering and defining who I was as a person. The search for myself was prevalent throughout my technique training, and after four years of work I found that while my fragile adolescent whimsy had transformed into a poised and confident adult perspective, I was still unsure of my place in the theatre industry. Certain of my artistic inspirations and beginning to explore my own creative strengths, I moved to New York hoping to fall into a niche. The professional tools I had were steering me down a specific path that was leading my performance career into the mainstream musical theatre, hopefully capitalizing on my special skill as a violinist along the way. Though I had some success in that area, sparking interest in casting directors and working a little along the way, I quickly discovered how important it was to me to constantly redefine my ideas of art and its relationship with its audience. I longed to continually seek out more effective and meaningful means of collaborative communication. I wanted a chance to experiment, to collaborate more actively on progressive new work, to develop a wider variety of skills, and to deepen and diversify my artistic sensibilities.

As the gradual decline of our economy has coincided with my generation's transition into adulthood, I find myself emerging as an artist in an age of extreme social despair. We have felt the odds of achieving our personal goals rising higher and higher against us; and yet, as artists we continue to believe fundamentally in our responsibility to care for each other and the world we live in. I've always felt compelled to act in the interest of the greater good, and to me, the theatre is the place where that responsibility can blend harmoniously with my own pursuit of self-fulfillment. As I grow and learn from my adult experiences, a certain truth has moved to the forefront of my awareness: as Anne Bogart wrote, "you cannot create results; you can only create conditions in which something can happen." I can no longer sit back and wait patiently for my career to happen. I must pursue my goals more actively, more vigorously, taking control of my circumstances, placing myself at the forefront of the theatre of the new millenium. I believe that I can stand on that precipice at Columbia University, prepared to leap at every opportunity.

The limit was 500 words (approximately.) I clocked in at a miraculous 496.

I hope it's good. I hope it accomplishes what I was intending. I hope you like it, but please don't tell me what you think. What I think and how I feel about it is more important. I can't revise it any longer. I have to stop beating myself up. I always secretly wanted to be a writer, but honestly, I don't think I could handle it. Acting is so much more cathartic. Good acting absolutely depends on being able to silence the voices in your head and be present in the moment. Writing is all about utilizing the voices in your head. I think I have too many angry, scared voices to be harnessed. They resist being translated. They resist being edited. I hate editing myself. And I hate being edited by others. Putting the voices into someone else's head is fantastic.

Okay, so it's a little like therapy. But I swear to you, communication of ideas is of utmost importance to me as an actor, and I prefer to communicate other people's ideas that move me. My own ideas are so confused, so frustrated. But people who have talent for saying things that matter... those people are my heros.

All I can do is cry and scream and sing and laugh through your words onstage.

"Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says 'I'll try again tomorrow."

- Mary Anne Radmacher

"...a subject for a short story..."

I never really stopped feeling like a student. All that's really changed is that the walls of the classroom have faded away, or rather they've receded out of sight, so that now I look out at the world and can see no walls, no boundaries. This feeling both exhilirates and terrifies me.

It's intermission at the Walter Kerr Theater. I've just finished watching Act I of The Seagull, a play that has fascinated me since I first discovered it in my high school drama class. A girl in my class once said "Chekhov is about how boring people are." I don't think she was entirely right, nor was she entirely wrong. The curiosity of Chekhov is that he is always examining how seriously people take their lives, because our lives are all we have; and this seriousness is absurd, because all we're left with in the end is death--nothing to show for our lives.

Yes, I'm writing in my journal at intermission of a Broadway play. In front of me, an 18-year old boy is asking his two teenage fag-hags what their favorite musicals are. Beside me, a middle-aged woman is yawning and remarking to her husband how she likes The Cherry Orchard better. And I am sitting alone with tears in my eyes feeling finally that my creative channels have been opened.

My grad school applications are due in 3 weeks. I realized this yesterday and suddenly all my old neuroses, kept at bay for so long, kicked into gear. It isn't a thought of not being worthy of acceptance--I've outgrown that, thank goodness--but the awareness that I'm finally down to the wire. It's a reality now, even though I've completed 75 percent of the applications, recommendations have already been submitted for me, and my transcripts have already been sent. I've always had every single intention of completing this task, yet for some reason, the awareness that it is possible for me to fail to complete it is there. It's so silly: I know it's just a matter of doing the work. There's just one task that's holding me up...the personal statement.

