I saw Julie and Julia shortly after it came out. My love for Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci coupled with my appreciation for the way that two perfect strangers can become so closely connected through a common factor resulted in a wonderful two hours of laughing over the nonsensical charm of the Great Julia Childs and the girlish vulnerability of the sweet Julie Powell. Somehow through all that laughter, I didn't think to react in so many other ways. I missed the desperation that led Julie to start a blog in the first place. In the year since it came out, I lost sight of the weight having that blog bore on her life. Most incredibly, I forgot that she was a writer.
I call myself a writer. I won't say I deserve the title. I stopped truly earning it around seventh grade and since eighth grade I've been actively pursuing other fields; fields in which I want to have a career and make a name for myself. Still, when I'm in the same room as a person who writes and they ask how many writers are present, I can't help but raise my hand. Poorly disciplined though I am, it's as much a part of me as my voice or my hair, if not a bit less obnoxious. Still, it's there and I can no more deny it than I can stop breathing. Even if I tried for awhile, my body would eventually resume on instinct the shaping and grouping of words that so rarely make it to a page. Likewise, the thing that makes me a writer, whatever you want to call it, dictates that I feel a certain kinship with all other writers, far away as they are, the same way one is happy to meet a distant cousin simply by merit of the few alleles they have in common. Julie Powell is a writer. Julie and I are kindred. And all of a sudden those two hours are so much more than a funny movie.
There is so much of me in Julie that I didn't see before: we're both struggling through the mundane while still hoping to pull ourselves out completely at some point. We both started off with great potential that fizzled out into dealing with real life. We both have a problem finishing things that we've started. I get into this movie now and marvel at finding a kindred spirit; a bosom friend. We both try...and wish that the fact that we tried matters more. But of course as soon as I see myself in her I take a step back and see someone greater. She started her blog with a purpose, determined to accomplish a specific goal. I started my blog at the end of a long day because I was happy and thought that things to write (things that people would care to read) about would suddenly fall into my lap after something in my life changed based on the choices of someone else and the only intention I had when I started was to flex the writing muscle again. She succeeded and built on her success. I, if only because of the nature of my endeavor, will probably never succeed. She reached out to thousands of people describing how she broke down and fell and picked herself up again. It takes me weeks to get my sister to read through an entire post. We're kindred. We're alike enough to bind us together and we're different enough to make us not want to eat each other if we're trapped in a room together. We're far enough away that one of us can be significant to the other who is perfectly free to go on about her life. So it was with Julia Childs. But being the realist that I am, I have to wonder how much of this kinship is real and how much is imaginary. How much of the bond that's formed between me and my new friend Julie is based on our never meeting each other? How much of this admiration I feel is harvested by movie magic? If I tried to speak to my new friend, would I feel as comforted by the struggle of a woman sitting across from me as I do by the story of a woman trapped in a big box? I'm sure she never doubted the reality of her Julia Childs when Powell first started her journey. She didn't worry that the picture in her head might be blurry or the presence in her kitchen may be more fict than fact. She didn't think to worry about those things when she set out. And when it finally occurred to her, it didn't matter. The picture she had was beautiful. The presence she encountered was comforting. When she found herself in the kitchen, at her cubicle, on the computer, her Julia helped her through. When she was floating and found herself accomplishing nothing, this Julia gave her something to accomplish. This perfect stranger saved a woman, a writer, from fading into banality. She fashioned her rescuer out of nothing but an image on a screen and words on a page. Now I have an image of my own and she is beautiful. I can feel wide blue eyes staring through my screen, an audience of one, and they comfort me. I am as grateful for the release I received from watching her as she was for every recipe. My new friend makes me a little bit more eager to savor the delights that life has to offer. Bon apetite.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Answer the damn question
I understand the importance of diplomacy and tact and all that, but for the life of me I don't understand why, when faced with a simple question, anyone would choose not to actually answer. And somehow, I'm considered rude if I try, after not finding what I'm looking for through a cloud of gobbledy gook, to actually get the answer to my question. I have classes starting at the beginning of next week and don't know yet how I'm going to get back to school. I asked someone who I know is headed down there this weekend for a ride and instead of a yes or no, or even a maybe, followed by a series of questions that would determine whether my riding with him would make sense/be agreeable to both parties, he first asked me a question that didn't actually make sense, then told me that he wasn't going straight there. Now what am I supposed to do? I refuse to repeat the question which he obviously registered clearly enough to ask questions about and yet it seems my asking brought me no closer to an answer. Why do people do that? Particularly, why do people do it to me? Do they think that I asked for the sake of discussion; that I didn't actually want to find and answer or arrive at any sort of conclusion? Is anyone satisfied by this type of uncertainty? I hate treadmills. I hate tracks. I hate anything in which I don't feel like I'm going somewhere or accomplishing something. WHAT is the point of asking questions, if not to find answers, or at least come closer to finding the answer? The thing that irks me the most is that, for all appearances, I'm the only one who cares about finding the answer. Once again, I'm alone. While so many others are content to meander about, I'm on my own in seeking a destination and it doesn't matter enough to anyone to join me. My journey isn't worth their energy. Interesting, no, that this problem should present itselt in a situation where I am literally trying to reach a destination. He says he's stopping in Jacksonville along the way, as if this place along the way makes the destination somehow less desirable; less attainable. I shan't be fooled by Miley Cyrus; it is the peak that interests me, the view from the top that holds my fancy and, discouraging as it is, I'm not wont to be deterred by a few stumbles along the way. I remember asking my friend if I could call her mother for my job and instead of saying either way, she said "good luck with that". I don't know what's more insulting: having an answer and refusing to convey it or not bothering to answer at all. Both intimate a certain apathy that makes me question bothering to ask at all. And still I want an answer. I still wish that I had gotten to where I set out to be. Or at least had known before setting off that I wouldn't get there.
2010 FTW
The year 2010 is rapidly coming to a close and the time has come once again, to make those raely kept New Years resolutions. As always, I have an arsenal of them up my sleeve and, being the conservationist that I am, I've even been consciencious enough to recycle several. Here are just a few of my old faithfuls:
Get in shape. This includes building up a stamina so that I can sing the opening number of Thoroughly Modern Millie while dancing and not have to stagger breathe and incresing my extension, including turnout AND having the core strength to be a stipper. This (the core strength) is my ultimate goal.
Learn the piano. I swear that instrument hates me and it doesn't help that I have absolutely no guidance aside from a few books and the occasional assistance from my sister when she worries that I'm gonig to bang her piano irreparably out of tune. I assume that being good at the piano would in turn make me good at theory for some reason as well.
Be able to have a conversation in a language that isn't English. I took Spanish for two years and was pretty good at it so if this ever happens, this'll probably be the one.
Write. I used to say specifically "write so much of a book" or "write a play", but it doesn't really matter now what I write, so long as I do it. That's a place to start at least.
Improve vocal range and repertoire. I have accumulated entirely too much sheet music to have retained so few songs.
Get a job. This, incredibly, is probably the one on which I'm closest to actually making good.
Okay that's six things; six understandable, reasonably attainable goals for a year and yet, they have not been enough of the latter for me to achieve them since...since at least my thirteenth year. How is it that success in these resolutions continues to evade me year after year? And how do I know that this year will be any different? Let us explore the matter further, shall we?
In my semantic pickiness, I know there is a slight but significant difference between a goal and a resolution. Look at the word resolution. The term goes beyond the meaning of a simple "solution" and makes it so clear and concrete that is it to be "re"iterated with an extra two letters. A resolution is an absolute fact, a truth realized as soon as it is decided. A goal, on the other hand, is a far off destination which is constantly attainable despite being as yet unattained. If I say I want to get in shape this year, it's okay if for the first few weeks I can't run very far, it hurts to touch my toes and my version of a pull-up just involves standing on the bals of my feet and squeezing the bar really tightly. But if I say "this year I'm going to get in shape!" there's suddenly this intense pressure bearing down on me with every labored breath I make while trying to get through a regimen that's too hard for me and I'm eventually too ashamed of my own inadequacy to even face it with the intent of correcting it. It's humiliating to sit in a practice room banging out notes with my nails that are too long and my fingers that are too short when at any moment a real pianist may come and play something worth hearing. It's frustrating to pick through broken sentences attempting to both remember old words and acquire new ones when its probable that neither the flent nor the amateur will understand me in the end anyway. And it's heartbreaking to sit alone, pen in hand, and let the silence overtake me to the point that there's nothing but all these words in my head and on my heart and they somehow refuse to come out. I don't like failure. I've never been good at facing it and with these dangblasted revolutions in my face it's all the more painful. The one way I've found to avoid these failures is to avoid the attempts. Whatever psychobabble elementary school teachers like to push on us, you can't really fail if you never try. It's just not possible. So, when I get sick of failing, I get sick of trying. And I am quite sick of trying.
I'm going to take a rack at all of these again along with a bunch more, but my resolution for 2011 is to fail. Fail and moe on. Fail and not allow it to keep me from being able to succeed. Maybe there's something to it.
Get in shape. This includes building up a stamina so that I can sing the opening number of Thoroughly Modern Millie while dancing and not have to stagger breathe and incresing my extension, including turnout AND having the core strength to be a stipper. This (the core strength) is my ultimate goal.
Learn the piano. I swear that instrument hates me and it doesn't help that I have absolutely no guidance aside from a few books and the occasional assistance from my sister when she worries that I'm gonig to bang her piano irreparably out of tune. I assume that being good at the piano would in turn make me good at theory for some reason as well.
Be able to have a conversation in a language that isn't English. I took Spanish for two years and was pretty good at it so if this ever happens, this'll probably be the one.
Write. I used to say specifically "write so much of a book" or "write a play", but it doesn't really matter now what I write, so long as I do it. That's a place to start at least.
Improve vocal range and repertoire. I have accumulated entirely too much sheet music to have retained so few songs.
Get a job. This, incredibly, is probably the one on which I'm closest to actually making good.
Okay that's six things; six understandable, reasonably attainable goals for a year and yet, they have not been enough of the latter for me to achieve them since...since at least my thirteenth year. How is it that success in these resolutions continues to evade me year after year? And how do I know that this year will be any different? Let us explore the matter further, shall we?
In my semantic pickiness, I know there is a slight but significant difference between a goal and a resolution. Look at the word resolution. The term goes beyond the meaning of a simple "solution" and makes it so clear and concrete that is it to be "re"iterated with an extra two letters. A resolution is an absolute fact, a truth realized as soon as it is decided. A goal, on the other hand, is a far off destination which is constantly attainable despite being as yet unattained. If I say I want to get in shape this year, it's okay if for the first few weeks I can't run very far, it hurts to touch my toes and my version of a pull-up just involves standing on the bals of my feet and squeezing the bar really tightly. But if I say "this year I'm going to get in shape!" there's suddenly this intense pressure bearing down on me with every labored breath I make while trying to get through a regimen that's too hard for me and I'm eventually too ashamed of my own inadequacy to even face it with the intent of correcting it. It's humiliating to sit in a practice room banging out notes with my nails that are too long and my fingers that are too short when at any moment a real pianist may come and play something worth hearing. It's frustrating to pick through broken sentences attempting to both remember old words and acquire new ones when its probable that neither the flent nor the amateur will understand me in the end anyway. And it's heartbreaking to sit alone, pen in hand, and let the silence overtake me to the point that there's nothing but all these words in my head and on my heart and they somehow refuse to come out. I don't like failure. I've never been good at facing it and with these dangblasted revolutions in my face it's all the more painful. The one way I've found to avoid these failures is to avoid the attempts. Whatever psychobabble elementary school teachers like to push on us, you can't really fail if you never try. It's just not possible. So, when I get sick of failing, I get sick of trying. And I am quite sick of trying.
I'm going to take a rack at all of these again along with a bunch more, but my resolution for 2011 is to fail. Fail and moe on. Fail and not allow it to keep me from being able to succeed. Maybe there's something to it.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
All I Want for Christmas
It occurred to me today, having been stranded in my house ever since my sister brought me here from Tallahassee, that I have not been Christmas shopping. In all honesty, I haven't a clue what I would get for the people who usually make my list as contenders for my lack of money. There are, however, a few things I would really love to have for myself and I'm in a wishing mood. I doubt these things will show up under my tree, but these are things I sincerely, legitimately want.
1) AN ACCOMPANIST. Seriously, I would be ten times happier and a hundred times less stressed and so...secure. One voice singing a capella is unguided and lonely and sad and just to know that someone is with me and I'm not alone and I'm really a part of something and the things I'm doing aren't totally without foundation and...yeah. Big deal. BIG deal.
2) A MUSICAL THEATRE BUDDY IN TALLAHASSEE. I've never truly had a bosom buddy when it comes to musical theatre who was my equal and my compliment all at once and having these thoughts in y mind and these feelings on my heart and no one to hear them or care about them or understand them...it's gotten rather lonely.
3)TRANSPORTATION. If it has to be a car that I drive...eh. But
. It would be so nice to go somewhere without the lingering fear that I won't have the strength to get back. And I want to go farther.
4) MORE MUSIC. For some reason, I never have enough. I want more. More I tell you!
5) DANCE CLASS. Legit, consistent dance training with real one-on-one time at a level that's not beyond my ability but still challenges me. I will fail at musical theatre if I don't learn to use my body more and better. And my feet suck.
6) NICE HAIR. People compliment my hair, but the truth is, it's disgusting and every time I ask someone to trim it, they don't cut enough. I need a hair stylist and some Jam, pronto.
7) MY OWN PLACE. I am so sick of roommates I'm ready to kill one and it's only been two years. Even if I had chosen them I would feel less...imposed upon than I do having these three strangers with as much right to occupy this space as I have. I wouldn't feel the need to build so many walls of my own if I had a few built in that came with doors.
8) AN OCCUPATION FOR THIS SUMMER. Idlesness is the devil's workshop. If I have to spend two months in this house thinking about how much I suck I might not make it to September.
9)KNOWLEDGE. Ambiguous and nondescript though it is, I want to know more. I'm in constant shame of my ignorance.
1) AN ACCOMPANIST. Seriously, I would be ten times happier and a hundred times less stressed and so...secure. One voice singing a capella is unguided and lonely and sad and just to know that someone is with me and I'm not alone and I'm really a part of something and the things I'm doing aren't totally without foundation and...yeah. Big deal. BIG deal.
2) A MUSICAL THEATRE BUDDY IN TALLAHASSEE. I've never truly had a bosom buddy when it comes to musical theatre who was my equal and my compliment all at once and having these thoughts in y mind and these feelings on my heart and no one to hear them or care about them or understand them...it's gotten rather lonely.
3)TRANSPORTATION. If it has to be a car that I drive...eh. But
. It would be so nice to go somewhere without the lingering fear that I won't have the strength to get back. And I want to go farther.
4) MORE MUSIC. For some reason, I never have enough. I want more. More I tell you!
5) DANCE CLASS. Legit, consistent dance training with real one-on-one time at a level that's not beyond my ability but still challenges me. I will fail at musical theatre if I don't learn to use my body more and better. And my feet suck.
6) NICE HAIR. People compliment my hair, but the truth is, it's disgusting and every time I ask someone to trim it, they don't cut enough. I need a hair stylist and some Jam, pronto.
7) MY OWN PLACE. I am so sick of roommates I'm ready to kill one and it's only been two years. Even if I had chosen them I would feel less...imposed upon than I do having these three strangers with as much right to occupy this space as I have. I wouldn't feel the need to build so many walls of my own if I had a few built in that came with doors.
8) AN OCCUPATION FOR THIS SUMMER. Idlesness is the devil's workshop. If I have to spend two months in this house thinking about how much I suck I might not make it to September.
9)KNOWLEDGE. Ambiguous and nondescript though it is, I want to know more. I'm in constant shame of my ignorance.
Getting Past FTC
So, as a child becoming a grown-up during the convenient buffer called college, I was extremely hurt and disappointed and devastated and...lots of other negative things...when I encountered the major failure that going to FTC turned out to be; so much so that I couldn't bring myself to share my failure with more than four people. I decided to write about my experience, which was significant and important to acknowledge, but every time I started I got caught up in little details and figuring out just what it was I wanted to share and which facts were relevant and two months later, the only progress I can speak of is in having another annoyingly long post that isn't finished and has served n purpose. For some reason, I felt like I shouldn't talk about anything else until after I'd gotten the whole conference fiasco off my chest. After all, it needed to be shared and wouldn't it be impolitic to go back and write about it after getting past it? So I've tried; I've tried so hard to get past the height of my hopes and he depth of my disappointment but in this effort to move beyond it I placed myself in a huge rut. As soon as I resolved to put that debacle behind me I created a shadow for myself that I can't escape; that I can't catch up to. I let so many moments of inspiration slip away because I didn't have the closure I needed to write about a new topic without relating it to this...