I went through the same battle when I was applying for undergraduate school. My sense of self-awareness is so debilitating and unfortunately does not have an on/off switch but rather a slow and stubborn dimmer. I can dim it...but it takes soooooo long. I know what I must do but I've been putting it off, knowing how much time and effort it requires. In situations like this, I must write and write and write and write and write until finally I realize I've hit the zone, the place where my neuroses are drowned by the soothing buzz of my ideas, flowing like water, directly from the source, straight from my gut and my soul, simple, succinct and essential. But first I must wade through draft after draft of terrible, eager-to-please, validation-obsessed, self-conscious drivel, draining each pathetic, calculating, self-loathing waste of thought and word from my stubborn psyche. As the writer Trigorin says to Nina in The Seagull:

"Oh, when I'm writing it's not bad, and doing the final editing, that's enjoyable. But once it's published I can't stand to read it, I can see how wrong it is, I realize I should never have written it, and I'm depressed and miserable."

Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.

Everyone is so desperately lonely and crying out for someone to appreciate them and thus validate their miserable existence and thus everyone is so wrapped up in their own suffering that they're completely incapable of giving or received real love. And without love, what happiness is there? The artists in The Seagull are searching for truth and beauty, yet their self-obsessions prevent them from ever finding it. And how true to life is that? Perhaps cynical, but heartbreaking nonetheless. Human isolation and loneliness is devastatingly tragic. Like Tennessee Williams wrote in the preface to the published version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof:

"As a character in a play once said, 'We're all of us sentanced to solitary confinement inside our own skins.' Personal lyricism is the outcry of prisoner to prisoner from the cell in solitary where each is confined for the duration of his life."

The drafts of this stupid personal statement I've written so far have all been focused on figuring out the right thing to say, cracking the verbal code for being accepted to an Ivy-league MFA program. As if there was a secret Ivy-league language that only wealthy trust-fund kids were entrusted with. Fuck, they're just people. And artists, no less! We speak the same language! Before the play, I took myself out to dinner at an over-priced French bistro down the block from the theater and as I watched the staff ease their way through the pre-theater rush, I felt like I was part of a secret society. Actually, I feel like I'm part of two secret societies: Restaurants and Theater. There is a language, a rhythm to each world, which I've mastered through years of experience. It's a very satisfying feeling, to feel united to others in this way. I feel most comfortable, most at home when in a theater or a restaurant. And strangely, this realization didn't make me feel small or limited in any way; it made me feel accomplished. There are other little worlds out there that I will grow to understand in time...how exciting! I have the rest of my life to make discoveries!

I don't know what it is about December...maybe it's because the stars are aligned under my sign, Sagittarius, but I always feel most like myself at this time of year. Even when relatively little is happening.

Subway. Headed home.


Chekhov is an actor's Everest. So rich. So much to be mined. So unsteady. So layered. Nina's last speech...I know it by heart: "I know now...that what is important in our work...is not fame, not glory...but the ability to endure. To be able to bear one's cross and have faith. I have faith, and when I think of my vocation, I'm not afraid of life."

Would it be cliche to quote Chekhov in my personal statement? Would it seem trite? It reminds me of that Artaud quote, about how trying to put words to that which moves us most diminishes its meaning, but to use a symbol is to capture its essence in an undefineable and infinitely more accurate way. Only he said it more eloquently.

My creative channels feel open thanks to the stimulation of good theater. Thank goodness! Reality TV and the internet must be killing my artistic soul. Not to mention fashion magazines.

Though I still have no idea what to write.

Motherfucker.

All day I've been determined to return home after the play and write until I had a finished draft, even if it took me until the wee hours of the morning.

Of course, the moment I sat down and turned on my computer, I felt at a loss. Not for words themselves, of course--I'm rarely at a loss for words--but for the right words. The words that would best convey the truth of myself as an artist, my voice and what I want to use it to say, and the order to put them in to give them the most precise, effective meaning.

Konstantin: The more I write, the more I think it's not a matter of old forms and new forms: what's important is to write without thinking about forms at all. Just write and pour out whatever's in your heart.

But what to do when you only have 500 words at your disposal? How to filter the outpour of my heart into it's purest, most concentrated and most potent form?

Jesus Christ. I belong in a fucking Chekhov play. All talk and no action.

I'm never getting to Moscow at this rate.