I didn't write about it and I didn't talk about it and I don't feel good about it and even though it's technically behind me, it still has the power to cast a shadow and follow me. I have resigned to no longer try to escape it.
...this would probably make a lot more sense if I put up a post about FTC.
I didn't write about it and I didn't talk about it and I don't feel good about it and even though it's technically behind me, it still has the power to cast a shadow and follow me. I have resigned to no longer try to escape it.
...this would probably make a lot more sense if I put up a post about FTC.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
I'm starting to hate the fact that I'm on the speech and debate team because I can't seem to get my pieces in competition shape. My tea party piece doesn;t have enough date, my monologue is poorly blocked and my musical theatre informative is so unorganized, it's hard to tell I've done any preparation. Gurr. But research is making my head hurt and I don't have time to do anything to majorly lift my spirits, so I will divert myself with a little frivolous writing. Forgive me if you're looking for something deep or compelling in this.
FTC is in less than two weeks. I have my song learned, my monologue memorized, my music scribbled upon, and my information submitted. (Good thing too, since the registration deadline was the first) What I don't have, sadly (seriously, it give me bad feelings), is an itenerary. As of now, I don't even know when I'm leaving. The conference officially starts on Thursday and ends on Saturday, but I'm taking the bus and my departure and arrival times are not up to me. FTC Idol auditions are on Thursday and Friday evening according to the newsletter, but the conference schedule only has them listed on Thursday. If I get through, I'm supposed to perform on Saturday night, but the last bus leaving Lakeland on Saturday is at 3:55 meaning I couldn't leave until ten Sunday morning. I can't afford three nights in a hotel room, so I'll end up either sleeping in the bus station, or missing a day of the conference and spending a night in a hotel just so I have someplace to wait till it's time to go home. Ideally, I'll have my FTC Idol audition on Friday and my SETC screening audition on Saturday so I can get to Lakeland on Friday morning, have a full day of festivities, have an early audition, then sing in the closing ceremony and win $200. I've never pretended to be an idealistic person. But it won't kill me to hope...to my knowledge. Then of course there are the workshops. If I have an early audition it'll be alright. If I have a late audition I'll be one of those people who only comes to FTC to audition for SETC...not that I would mind too much, it being mostly a high school conference, but if that were the case it would be nice if I could avoid paying so much to stay there. Why haven't I gotten my audition time yet? The registration deadline was over a week ago and I'm getting antsy. The longer they make mewait, the less sure I am that I hae something to look forward to and if this conference doesn't happen...nah I won't say that. Let's see, what else? I don't have headshots. My raws aren't edited and even if they were, I cna't afford to print a set right now. Too much money being eaten by this dangblasted higher learning institution. Might take some resumes though for the hell of it. I definitely need to update them. I have my audition outfit packed...I need new shoes. I need money. I hope I win FTC Idol. Or come in second. If I come in first I can buy some shoes. If I come in third I'll be pissed. Be positive. Be positive. If I get my refund before the end of the month I can stay the whole conference without sleeping at the bus station. If FAMU gets their act together. Maybe I can even eat the whole time I'm there. But it's not as important to eat on Saturday since I have my audition though. So long as I stay hidrated. Yes I speelled it that way and I'm not fixin it neither. When FTC is over I'll focus on Bat Boy and 4 AM. Then I'll be done with this semester. FTC will be good and the term will be good. Okay. Back to tea.
FTC is in less than two weeks. I have my song learned, my monologue memorized, my music scribbled upon, and my information submitted. (Good thing too, since the registration deadline was the first) What I don't have, sadly (seriously, it give me bad feelings), is an itenerary. As of now, I don't even know when I'm leaving. The conference officially starts on Thursday and ends on Saturday, but I'm taking the bus and my departure and arrival times are not up to me. FTC Idol auditions are on Thursday and Friday evening according to the newsletter, but the conference schedule only has them listed on Thursday. If I get through, I'm supposed to perform on Saturday night, but the last bus leaving Lakeland on Saturday is at 3:55 meaning I couldn't leave until ten Sunday morning. I can't afford three nights in a hotel room, so I'll end up either sleeping in the bus station, or missing a day of the conference and spending a night in a hotel just so I have someplace to wait till it's time to go home. Ideally, I'll have my FTC Idol audition on Friday and my SETC screening audition on Saturday so I can get to Lakeland on Friday morning, have a full day of festivities, have an early audition, then sing in the closing ceremony and win $200. I've never pretended to be an idealistic person. But it won't kill me to hope...to my knowledge. Then of course there are the workshops. If I have an early audition it'll be alright. If I have a late audition I'll be one of those people who only comes to FTC to audition for SETC...not that I would mind too much, it being mostly a high school conference, but if that were the case it would be nice if I could avoid paying so much to stay there. Why haven't I gotten my audition time yet? The registration deadline was over a week ago and I'm getting antsy. The longer they make mewait, the less sure I am that I hae something to look forward to and if this conference doesn't happen...nah I won't say that. Let's see, what else? I don't have headshots. My raws aren't edited and even if they were, I cna't afford to print a set right now. Too much money being eaten by this dangblasted higher learning institution. Might take some resumes though for the hell of it. I definitely need to update them. I have my audition outfit packed...I need new shoes. I need money. I hope I win FTC Idol. Or come in second. If I come in first I can buy some shoes. If I come in third I'll be pissed. Be positive. Be positive. If I get my refund before the end of the month I can stay the whole conference without sleeping at the bus station. If FAMU gets their act together. Maybe I can even eat the whole time I'm there. But it's not as important to eat on Saturday since I have my audition though. So long as I stay hidrated. Yes I speelled it that way and I'm not fixin it neither. When FTC is over I'll focus on Bat Boy and 4 AM. Then I'll be done with this semester. FTC will be good and the term will be good. Okay. Back to tea.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
I think I started this on Tuesday
My mp3 player and headphones are gone. My phone is broken. I have to choose between two shows I really want to do because they are literally at the same time. I can’t perform with Black Actor’s Guild because their shows conflict with Essential Theatre shows. I don’t have any customers. I don’t have any money. My net check hasn’t been sent out. In fact, my tuition hasn’t been paid. I don’t have a ride to FTC. I slept through a math class today. The department is less excited about me. My peers never vote for me. I have no transportation. I can’t audition for Orchesis. I don’t have a computer…
This is not me having a bad day; although the past couple of days have been low for me. This is my life. This is what my life looks like. Sometimes good things happen, like being cast in a show or getting approval to go to a theatre conference. But every glimpse of silver is eventually obstructed by clouds that accumulate and get heavy until they flood the senses and all I can do is keep pushing to stay afloat. That’s all I can do. So that’s all I do.
I never blogged about Vector. That was one of the things that had my head so full I couldn’t manage to organize my thoughts enough to drill them out on a keyboard. I have one particular recollection that I go back to whenever I think of working with them; indeed, whenever I think of any struggle at all.
I couldn’t get a ride to the office, so I walked. That’s it in a nutshell. Doesn’t sound too substantial, does it? But when you have to walk close to seven miles in GA during the day in the summer after being sick all day without even a little music to distract you…you have some time to think. So I thought about myself and my life for two hours and many of my thoughts stayed with me. It was a pretty big deal cognitively, for a trip to the office.
Covington is not a place for pedestrians. There are roads, and there is grass. There are no sidewalks unless you get to a small strip of commercial property where you have to readjust to the feel of concrete under your feet but mostly, it’s unmanicured grass that provides a home for such delightful creatures as prairie dogs (those little rat things) and rabbits. Because it was so hot and I knew that I had such a long way to go, I bravely set aside my ever-present fear of Lyme disease and chose to wear shorts for my journey. Along with a couple of bottles of water, my notebook and a towel (and my phone, of course, which is now broken), I gathered my armor, braided my hair and set forth against the semi-suburban formerly rural streets of Covington. There are a lot of decisions to make when walking that you never think about in a car. For instance, what side of the road to use. If you use the left side, it’s easier to tell when a car is coming at you, but it’s also less likely to run into someone you know who can give you a lift. If you use the right side, it’s easier to take advantage of the traffic devices, but it’s also easier to cause an accident when a car veers into the middle of the street to avoid the girl who’s afraid to walk in the grass. I ended up choosing the right side until I had to cross the street, when I switched to the left because I wasn’t used to walking there. I should mention that although I had never made this particular trek before, I had formerly walked a shorter distance to the QT so in my mind, I was walking to QT only later in the day…and without the expectation of a reward. I was able to keep that charade in my head for a good mile before the heat clouded my optimism and I turned down a residential street. Looking at all these houses on my left and my right, I couldn’t help but think how opportune it would be for someone to be outside and ask me where I was walking. Maybe someone would be kind enough to offer me a bottle of water and agree to make an appointment with me. Maybe that person would know lots of people in their neighborhood or, even better, closer to my neighborhood so I could have a few more weeks of work to look forward to. It was a foolish thought, but it kept me going and I was grateful for my own foolishness for awhile. There were some people outside, working or sitting on the porch while their children played. None who cared enough about the melting stranger to say hello though. They seemed more concerned about whether I’d mess up their grass when I passed their houses. Then there was that long strip where there were no houses on one side and there was land that had to belong to a rancher on the other side. I bet the owner of that home could afford some fancy cutlery. But of course they didn’t come out or say hello. I like to have my music because then I can push a little harder; walk a little faster without listening to my heavily my breath comes or feel my bag slapping against my side. Since I didn’t have my music, I listened for cars. It seemed like there were cars everywhere, which made sense, since I was on a public street. But I was momentarily baffled to think that there were so many cars going in the same direction that I was, and not one of them would carry me. It wouldn’t hurt them any. It would be very little inconvenience to stop for the minute it would take to let me into the car coupled with the time to get out once they were no longer going my way. My legs were tired, my ankles were swollen and my stomach was churning…and all they had to do was let their feet rest on the pedals. Maybe occasionally apply a little pressure to the gas or the breaks. It didn’t seem right. It was equally disheartening to realize that even if someone did stop and ask me for a ride, I’d probably have to turn it down. My job depends on the kindness of other people, often strangers, to make money, but that dependence doesn’t translate to trust. Trust is somehow out of the realm of kindness that guarantees me a livelihood. So I was expected to succeed because of these very people, but I wouldn’t’ be expected to trust them. I suppose the strength of my legs, the friends and family, the six years I’d spent in that neighborhood, were supposed to be my base. But fifteen dollars only go so far. I kept walking.
It was really hot. I don’t know if it was the heat wave or my dehydration from being sick all day, but it seemed much hotter at four in the afternoon than it usually did at ten with the sun high in the sky. My body, was trying its best to release the heat as quickly as it could, but only succeeded in making me feel sticky as well as hot. I had no idea how close I was or how far I’d gone (I really didn’t want to think about it) when I tilted my head back to take a drink and realized I was out of water. Diligent as my body had been in maintaining homeostasis, I was very thirsty and there didn’t seem to be any sort of public entity anywhere in sight. I kept walking. What else could I do? I kept walking, still wistfully looking at the homes on either side of me, but now wondering if, in the case I chanced to knock on a door, someone would be kind enough to fill my bottle for me. Would it make me late if I stopped and tried? Did I want to chance getting a door slammed on my face? Would the knowledge of the attempt really be worth it? I hadn’t yet made my decision, when I came across a daycare. I was happy about this for two reasons: 1) they were bound to have a water fountain in there and 2) this daycare was one of the first landmarks I was used to passing on my way home from the office. I was a fool. The place didn’t have a water fountain. I don’t know what their children drank, but it didn’t come from anything that someone from outside could use. They did have sinks and faucets, the outside one of which was out of order, so I had to wait in the air conditioned lobby while the nice receptionist went into the back and filled my bottle for me. I am learning to hate AC. It confuses the body to go from such heat to such coolness so quickly and I resented the place for offering this bit of relief, knowing that it would only be temporary. In the time that it took for her to go to the faucets, fill my water and come back, my body cooled considerably; so considerably that it was a struggle to move apace when I got back outside into the blistering heat. What’s more, apparently, I should have kept moving while I was inside because now when I tried to take a drink of water, a knot would form and tighten in my stomach. I got my water; not my relief. It wasn’t worth it. It ended up hurting too much to drink and I ended up giving up after a few painful sips. When I reached the light at the end of the road (that isn’t a metaphor…), I realized that I was a fool or a second reason: the better part of the final leg of my journey was uphill; the kind of hill that truckers talk about when they justify higher speed limits. It was not an obtuse incline. I could not see the top from the bottom. Had I had the energy, I would have been angry. As it was, I saved my strength for walking. It wasn’t as though it would be easier to turn back. So I walked up this impressive hill, noticing for the first time how steep it was and how long it took before the land became level and, once again, I couldn’t help but turn my attention to the cars at my right, coasting leisurely by. They saw this hill and pressed their foot on the gas a little harder; maybe eased off of the breaks knowing that they wouldn’t need much help to slow down because they would have gravity on their side. It looked so…easy for them. Did they know how steep this hill was? Could they tell how hot it was? Had they any inkling of how still the air was or how much energy it cost to get to the top of this hill? They were using as much as I was. They had to; they couldn’t reach the top without it. But unlike me, they had a vehicle of their own. They didn’t have to shoot for their destination based on their power alone. They were supported on all sides with protection and control and when they got to their destination, they would be calm and at ease, while I would be spent. I was putting everything I had into putting one foot in front of the other; into keeping straight; into resisting the gravity that strengthened with the incline. They were still beating me. They were so far ahead of me, I had raced dozens of them before I could even see the finish line. They could literally ride circles around me and I would be powerless to even gain on them. It was a sobering realization how often I find myself in a similar predicament; at a disadvantage with everyone else around me. I kept walking, of course. I always do. I even got there eventually. But I wasn’t satisfied when I got there. I wasn’t proud or even relieved. I was just tired. It seems like I’m always tired.
The meeting…was not worth the trip. It was very much like the water that I had humbled myself to acquire and then could not drink. Deyan didn’t hear me when I tried to explain to him that I couldn’t do what other people were doing. I didn’t use the words “I can’t”. I knew that would be fruitless. I knew that I could always try. But I also knew my limitations. I told him, but he still didn’t get it. I remember very distinctly starting to him during that meeting. He stepped out for a second and when he came back, he had a McDonald’s cup. I could tell that it had soda in it. That did it for me. You bastard, I thought. It hurts me to take a sip of water and you’re in here drinking soda like it’s nothing; pouring acid into your insides without a second thought. I knew then that he wouldn’t understand. No one sitting in a comfy car with the air on and the music blaring knows what it is to walk half that distance on the same route. They can’t. You can’t see what I feel from the other side of your tinted windows. And if you slowed down for me to try to tell you…the explanation would likely get lost in the wind.
This is not me having a bad day; although the past couple of days have been low for me. This is my life. This is what my life looks like. Sometimes good things happen, like being cast in a show or getting approval to go to a theatre conference. But every glimpse of silver is eventually obstructed by clouds that accumulate and get heavy until they flood the senses and all I can do is keep pushing to stay afloat. That’s all I can do. So that’s all I do.
I never blogged about Vector. That was one of the things that had my head so full I couldn’t manage to organize my thoughts enough to drill them out on a keyboard. I have one particular recollection that I go back to whenever I think of working with them; indeed, whenever I think of any struggle at all.
I couldn’t get a ride to the office, so I walked. That’s it in a nutshell. Doesn’t sound too substantial, does it? But when you have to walk close to seven miles in GA during the day in the summer after being sick all day without even a little music to distract you…you have some time to think. So I thought about myself and my life for two hours and many of my thoughts stayed with me. It was a pretty big deal cognitively, for a trip to the office.