Finding a Home for the Holidays

Every year, increasingly as I get older, the holiday season arrives on an emotional roller coaster that doesn't really stop until well after New Year's, with an extension through Valentine's Day. Okay. If I'm truly being honest, I'll probably be moody until the spring thaw. Chalk it up to Seasonal Affective Disorder, family baggage, or just plain hormones, the holiday season never ceases to rev me up to the giddiest highs then without warning plummet me down to the lowest of lows. Is it just me? Am I bipolar? In need of a shrink? Or does everyone else get the same warm, fuzzy heartaches around the holidays?


I hate to sound so curmudgeonly on Thanksgiving. After all, this was one of the best Thanksgivings I've had in years. At least better than last year's, when I was brand new to the city, and spent the whole day working the Thanksgiving banquet at Beacon. In spite of the many trials and tribulations I've been facing in the past year, it suddenly dawned on me yesterday that I have so many things to be thankful for. I generally make a habit of appreciating the many gifts in my life, but you know, sometimes when things are tough it's easy for us to lose sight of how lucky we really are. I may be overworked, underpaid and thoroughly exhasted about ninety-five percent of the time, but the people who matter to me are always there, even when I have so little time to spend with them. And I'm so lucky to find myself in two extremely positive, supportive working environments, where I am embraced and appreciated as an employee. Fight as I may to keep myself emotionally detached from my day jobs, I've found myself in a strange place where my life is composed of nothing but those day jobs...and I'm not entirely miserable. I'm creatively and personally challenged and unfulfilled, yes, but the people I'm working with are largely so generous and accomodating and understanding that I'm finding myself becoming more and more charmed by them and more and more guilty for my own lack of enthusiasm.



On Thanksgiving Eve, I worked my usual Wednesday lunch shift, knowing I would have the night off to cuddle with some tea in bed and watch my usual reality TV shows (currently Top Chef and Stylista.) All week, I'd been hearing about the Tabla tradition of the Thanksgiving family meal, which always occured on the day before Thanksgiving, at 4:15, our usual pm family meal time. Each cook in the restaurant, including the sous chefs, brought in one dish to share with the entire staff, anyone who was working, or who wanted to come in to partake. The managers set the entire upstairs dining room for the staff with festive table decorations and champagne flutes filled with sparkling cider. Ty, the Chef de Cuisine, cooked the turkey to perfection and we all piled into the dining room at 4:15. "It may be the most important meal you have this year" said Eric, one of my favorite bartenders. I was excited because I wasn't sure I'd have another Thanksgiving dinner this year. The food was incredible. There must have been twenty five different dishes, all the classics, and some takes on the classics. Some of my favorites included amazing scalloped sweet potatoes that were sweet and succulent, and sous chef Logan's chile rellano, a Thanksgiving tradition from his family in southern California, which struck a chord in my memory as well. It was over pretty quickly, since we had to clear out in time for the first 5:30 reservations.



As I stumbled out of the restaurant into the early evening darkness, my belly bursting and my heart warmed, I marvelled at how unique this display of community was amongst restaurant people. I mean honestly, and I've worked at all kinds of restaurants, I've never known a restaurant to be so accomodating of its employees. Earlier that week I'd gotten called into the managers' office at the end of my closing dinner shift to sit down with Gretchen and Peter (two of my favorite managers, thank God) and chat about my apparent lack of presence on the floor. "You're pretty brilliant when dealing with your tables. Your guests really respond to you. But you seem to be going through the motions on the floor." I immediately got emotional and had to explain to them that I feel like the exception at a place where almost every single front-of-house employee went to culinary school and plans to have a career in hospitality. Every other place I've ever worked has been a temporary solution for ninety percent of its employees. Even at Morimoto, a restaurant of a similiarly high caliber (maybe higher, if you consider cover count and the exposure of having a celebrity chef) every single server and host has another career, be it modelling, acting, music, makeup artistry, instillation art, teaching yoga, you name it. This doesn't make them bad servers. On the contrary, I think the fact that they have rich lives outside the restaurant contributes to the quality of their service. At Tabla, the service is equally as high, if not higher. It's just a different atmosphere, one where every employee is expected to be better than good; they're expected to be exemplary. I didn't think I had a problem with that expectation. I'll always admit first that I admire the staff's committment to and passion for hospitality. It's totally remarkable, coming from my perspective, which was that everyone who worked in service fucking hated it. I always try to adhere to the highest standards possible in everything that I do...unless I begin to feel that it isn't worth it. When my general manager at Lunetta stopped showing any interest in the well-being of any of my co-workers, I had no desire to try my hardest to do my best. In a dramatic episode that ended my affiliation with Lunetta forever, my GM had a similar conference with me, after which I realized I would never care enough about the restaurant to suck it up and try any harder. There was no point in me staying. I had nothing left to gain, and nothing left to give. But at Tabla, as I sat in the office with tears streaming down my face uncontrollably, I explained to the managers where I was coming from--that I was unhappy in my personal life and trying to save money to help improve my quality of living by funding such things as grad school and an apartment of my own, and also completely creatively unfulfilled, which made everything even harder because I knew that I was supposed to be doing something else with my life something I cared deeply about--and they listened! And they showed great empathy! And I told them sincerely that I wanted to improve my attitude because I respected the way they cared about their jobs and how that translated into how well they did their jobs.