Covington is not a place for pedestrians. There are roads, and there is grass. There are no sidewalks unless you get to a small strip of commercial property where you have to readjust to the feel of concrete under your feet but mostly, it’s unmanicured grass that provides a home for such delightful creatures as prairie dogs (those little rat things) and rabbits. Because it was so hot and I knew that I had such a long way to go, I bravely set aside my ever-present fear of Lyme disease and chose to wear shorts for my journey. Along with a couple of bottles of water, my notebook and a towel (and my phone, of course, which is now broken), I gathered my armor, braided my hair and set forth against the semi-suburban formerly rural streets of Covington. There are a lot of decisions to make when walking that you never think about in a car. For instance, what side of the road to use. If you use the left side, it’s easier to tell when a car is coming at you, but it’s also less likely to run into someone you know who can give you a lift. If you use the right side, it’s easier to take advantage of the traffic devices, but it’s also easier to cause an accident when a car veers into the middle of the street to avoid the girl who’s afraid to walk in the grass. I ended up choosing the right side until I had to cross the street, when I switched to the left because I wasn’t used to walking there. I should mention that although I had never made this particular trek before, I had formerly walked a shorter distance to the QT so in my mind, I was walking to QT only later in the day…and without the expectation of a reward. I was able to keep that charade in my head for a good mile before the heat clouded my optimism and I turned down a residential street. Looking at all these houses on my left and my right, I couldn’t help but think how opportune it would be for someone to be outside and ask me where I was walking. Maybe someone would be kind enough to offer me a bottle of water and agree to make an appointment with me. Maybe that person would know lots of people in their neighborhood or, even better, closer to my neighborhood so I could have a few more weeks of work to look forward to. It was a foolish thought, but it kept me going and I was grateful for my own foolishness for awhile. There were some people outside, working or sitting on the porch while their children played. None who cared enough about the melting stranger to say hello though. They seemed more concerned about whether I’d mess up their grass when I passed their houses. Then there was that long strip where there were no houses on one side and there was land that had to belong to a rancher on the other side. I bet the owner of that home could afford some fancy cutlery. But of course they didn’t come out or say hello. I like to have my music because then I can push a little harder; walk a little faster without listening to my heavily my breath comes or feel my bag slapping against my side. Since I didn’t have my music, I listened for cars. It seemed like there were cars everywhere, which made sense, since I was on a public street. But I was momentarily baffled to think that there were so many cars going in the same direction that I was, and not one of them would carry me. It wouldn’t hurt them any. It would be very little inconvenience to stop for the minute it would take to let me into the car coupled with the time to get out once they were no longer going my way. My legs were tired, my ankles were swollen and my stomach was churning…and all they had to do was let their feet rest on the pedals. Maybe occasionally apply a little pressure to the gas or the breaks. It didn’t seem right. It was equally disheartening to realize that even if someone did stop and ask me for a ride, I’d probably have to turn it down. My job depends on the kindness of other people, often strangers, to make money, but that dependence doesn’t translate to trust. Trust is somehow out of the realm of kindness that guarantees me a livelihood. So I was expected to succeed because of these very people, but I wouldn’t’ be expected to trust them. I suppose the strength of my legs, the friends and family, the six years I’d spent in that neighborhood, were supposed to be my base. But fifteen dollars only go so far. I kept walking.
It was really hot. I don’t know if it was the heat wave or my dehydration from being sick all day, but it seemed much hotter at four in the afternoon than it usually did at ten with the sun high in the sky. My body, was trying its best to release the heat as quickly as it could, but only succeeded in making me feel sticky as well as hot. I had no idea how close I was or how far I’d gone (I really didn’t want to think about it) when I tilted my head back to take a drink and realized I was out of water. Diligent as my body had been in maintaining homeostasis, I was very thirsty and there didn’t seem to be any sort of public entity anywhere in sight. I kept walking. What else could I do? I kept walking, still wistfully looking at the homes on either side of me, but now wondering if, in the case I chanced to knock on a door, someone would be kind enough to fill my bottle for me. Would it make me late if I stopped and tried? Did I want to chance getting a door slammed on my face? Would the knowledge of the attempt really be worth it? I hadn’t yet made my decision, when I came across a daycare. I was happy about this for two reasons: 1) they were bound to have a water fountain in there and 2) this daycare was one of the first landmarks I was used to passing on my way home from the office. I was a fool. The place didn’t have a water fountain. I don’t know what their children drank, but it didn’t come from anything that someone from outside could use. They did have sinks and faucets, the outside one of which was out of order, so I had to wait in the air conditioned lobby while the nice receptionist went into the back and filled my bottle for me. I am learning to hate AC. It confuses the body to go from such heat to such coolness so quickly and I resented the place for offering this bit of relief, knowing that it would only be temporary. In the time that it took for her to go to the faucets, fill my water and come back, my body cooled considerably; so considerably that it was a struggle to move apace when I got back outside into the blistering heat. What’s more, apparently, I should have kept moving while I was inside because now when I tried to take a drink of water, a knot would form and tighten in my stomach. I got my water; not my relief. It wasn’t worth it. It ended up hurting too much to drink and I ended up giving up after a few painful sips. When I reached the light at the end of the road (that isn’t a metaphor…), I realized that I was a fool or a second reason: the better part of the final leg of my journey was uphill; the kind of hill that truckers talk about when they justify higher speed limits. It was not an obtuse incline. I could not see the top from the bottom. Had I had the energy, I would have been angry. As it was, I saved my strength for walking. It wasn’t as though it would be easier to turn back. So I walked up this impressive hill, noticing for the first time how steep it was and how long it took before the land became level and, once again, I couldn’t help but turn my attention to the cars at my right, coasting leisurely by. They saw this hill and pressed their foot on the gas a little harder; maybe eased off of the breaks knowing that they wouldn’t need much help to slow down because they would have gravity on their side. It looked so…easy for them. Did they know how steep this hill was? Could they tell how hot it was? Had they any inkling of how still the air was or how much energy it cost to get to the top of this hill? They were using as much as I was. They had to; they couldn’t reach the top without it. But unlike me, they had a vehicle of their own. They didn’t have to shoot for their destination based on their power alone. They were supported on all sides with protection and control and when they got to their destination, they would be calm and at ease, while I would be spent. I was putting everything I had into putting one foot in front of the other; into keeping straight; into resisting the gravity that strengthened with the incline. They were still beating me. They were so far ahead of me, I had raced dozens of them before I could even see the finish line. They could literally ride circles around me and I would be powerless to even gain on them. It was a sobering realization how often I find myself in a similar predicament; at a disadvantage with everyone else around me. I kept walking, of course. I always do. I even got there eventually. But I wasn’t satisfied when I got there. I wasn’t proud or even relieved. I was just tired. It seems like I’m always tired.
The meeting…was not worth the trip. It was very much like the water that I had humbled myself to acquire and then could not drink. Deyan didn’t hear me when I tried to explain to him that I couldn’t do what other people were doing. I didn’t use the words “I can’t”. I knew that would be fruitless. I knew that I could always try. But I also knew my limitations. I told him, but he still didn’t get it. I remember very distinctly starting to him during that meeting. He stepped out for a second and when he came back, he had a McDonald’s cup. I could tell that it had soda in it. That did it for me. You bastard, I thought. It hurts me to take a sip of water and you’re in here drinking soda like it’s nothing; pouring acid into your insides without a second thought. I knew then that he wouldn’t understand. No one sitting in a comfy car with the air on and the music blaring knows what it is to walk half that distance on the same route. They can’t. You can’t see what I feel from the other side of your tinted windows. And if you slowed down for me to try to tell you…the explanation would likely get lost in the wind.
I'm in the music annex. Sitting at a table. It's after seven and instead of on the road to Gainesville, I'm here. Doing nothing. Going nowhere. Left behind. Helluva week it's been. I truly feel like I know how poor David After Dentist feels: struggling to maintain some sort of equilibrium; grasping at every piece of solitidy I can muster(I have five fingers); helplessly (and futilely) demanding, "Why is this happening to me??" as my uphill trek takes another downturn. Why did my phone have to break the week communication was severely lacking in the first place and I would need a back-up? Why could I not find a charger for my spare until I could get a replacement? Why could I not fin on person I could count on to drive me to the T-Mobile store and back? Or even to the T-Mobile store and a bus stop? Why was I without transportation during a week I was too sick to walk everywhere? And why isn't anyone helping me? I still feel that same illogical confusion I did on the way to the office walking with the traffic. Is this going to be forever? Always trying, but my very best not being up to snuff.Always pushing but never quite having the strength. Always reaching but without the proper extension. It's not fair, and I'm tired. I AM TIRED. Please, oh God, please, don't let me be normal. I can't take fighting for extraordinary and only coming out mediocre for the rest of my life. I can only take so many steps before I fall.
I bet Stacy thinks I decided not to go. I told her I was going. I swear if she asks me if I decided not to go, I will scream. I don't want to scream. I want to cry. I always want to cry. I wanted to go. I fought to go. I still want to go. But it doesn't matter now. What I want never mater and I always let it hurt me. DAMMIT! How is it that I have absolutely no control over anything and everything that happens is absolutely my fault? It's my fault my phone is broken because I should've taken better care of it. It's my fault I have no computer because I opted for a cheap one. It's my fault I got to Tucker Hall late because I should've anticipated my sickness slowing my stride and planned to leave sooner. It's my fault I didn't turn back when I first got here because I assumed that, since it was before seven, I still had chance. It's my fault I don't have a new phone becuase I didn't suck it up and walk to the store. And there's nothing I can do about any of it now but sing the shoulda-coulda-wouldas and hope for tomorrow. Hope until I fall into despair.