So. I'm thankful for the company I'm in at Tabla. Although my heart still isn't quite in it, and I know it never will be. I'm thankful for the role this job is playing at this juncture in my life.


I waddled to the liquor store last night for a cheap bottle of wine to wash down the amazing family meal when I got home, and as I was on my way, I got a call from my friend Elyse about the details of the Thanksgiving dinner she was hosting the next day. Elated to hear from her, I vowed to be there the next day, flowers and wine in hand, to share the holiday with my estranged college friends and friends from Lunetta (where they all still work.) I went home, DVRd the Macy's parade and fell asleep early in my amazing, snuggly new Victoria's Secret robe that I ordered online while at Morimoto last weekend.


The next day, I awoke at 1:00, and cuddled with a glass of soy egg nog and a Greenmarket blackberry pie for breakfast, and watched the parade commercial-free before dragging my tired lazy ass out of bed and heading to the Upper West Side. It was a divinely perfect morning off.


Our misfit Manhattan Thanksgiving couldn't have been lovelier. As Elyse wrote in her Facebook status, it was a party made up of lesbians, hipsters and gays, with Alee, Elyse and I living somewhere in the middle. When I arrived, Natalya, our manager from Lunetta, and her girlfriend Tammy had slaved all day in the kitchen with masters of the house Adam and Dennis; Elyse, having been banned from her own kitchen, had mostly been drinking all day; our hipster friends Ryan, Thurman and Ulysses, all former Lunetta servers, were lounging around with cheap Mexican beers in hand (the only beer they could get from the very sketchy East Harlem liquor store down the street); Spadoni was her wacky self, emphasized by organic wine from Trader Joe's; and Tammy and Natalya's tiny chihuaua Missy was nervously weaving around everyone's feet. It was so wonderful to see everyone. I spent the remainder of the hor d'oeuvres session catching up, and by the time dinner was properly served (on no-muss no fuss plastic plates), I'd found myself in a yummy wine haze myself. The food was, again incredible. Halfway through, I definitely regretted having eaten so much the day before, as my stomach still seemed to be in recovery, but the more I ate, the more nostalgic I felt: it was a proper, old-fashioned Thanksgiving after all. We all talked about what we were thankful for, as a non-denominational substution for saying grace, and though we're all struggling to find peace of mind, artistic fulfillment, and financial stability, we all found ourselves to be thankful for the struggle and the opportunity to pursure the things that made us happy, supported by each other in the endeavor.


Around 11:00, Spadoni, Ryan, Ulysses and I stumbled onto the 6 train, dying a little from our gluttony, and I started to feel my sleepy contentment give way to melancholy, the same way it always had when I was a kid, on the drive home from whichever relative's home we had visited for Thanksgiving. I remember sitting in the car, my little brothers passed out on either side of me, listening to Christmas music on the radio and feeling sad for no reason, as if having a premonition of my impending adulthood.


I think the reason some of us are prone to holiday depression is because we're mourning our own loss of childhood innocence. The holidays used to be so simple: Thanksgiving meant turkey, Christmas meant presents, and that was that. As adults, there's the terrifying pressure of finding a home for the holidays, when your childhood home no longer exists, or when it's too far away to get to. Home is one of our greatest losses when we grow up, a sense of knowing where you belong, and that there are always people there to take care of you. My childhood was different than many peoples' in that it was jilted, fragmented and constantly chaotic. But the silver lining was always that I had multiple homes, and each one was filled with people who loved me and wanted the best for me. My heart was torn in two, but each piece was always so full. Now, I feel like my heart has been smashed with a hammer, and some of the smaller pieces have been blown away by the wind, never to be found again. They're part of the earth now, and I'll forever be mourning them. The bigger pieces are easier to see and to hang on to--my spread-out, far awar family, my beautiful, caring friends, spread-out as well, New York, Philadelphia, Vista, Toronto...all my various homes that stay with me even as I'm torn from them. It's becoming easy to see how grown-ups put their memories up on pedastals. My memories are starting to feel like pieces of myself that I've lost and can never get back. Even as I make new memories, I can't help mourning the old ones.


I should have felt happy and stuffed and fallen into bed and to sleep instantly upon arriving home. But instead, I entered my empty apartment and felt, for the first time in a long time, lonely. I crave alone time, time to be with my thoughts and try to sort them out, time to decompress from the stimulation of the world outside. My room is my sanctuary, everywhere I go, everywhere I live. I'm usually elated to come home to an empty apartment. But tonight, I wished that Matty wasn't home in Syracuse so we could stay up chatting, or cuddle and watch a movie. I wished my father and stepmother and brother had called me from California to say hi. I wished my friends weren't all working on my birthday next week. I wished I had the strength to put myself out in the world more forcefully, without fear of rejection and ultimate loneliness.


I know these feelings will pass. Ultimately, I've come to realize that the only way I've been able to take any of the risks I've taken in my life, regarding my career and my own personal pursuit of happiness, is through realizing the support of my family and friends. I know I'll always have a place to go for Thanksgiving, now matter where the coming year takes me. I'll wake up tomorrow and I'll realize that and I won't mind working a double at Morimoto. Everything in my life is temporary...except the people who matter.


Damn the holidays. They make me so thankful to be alive, and yet yearn so badly for the things I cannot find.

Pomegrantastic!

This week I bought my first pomegranate. They were on sale at Whole Foods when I did my grocery shopping and I thought, why not?


I used to think that if I were a fruit, I would be an avocado. It's one of my top three favorite foods, it's a native of southern California, it is an excellent addition to all of my favorite easy meals to make for myself: grilled cheese, fajitas, scrambled eggs, salads...


But really, avocados are far too agreeable for me to truly relate to. Their skin is thin and their flesh is smooth, soft, and mild. They have only one big flaw: the pit in the center. The character of the avocado is simple, palatable, excellent for one's hair and skin.


As I broke into my pomegranate this evening, I couldn't help but feel a sense of metaphoric understanding of the challenging fruit. It takes strategy and preparation to open a pomegranate. You really have to commit to the pomegranate. It is not a fruit to be eaten recreationally...it must be taken very seriously.


I held it over the sink as I carefully made shallow incisions into its skin that would allow me to pull it into quarters without breaking too many of the seeds open inside. Tiny flecks of bright red juice splattered my hands and the kitchen counter. My mouth was already watering at the thought of tasting that first juicy kernel as it burst between my teeth.


I imagine if one did not know how delicious a pomegranate tasted, it may not seem worth the time it takes to peel it open. One might think to themselves "Goddam, I hate this motherfucking pomegranate! It's such a phenomenal pain in the ass!" as the juice squirts all over the kitchen. But after one taste of the luscious nectar inside, there would be no turning back. Both quenching and perpetuating thirst, the pomegranate's simultaneous sweetness and tartness always inspires one to want more.


The pomegranate has a thick skin that's ultimately spongy and vulnerable on the inside. It takes a lot of time and effort to crack it open, but once you do, it's insides burst forth onto display. Each seed inside is like a tiny jewel, embedded safely in it's eggy casing. Once cracked open, the work has just begun. You must then take time and care to pry each tiny little jewel from its sedentary state of rest. The pomegranate is very reluctant to be eaten. It wants to stay self-contained. But unlike a coconut, it succumbs to consumption easily once broken open, suggesting that behind its hard, defensive exterior, the pomegranate is really desperate to be consumed, to inspire the tastebuds of whomever has invested the time in opening it up. Unlike the simple avocado, the pomegranate has hundreds of little seeds, and unlike the avocado's blunt, heavy pit, the pomegranate's delicate little seeds are the assets of the fruit. The casing of the seeds is irrelevant, without use...but the seeds themselves are full of rich, luxurious, anti-oxidant filled value. The flaws of the fruit are its treasures as well.


In Armenia, pomegranates are a popular symbol of fertility, abundance and marriage.