I truly am weary and sick of trying. It's as if with every step I take, the road stretches longer and another cluster of cars whizzes by. They make it look so easy, it seems like I'm not trying at all. But I am. I'm trying so hard and my effort isn't worth even the tears that come when I can't hold them back anymore after I fail. I fail. Over and over I fail. It's exhausting, working so hard to be a failure. Running away from mediocracy within the walls that my circumstances create. All I can do is keep trying, keep hoping, keep running, until (God willing) a door opens.
I bet Stacy thinks I decided not to go. I told her I was going. I swear if she asks me if I decided not to go, I will scream. I don't want to scream. I want to cry. I always want to cry. I wanted to go. I fought to go. I still want to go. But it doesn't matter now. What I want never mater and I always let it hurt me. DAMMIT! How is it that I have absolutely no control over anything and everything that happens is absolutely my fault? It's my fault my phone is broken because I should've taken better care of it. It's my fault I have no computer because I opted for a cheap one. It's my fault I got to Tucker Hall late because I should've anticipated my sickness slowing my stride and planned to leave sooner. It's my fault I didn't turn back when I first got here because I assumed that, since it was before seven, I still had chance. It's my fault I don't have a new phone becuase I didn't suck it up and walk to the store. And there's nothing I can do about any of it now but sing the shoulda-coulda-wouldas and hope for tomorrow. Hope until I fall into despair.
I truly am weary and sick of trying. It's as if with every step I take, the road stretches longer and another cluster of cars whizzes by. They make it look so easy, it seems like I'm not trying at all. But I am. I'm trying so hard and my effort isn't worth even the tears that come when I can't hold them back anymore after I fail. I fail. Over and over I fail. It's exhausting, working so hard to be a failure. Running away from mediocracy within the walls that my circumstances create. All I can do is keep trying, keep hoping, keep running, until (God willing) a door opens.
Friday, July 23, 2010
There is much to think about
I was thirsty. Usually I drink large cups and bottles of water all day, but because I've been wrangling kids the past three days, I haven't had a lot of water breaks and when I finally got up to get on the computer, I wanted to get as much out of my time here as possible before I got off to go back upstairs and sit in front of the fan. After a couple of hours doing this and that on the interweb, I resolved to get myself a drink and ended up helping myself to some fruit punch. I found myself back down at the computer with a large cup of ice and punch. I took a sip. It was good. I took another. It was also good. Less than a minute later the cup was nothing but ice. I had drunk it all. I stared into the cup for awhile, a little amazed at what I'd done. Not five minutes ago I had been parched and just a few minutes after making the decision to drink something I had drained a fountain cup. Mind you, this wasn't accomplished because the cup was small or because I have a particularly well-trained gag reflex. There was nothing special about taking a drink. But I got to the bottom so quickly because I didn't stop. I didn't allow myself to be overwhelmed by the volume or the temperature or the fact that I wasn't used to flavored juice. I decided to drink a cup of juice and I did it. I wanted it first. I wanted it for hours, in fact, but wanting it didn't get me very far. The decision to do it, the consciousness to follow through, is what got it done. And it's done. And I'm glad.
I don't pretend that landing a coveted role in a major show that also allows me to pay my bills or having a legislative position or writing a great book (or heaven help me, doing all at once) are as easy as taking a drink. I am not endeavoring to simplify the complex aspirations and desires necessary for reaching my own self actualization by comparing them to a trip to the kitchen and a moment of gluttony.But if I were, isn't it incredible what you can accomplish if you keep at it? I tried to climb a wall today. I didn't make it. I fell a bunch of times and had to start over, working not to undo the progress that I had made the previous times. I ended up wearing out my fingers so badly with all my starts that I could only make it about halfway before my fingers couldn't take it anymore. But how high could I have gotten if I hadn't spent so much time and energy on starting over? How much less detrimental would one or two slips have been if I had the strength to hold on, rather than let myself slide back to the beginning? How much stronger would I have turned out to be if I trusted myself to prevent me from falling as much as I trusted my anchor? I think about these things. All I had to do was hold on and push a little farther; a little longer; a little harder.
I have so much inside me. I can feel it. There's anger and greed. There's tenacity and passion. There's this quiet (speaking) voice and boisterous spirit. There's this need to make a splash and this hope not to impose. I'm constantly at work to reconcile the conflicting parts of me. They swim around in my body and my mind. Sometimes they come out on a page, in a post, during a conversation. Sometimes I try to release them and something gets stuck. I get stuck. I allow myself to get stuck and stay stuck. If I choked on a piece of ice I would cough; swallow hard; maybe try to melt it with my breath. I would do something to get it unstuck because I'd know how limited I would be so long as it stayed there. I have enough limits without the help of crushed ice or mental congestion or an extra responsibility in my schedule. Maybe I can't get rid of it. Maybe I'm not supposed to. But I can at least digest it so that it works for me, and not against me. I have much to think about. I think about it all. Sometimes my thoughts crowd in my head. Sometimes I can't get out enough to satisfy myself. I will endeavor to process it all in bits and pieces.
I don't pretend that landing a coveted role in a major show that also allows me to pay my bills or having a legislative position or writing a great book (or heaven help me, doing all at once) are as easy as taking a drink. I am not endeavoring to simplify the complex aspirations and desires necessary for reaching my own self actualization by comparing them to a trip to the kitchen and a moment of gluttony.But if I were, isn't it incredible what you can accomplish if you keep at it? I tried to climb a wall today. I didn't make it. I fell a bunch of times and had to start over, working not to undo the progress that I had made the previous times. I ended up wearing out my fingers so badly with all my starts that I could only make it about halfway before my fingers couldn't take it anymore. But how high could I have gotten if I hadn't spent so much time and energy on starting over? How much less detrimental would one or two slips have been if I had the strength to hold on, rather than let myself slide back to the beginning? How much stronger would I have turned out to be if I trusted myself to prevent me from falling as much as I trusted my anchor? I think about these things. All I had to do was hold on and push a little farther; a little longer; a little harder.
I have so much inside me. I can feel it. There's anger and greed. There's tenacity and passion. There's this quiet (speaking) voice and boisterous spirit. There's this need to make a splash and this hope not to impose. I'm constantly at work to reconcile the conflicting parts of me. They swim around in my body and my mind. Sometimes they come out on a page, in a post, during a conversation. Sometimes I try to release them and something gets stuck. I get stuck. I allow myself to get stuck and stay stuck. If I choked on a piece of ice I would cough; swallow hard; maybe try to melt it with my breath. I would do something to get it unstuck because I'd know how limited I would be so long as it stayed there. I have enough limits without the help of crushed ice or mental congestion or an extra responsibility in my schedule. Maybe I can't get rid of it. Maybe I'm not supposed to. But I can at least digest it so that it works for me, and not against me. I have much to think about. I think about it all. Sometimes my thoughts crowd in my head. Sometimes I can't get out enough to satisfy myself. I will endeavor to process it all in bits and pieces.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Ti Moune Syndrome
Throughout the month of June, I had the 28th pegged as a big day and held onto the significance of this date for three reasons: First, and likely the most understandable, the confirmation hearings for Elena Kagan were scheduled to start that day. Although most Americans would much rather watch the reports on the hearings than the actual coverage, I was eager as always to educate myself on the most pressing issues at hand to Congress at the moment, how much politics was to be involved in this process, and (perhaps most importantly) what kind of person was about to take her seat on the highest bench in the land. Secondly, and likely the least understandable, the much-anticipated season premier of ABC Family’s Make It or Break It. Superficial though it is, I’ve invested a personal interest in the course of these fictional characters’ lives and after speculating on all of the possibilities lain before them at the close of last season, I was eager to see what their custom-written fates had in store for them. Lastly, the personal one that made my breath a little shallower and my roll out of bed a bit more reluctant was my planned trip back to the Fund for the Public Interest office where I would pick up my one and only paycheck for the two hours that I had been in their employ.
The last reason was the only one that made me anxious on Monday morning and while it would be easy to chalk this anxiety off to that matter being a bigger deal, I’m not satisfied with the notion that watching the confirmation hearings and Make It or Break It just carry more weight than a trip downtown. I believe instead that the three matters bear similar weight, but take different shapes and the shape is what makes this particular burden the most difficult to carry out of the three.