In Greek mythology, pomegranates play a key role in the story of Persephone, which offers an explanation of the changing of the seasons. Persephone was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld to be his wife. Her mother Demeter was the goddess of the Harvest and as she mourned the loss of her daughter, all green things ceased to grow. Zeus demanded that Hades return Persephone to the Earth so that the winter would end. Before letting Persephone go, Hades tricked her into eating four pomegranate seeds. The law of the Fates stated that whomever ate food from the underworld would be doomed to stay there for eternity. Because of the four pomegranate seeds she consumed, Persephone was forever doomed to return to the underworld for four months of every year. Each year when her daughter descends into the underworld, Demeter goes into mourning and winter settles over the Earth.


Thriving in tropical climates, robust and curvacious, hard yet delicate, juicy and challenging, complicated, slightly esoteric...


Yes, if I were a fruit, I would definitely be a pomegrante.


If I ever break down entirely and resort to internet dating, that will be the headline of my profile.


Perhaps also the first line of my autobiography.

"I Have a Dream..."

At eleven forty, I got off the subway at New Utrecht Avenue and briskly walked the 6 blocks to my apartment. Fourteen hours had passed since I walked these same blocks in the opposite direction, on my way to the polls before continuing to work a double. The last couple hours at the restaurant we'd all monitered the election results on the internet in the office, and as I left, Obama had maintained his solid lead. Still, my manager Gretchen was tensely huddled in the corner, willing the night to end as quickly as possible so the waiting with bated breath would be over. "We remember the 2000 election," Gretchen and Sara, one of the bartenders, were saying last night. "We voted in 2000. It's not over 'til it's over."


It was over by the time I got off the subway. My cell phone vibrated as I left the train with a text message from my best friend Mark in California:



Mark Hoke: mccain train derailed!



As I walked, my heart racing and my pace quickening, I logged onto Facebook on my phone and scrolled through my cyberfriends' statuses...victory cry after victory cry. Tears sprung to my eyes. When I finally made it to my front door, I raced straight to the TV, just in time to watch the new president of the United States make his acceptance speech.



I knew he would win. I just knew it. And yet, I wept alone in my apartment from the sheer weight of it all. As hopeful and optimistic as I try to be, that cynical little voice in the back of my head is always there. I've turned the volume way down, so low in fact that I can only hear it in the event that things don't work out for the best in the end. Of course, there is no real end to anything...the best we can hope for is a new beginning. And now, after 8 years of residing under a stolen presidency, this country has finally been given a chance at a new beginning that we, it's lowly, floundering little citizens, can actually invest some faith in.


Not that I've ever been one to take things for granted. In my adult life I've always been aware that even at the worst of times, America is still a far better place to live than, say, Afghanistan or Cambodia or Sudan. Our government has never been run by terrorists, and even while it was being run by a Christian fundamentalist fanatic never terrorized it's citizens at gunpoint in the streets, raping and murdering women and burning our houses down. One wouldn't be wrong in stating that, relatively speaking, we've always had it pretty decent. When I moved to New York a year ago, I started to meet people who were so thankful to be in America, even as us natives were bitching about it. Nowhere in the country is the Melting Pot more evident than in New York City. I'm quite sure there are few cities in the world that rival New York's cultural diversity. Morimoto's staff is comprised of immigrants from Japan, Korea, India, Mexico, Sudan and England (ha ha) and every restaurant I've worked in has been a similar mini-melting pot in and of itself. Some of the stories these people have to tell are just amazing.


My favorite examples of the American Dream come from two different Mexican-Americans who both happen to be named Manny. One was a busboy at Beacon, and the other is the head of the cleaning crew at Morimoto.



Last Thanksgiving, being the new girl, I'd been roped into working an 8 hour shift, 3pm to 11pm. It was a long-ass day that miraculously went pretty smoothly...until the final hour and a half stretch. I was the last hostess standing (in blood-filled pumps) around 9pm when a guest collapsed on the landing outside the ladies' restroom. She'd apparently become short of breath and extremely pale. My manager Joe rushed to the host podium and told me to dial 911. My heart was racing--I'd never dialed 911 before, let alone at work--though by the time the paramedics showed up, the guest seemed to be more or less okay. Seeing the ambulance parked outside, another guest got in my face and demanded that her son-in-law be examined by the paramedics as well, since they were there, because he was hyperventilating outside. Both guests were fine in the end--too much turkey and excitement for one day it seems. But then, not forty-five minutes later, Joe appeared again and with the same request. This time, it was Manny, one of the restaurant's hardest working bussers, who had collapsed from chest pains. Manny, I was told, had a heart condition and had had open-heart surgery about ten years earlier. So I called the ambulence for the second time in my life, and Joe let them in the back so they could take care of Manny without alarming the remaining guests. I barely knew who Manny was at that point.