When I first woke up I went through my obligatory walk and stretch, the two actions that tend to significantly influence whether I’ll feel good about my day but once they were over (all too quickly), I was immediately faced with the unpleasantness of my failure as an employee. Despite my having the date burned into my head from to moment it was spoken, I couldn’t shake the lingering doubt that I had gotten the right date or heard correctly and I had to call rather than risk the humiliation of showing up for my check only to find out I had misunderstood. After only pressing a few buttons I was suddenly listening in horror to the routine ringing as one line made contact with another, praying that someone who didn’t know me, had never seen or heard of me would pick up the phone. In fact, I got Aaron, the director who had been so gracious about firing me a few weeks ago. The sound of his voice in his cheerful salutation made me queasy, not so much out of disgust with him as with horror that all the humiliation and disappointment that came with being terminated could resume so keenly and so quickly, and I had to fight the temptation to hang up and try again later for someone who it wouldn’t be agonizing to speak to. I quickly regurgitated the greeting and explanation I had rehearsed so painstakingly and waited in terror for the confirmation that I had been wrong again; that I had waited too long and my check had already been donated or that I would have to go somewhere else to get it or that somehow I had forgotten to do something that I was supposed to to ensure that I got my money. None of that happened. In fact, he was very cordial, taking the time to acknowledge that he knew who I was before giving me instructions for when I could come in before wishing me well and hanging up. Nothing I feared about the call happened…and yet I was still horrified. I heard in his voice the same amiability that I had heard during our first debriefing and during his termination speech. His tone rang a certain “no hard feelings” cheerfulness that was somehow much more offensive to me than the coldness that I had been expecting. Whatever his intentions were, his ease in conversing with me only served to make me more uneasy. Having gotten confirmation that I had, in fact, been right to both dread and look forward to this day, I was soon on the connector heading toward the building I would likely be entering for the last time and affirming that the opportunity for which I’d had such high hopes had come to nothing. I didn’t want to go. I wanted the money and the closure, but I didn’t want the confrontation, small though it would be and every step I took, every stop on the elevator, every turn I made brought me closer and closer to facing my failure. I finally found myself outside the suite and steeled myself before making my way in with what I hoped was an air of nonchalance. I was back on the elevator not five minutes later and despite the wave of relief that the small ordeal was over, I was crushed by the wave of comprehension that it was over. It was the same mixture of respite and regret that I feel at the end of a school term when I’m glad I don’t have to put up with the drudgery for awhile at the same time I’m disheartened to know I’ll never have another chance to improve my performance. The fears I’d fostered all turned out to be exaggerations borne of conceit over my own significance to these people and the world at large.
It’s funny; my failed attempt to make a difference for the cause was illuminated by the fact that my absence made no difference to the organization. I walked through those suite doors feeling crushed and exposed and ashamed and none of that mattered to the directors. I didn’t matter. I was just another face to them, as expendable as the potential members whose doors I’d knocked on. That expendableness, that…inutility followed me down the hall, around the corners, onto the elevator, and finally back into the car where I was trapped with it, forced to grapple with it for the time it took to get back home, as tightly gripped by my own shame as the check was by my hand. I stared at it, both amazed that I had made so much and annoyed that I had earned so little. There, in black and white, was the sum of my time at Fund for the Public Interest. It was a sobering view.
I recalled after I left what thoughts had gone through my head the previous time I had left this building. It was still the beginning of June and the twenty-eighth felt like light-years away. In my mind I saw myself having read lots of books, learned a bunch of songs found so many things to fill the space between the now and the near future. I was apprehensive, not just about having to face my failure again in the future, but about having to come back to it after moving past it. What pain, I thought, to have to take these steps backwards after all the progress I would make. And yet to my horror, I walked out of that building on the twenty-eighth in the same place as I had on the eighth and I realized just how unlikely it was that I would really have to worry about having to turn back after making progress. Three weeks and I had done nothing. No wonder Aaron could dismiss me so easily. No wonder Shaun could smile over my signature as he handed me my check. I was of no use to them. I had not even been useful to myself. I’ve been like a tool that’s missing its batteries waiting to be empowered by an extension of kindness or a better adapter to my environment or a tune-up for a good friend. Estuve inutil.
When my anticipation for the premier of Make It or Break It was finally sated at ten, I marveled at how each of the girls took control of their lives. When they were weak they made themselves stronger. When they were off balance they found their own center. Even when they were unstable they had the presence of mind to reach out for a decent support. They were significant. They made things happen. They made me feel inadequate and inspired at the same time. I want to be like them. I don’t want to be helpless and useless. I don’t want to be able to count on my hands how many people would show up to my funeral or wonder if anyone is reading these words. I want to be astonishing. I want to be proud of myself. I want to look back and have a different view than I did a year ago and the year before that. I want I want I want. And time goes by and the wants pile up and soon enough the desires form an obstacle in themselves. I can’t blog today; the words might not come out right and I want the writing to be good. I can’t practice today; I might have an audience and I want to improve before I face scrutiny. I can’t call my friend right now; I want her to care enough to reach out to me on her own. How much happier I would be if I could want less and do more. Can I?
The last reason was the only one that made me anxious on Monday morning and while it would be easy to chalk this anxiety off to that matter being a bigger deal, I’m not satisfied with the notion that watching the confirmation hearings and Make It or Break It just carry more weight than a trip downtown. I believe instead that the three matters bear similar weight, but take different shapes and the shape is what makes this particular burden the most difficult to carry out of the three.
When I first woke up I went through my obligatory walk and stretch, the two actions that tend to significantly influence whether I’ll feel good about my day but once they were over (all too quickly), I was immediately faced with the unpleasantness of my failure as an employee. Despite my having the date burned into my head from to moment it was spoken, I couldn’t shake the lingering doubt that I had gotten the right date or heard correctly and I had to call rather than risk the humiliation of showing up for my check only to find out I had misunderstood. After only pressing a few buttons I was suddenly listening in horror to the routine ringing as one line made contact with another, praying that someone who didn’t know me, had never seen or heard of me would pick up the phone. In fact, I got Aaron, the director who had been so gracious about firing me a few weeks ago. The sound of his voice in his cheerful salutation made me queasy, not so much out of disgust with him as with horror that all the humiliation and disappointment that came with being terminated could resume so keenly and so quickly, and I had to fight the temptation to hang up and try again later for someone who it wouldn’t be agonizing to speak to. I quickly regurgitated the greeting and explanation I had rehearsed so painstakingly and waited in terror for the confirmation that I had been wrong again; that I had waited too long and my check had already been donated or that I would have to go somewhere else to get it or that somehow I had forgotten to do something that I was supposed to to ensure that I got my money. None of that happened. In fact, he was very cordial, taking the time to acknowledge that he knew who I was before giving me instructions for when I could come in before wishing me well and hanging up. Nothing I feared about the call happened…and yet I was still horrified. I heard in his voice the same amiability that I had heard during our first debriefing and during his termination speech. His tone rang a certain “no hard feelings” cheerfulness that was somehow much more offensive to me than the coldness that I had been expecting. Whatever his intentions were, his ease in conversing with me only served to make me more uneasy. Having gotten confirmation that I had, in fact, been right to both dread and look forward to this day, I was soon on the connector heading toward the building I would likely be entering for the last time and affirming that the opportunity for which I’d had such high hopes had come to nothing. I didn’t want to go. I wanted the money and the closure, but I didn’t want the confrontation, small though it would be and every step I took, every stop on the elevator, every turn I made brought me closer and closer to facing my failure. I finally found myself outside the suite and steeled myself before making my way in with what I hoped was an air of nonchalance. I was back on the elevator not five minutes later and despite the wave of relief that the small ordeal was over, I was crushed by the wave of comprehension that it was over. It was the same mixture of respite and regret that I feel at the end of a school term when I’m glad I don’t have to put up with the drudgery for awhile at the same time I’m disheartened to know I’ll never have another chance to improve my performance. The fears I’d fostered all turned out to be exaggerations borne of conceit over my own significance to these people and the world at large.
It’s funny; my failed attempt to make a difference for the cause was illuminated by the fact that my absence made no difference to the organization. I walked through those suite doors feeling crushed and exposed and ashamed and none of that mattered to the directors. I didn’t matter. I was just another face to them, as expendable as the potential members whose doors I’d knocked on. That expendableness, that…inutility followed me down the hall, around the corners, onto the elevator, and finally back into the car where I was trapped with it, forced to grapple with it for the time it took to get back home, as tightly gripped by my own shame as the check was by my hand. I stared at it, both amazed that I had made so much and annoyed that I had earned so little. There, in black and white, was the sum of my time at Fund for the Public Interest. It was a sobering view.