A few weeks later, Manny returned to work. It seemed he had been back in the hospital for a few weeks and the doctor had instructed him to take some time off. He was fine...though his time away from work had set his family back financially a great deal. In need of some extra cash, the general manager had allowed him to pick up some coat check shifts as well. Of all the immigrant employees to whom English was a second language, Manny's English was one of the best. He showed up one evening when I was hosting alone, looking sharp in a sky blue cable-knit sweater and black slacks. It was a slow night, so he ended up spending most of his time up front chatting with me. A sweet little man with a kind disposition, Manny was barely half an inch taller than me on the rare occasions I was able to get away with wearing flats. He told me about his family: he and his wife had been married for 19 years. "I never cheated on my wife in 19 years" he told me. They had two kids, a daughter who was about to start college in the fall and a younger son. "Karen is so smart. She's going to NYU and then she wants to go to medical school. She wants to take care of her daddy's heart. That's what she said when she was a little girl. I had surgery when she was three and she said she would grown up and be a doctor to take care of Daddy's heart. She never changed her mind!" I swooned quietly over Manny. He was such a good person, a loyal and loving father. He reminded me of my own father in the way he'd do anything for his family. He told me about when he was 18 and first came to America. Looking for a job. "There's no money in Mexico. It's better in America. I've been here 20 years!" As the weeks passed, Manny developed a little crush on me. "Are you coming to the Christmas party? I told my wife I wanted to dance with you at the party!" I thought it was sweet.


Manny from Morimoto is even smaller than the other Manny. He's a little older, a little tougher, and much less sentimental. Since the weather's turned cooler he often shows up to work in the wee hours of the morning sporting swanky poly-blend suits to assert his authority over the much younger Mexican boys on the cleaning crew. I have no idea what time they get there in the morning, but by the time I get there for my reservations shift at 9am (well, you know...9:18 or so) they've already scrubbed most of the dining room clean. When the office door is locked, it means that Manny hasn't gotten around to cleaning it yet and I have to find him to unlock it. It's very low on his list of priorities, as it only takes a few minutes to change the trash can liners and windex the manager's desktops. But Manny often takes his time and talks my ear off about his experiences. "Where you from?" he asked me the first morning I came in by myself. "Portuguese? Oh, I see. You in school? I did not go to school." And yet, he came to America and managed to become a business owner, opening a deli that he still owns but no longer operates himself. He told me how his business was in the newspaper, and how President Clinton shook his hand and congratulated him on his success in America. "My mother is still in Mexico. She doesn't come to visit me. She's too old. It's too expensive to fly to Mexico. But I talk to her on the phone. I send her money." Now, every morning I work, Manny greets me: "Como estas, Senorita? I am happy if the senoritas are happy."


The Mannys are what America is all about, aren't they? The right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, no matter what your background or education. American children grow up being brainwashed by "America the beautiful", the land of hope and plenty where anyone who works hard can achieve all their hopes and dreams. A country where the world's less fortunate can take refuge from government and economic oppression...where all men are supposedly equal, as God created them.


I was 14 in 2000 and living in Toronto with my mom. My Canadian friends and I followed the 2000 election closely, and though we all made adolescently flippant comments about what was going to happen to America if George W. Bush was elected, I couldn't help feeling personally affected by the circumstance. I was still an American citizen, after all, even if I was currently living in Canada. In Toronto, I contradicted all the stereotypes about Americans that were posed to me by my little friends. I assured them time and time again that we were not a nation of gun-toting rednecks, that just because I was from Southern California did not mean that I was rich. Then along came this new president who spoke with hideously improper grammar in a dumbed-down Texas drawl, and all the stereotypes became impossible to deflect. I had no idea which country to be loyal to when people I met in each place knew nothing but stereotypes about the other and I came to the decision that the concept of patriotism itself was worthless, like worshipping a false idol created by man to gain power over the masses. American Bible-belt patriotism started to look more and more like a cult and I became nationally indifferent to both of the countries to which I claimed citizenship.


I've felt displaced my whole life, split between two places that I did not choose as my own but were thrust upon me. For many reasons other than national orientation, I've always struggled with defining myself. But one thing I am very thankful for is that my lack of national devotion provided me with a great deal of common sense. I try as often as possible to exercise intellect over emotion, and I think that is what compells me to continually strive to learn more about this complicated world we live in.


I voted for the first time in the 2004 election, an experience that was truly one of the first empowering experiences of my young adult life. I was 18 and so excited at the prospect of change. The people I'd grown up around had all opposed the war in Iraq from the beginning, and though I'd heard my father rant and rave about the corruption of an administration who could wage a war for control over a country's energy resources then lie about their motives to the American people, I was really just starting to open my eyes to the gravity of the situation. I'd gone to a school-sponsered screening of Farenheit 9-11 with my friends, and we'd all sat dumbfounded as Michael Moore spent two hours explaining to us that our country didn't respect us, didn't care about our needs as citizens, and didn't care about the lives of our peers who were being sent overseas to die for their phony cause. I started to feel like an adult that fall, and the prospect of voting against Bush felt like taking matters into my own hands. Of course, Kerry was running a campaign to defeat Bush, not a campaign that was ultimately focused around change for the greater good. Defeating Bush wasn't enough... Kerry lacked the necessary strategies to help guide the country out of its gradual recession. Perhaps most importantly, Kerry lacked the passion that was necessary to guide the American populace.


Maybe we really needed to hit rock bottom before we were collectively ready to make some serious changes. Some of us could see it coming years ago...others evidentally needed more persuasion.


Since casting my vote for the losing candidate in 2004, I've definitely felt a collective downward spiral in morale, one that unfortunately has coincided with my generations transition into adulthood. We've come of age in a time of extreme social despair. I've felt my adolescent hopes and dreams slowly corode into jaded cynicism far beyond my years. Those of us who are still in the early stages of post-academic "real life" have felt the odds rising higher and higher against us over the past couple of years. We're all broke, struggling to keep our heads above water, and barely finding the strength to persevere in the name of our artistic ideals. We are artists because we fundamentally believe in the good of humanity and that the world is a beautiful place that we should strive to take care of. These ideals have been so very difficult to maintain in the face of all the pain and suffering that has been surmouting in the world. I've often felt helpless, trapped between pursuing my dreams in the spirit of American opportunity that was supposedly my birthright, and desperate guilt for not working harder to oppose worldwide injustice and intolerance. I've been weighing my options for a long time, and I know I'll be weighing them longer still. But at this point in my life I've arrived at the conclusion that I do not have to sacrifice my duty as human being to contribute to the betterment of society in the interest of pursuing self-fulfillment, or vice versa. I can do both at the same time. That is what I believe the purpose of art to be. For me, in my life, I am an artist because I know that my artistic talents are my God-given means of reaching out to other human beings. This conclusion has led me to the decision to return to school, to pursure my MFA in Acting, in order to deepen my understanding and practice of my artistic craft, as well as to continue to pursue more diverse means of artistic collaboration. It is important to me in my career to be constantly redefining my ideas of art and its relationship with its audience in an effort to seek out more effective and meaningful means of communication and collaborative expression of the human condition. It is also important to me to pursue teaching as one of the facets of my career, for my teachers have always been my greatest role models, inspiring me endlessly with their selflessness. The gifts of support, inspirtation and encouragement that I've been given are such that I feel strongly about giving back to others.


Fuck. I've been trying to start writing an effective, yet concise personal statement for my application essays for weeks. I think I might have just found the heart of this decision of mine.


For that, and for many other things, I have President Barack Obama to thank.


Seriously, dude. A country that can transition from slavery and civil war to electing an African-American president in less than 200 years can't be all bad. Other countries have been waging the same civil wars for thousands of years. This is a great change... of course, tomorrow morning the world will still look exactly the same as it does today. But already I feel a little lighter, a little more hopeful. I only hope we can all see that Obama is a man who is bound to make some mistakes. It will take a lot of time to pull this country out of it's slide into impending social and economic ruin. Likewise, it will take time to repair our foreign affairs with the nations of the world. However, the first step has been taken. All we can really do is continue to put one foot in front of the other and focus on the future as it becomes the present.



I don't think I've ever felt quite so empowered and humbled at the same time.



What a day.