I recalled after I left what thoughts had gone through my head the previous time I had left this building. It was still the beginning of June and the twenty-eighth felt like light-years away. In my mind I saw myself having read lots of books, learned a bunch of songs found so many things to fill the space between the now and the near future. I was apprehensive, not just about having to face my failure again in the future, but about having to come back to it after moving past it. What pain, I thought, to have to take these steps backwards after all the progress I would make. And yet to my horror, I walked out of that building on the twenty-eighth in the same place as I had on the eighth and I realized just how unlikely it was that I would really have to worry about having to turn back after making progress. Three weeks and I had done nothing. No wonder Aaron could dismiss me so easily. No wonder Shaun could smile over my signature as he handed me my check. I was of no use to them. I had not even been useful to myself. I’ve been like a tool that’s missing its batteries waiting to be empowered by an extension of kindness or a better adapter to my environment or a tune-up for a good friend. Estuve inutil.
When my anticipation for the premier of Make It or Break It was finally sated at ten, I marveled at how each of the girls took control of their lives. When they were weak they made themselves stronger. When they were off balance they found their own center. Even when they were unstable they had the presence of mind to reach out for a decent support. They were significant. They made things happen. They made me feel inadequate and inspired at the same time. I want to be like them. I don’t want to be helpless and useless. I don’t want to be able to count on my hands how many people would show up to my funeral or wonder if anyone is reading these words. I want to be astonishing. I want to be proud of myself. I want to look back and have a different view than I did a year ago and the year before that. I want I want I want. And time goes by and the wants pile up and soon enough the desires form an obstacle in themselves. I can’t blog today; the words might not come out right and I want the writing to be good. I can’t practice today; I might have an audience and I want to improve before I face scrutiny. I can’t call my friend right now; I want her to care enough to reach out to me on her own. How much happier I would be if I could want less and do more. Can I?
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Thank You Mr. President...fo nuthin
So I'm sitting at home, lamenting the fact that I couldn't go to Eric Whitacre's concert tonight, and I glance through the TV guide debating whether to read or watch television. I was excited to find that a presidential address was coming on and eagerly set channel reminders so that I could finally get a strong position on a solution to this oil fiasco. I likened it to one of Roosevelt's fireside chats and reflected on how beneficial it is to have an executive commander who keeps in contact with all of his citizens. I sat down at my couch (actually facing the fireplace) and happily awaited the new insights I would gain from this experience.
Half an hour later I'm still sitting on my couch, but the only notion in my head remains, "That's it?" I know from the twenty-month long election process that Obama is a hell of a speech maker and as someone who appreciates a good piece of rhetoric, I have to say I'm rather insulted that he thought that extended soundbite would mollify us. I consider myself to be pretty good about keeping up with current events and I actually stopped listening to the news recently because I was sick of hearing more of the same; this growing problem and a growing piled of failed attempts at a solution. I had it in my head that there would be more to his speech than information on what was going on. It turned out to be nothing but a thrown-together "state of the gulf" speech reminding the American people of what we already know. We know that millions of gallons of crude terra crap has gushed and continues to gush out of the failed BP pipes. We know that the initial explosion is a result of neglect on BP's part and back scratching on the government's part. We know that upwards of hundreds are watching their livelihoods wash away in a grimy oily tidal wave as the leak empties toxic products into water where the wildlife is dying at alarming rates. We know that dealing with clean-up is dangerous because of exposure to both the chemicals released into the water and the chemicals that have been used to separate the oil from the rest of the water. We know that the country is far too dependant on oil as a source of fuel and has been lax in finding alternatives because it's easier to wait for someone to discover black gold in their backyard than to do extensive research on cleaner less finite energy sources. This has been going on for two months now and no news station hasn't mentioned all of that and more. Why, then, did you, Mr. President, spend the majority of your speech on what we already know?
What was the purpose of this speech? Was it to pacify us? To let us know that you really are "kicking ass" as you suggested? Do you really believe any intelligent person who cared about what's going on in this nation right now would be satisfied by a thirty'minute filibuster? I am eighteen years old, have no degrees, no work history, and can't drive myself to the corner without freaking out, but I'm competent enough to know that I (and the rest of the country), deserved better than that. Where were the estimates on when the wells would be finished? What was the basis for this "ninety percent" that's supposed to be collected before the leak is permanently fixed? What specific measures are being taken to hold BP accountable for the financial impact, the environmental impact, and the obvious broken regulations? Besides chastising us for not already having a better energy policy, what immediately feasible alternative is there right now to fossil fuels? How are other oil companies going to be effected by BP's carelessness? Why does there have to be a new commission to inquire and seek a solution every time someone in the government screws up?
It's events like this that make me sure I never want to run for president. Aside from it being a dead-end job with little time off and no room for advancement, the job description in itself is just too funky. There is something about this job that makes him responsible for making this situation better. I don't know if this has to be by executive order or pushing a bill through the house and senate or bullying David Cameron into punishing BP on their home front but really, what's the use of being the leader of the free world if you can't even do anything to fix a national environmental disaster? You haven't even made me feel better about it. I gave you half an hour of my life and for what? I have a paragraph full of questions, an angry headache, an injured ego and a powerful longing for that half-hour of my life back. I really wish I could've gone to Carnegie Hall.
Half an hour later I'm still sitting on my couch, but the only notion in my head remains, "That's it?" I know from the twenty-month long election process that Obama is a hell of a speech maker and as someone who appreciates a good piece of rhetoric, I have to say I'm rather insulted that he thought that extended soundbite would mollify us. I consider myself to be pretty good about keeping up with current events and I actually stopped listening to the news recently because I was sick of hearing more of the same; this growing problem and a growing piled of failed attempts at a solution. I had it in my head that there would be more to his speech than information on what was going on. It turned out to be nothing but a thrown-together "state of the gulf" speech reminding the American people of what we already know. We know that millions of gallons of crude terra crap has gushed and continues to gush out of the failed BP pipes. We know that the initial explosion is a result of neglect on BP's part and back scratching on the government's part. We know that upwards of hundreds are watching their livelihoods wash away in a grimy oily tidal wave as the leak empties toxic products into water where the wildlife is dying at alarming rates. We know that dealing with clean-up is dangerous because of exposure to both the chemicals released into the water and the chemicals that have been used to separate the oil from the rest of the water. We know that the country is far too dependant on oil as a source of fuel and has been lax in finding alternatives because it's easier to wait for someone to discover black gold in their backyard than to do extensive research on cleaner less finite energy sources. This has been going on for two months now and no news station hasn't mentioned all of that and more. Why, then, did you, Mr. President, spend the majority of your speech on what we already know?
What was the purpose of this speech? Was it to pacify us? To let us know that you really are "kicking ass" as you suggested? Do you really believe any intelligent person who cared about what's going on in this nation right now would be satisfied by a thirty'minute filibuster? I am eighteen years old, have no degrees, no work history, and can't drive myself to the corner without freaking out, but I'm competent enough to know that I (and the rest of the country), deserved better than that. Where were the estimates on when the wells would be finished? What was the basis for this "ninety percent" that's supposed to be collected before the leak is permanently fixed? What specific measures are being taken to hold BP accountable for the financial impact, the environmental impact, and the obvious broken regulations? Besides chastising us for not already having a better energy policy, what immediately feasible alternative is there right now to fossil fuels? How are other oil companies going to be effected by BP's carelessness? Why does there have to be a new commission to inquire and seek a solution every time someone in the government screws up?
It's events like this that make me sure I never want to run for president. Aside from it being a dead-end job with little time off and no room for advancement, the job description in itself is just too funky. There is something about this job that makes him responsible for making this situation better. I don't know if this has to be by executive order or pushing a bill through the house and senate or bullying David Cameron into punishing BP on their home front but really, what's the use of being the leader of the free world if you can't even do anything to fix a national environmental disaster? You haven't even made me feel better about it. I gave you half an hour of my life and for what? I have a paragraph full of questions, an angry headache, an injured ego and a powerful longing for that half-hour of my life back. I really wish I could've gone to Carnegie Hall.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Status quo...ta
I have been terminated. I've spent the day reflecting, recalling, reminding myself to keep my eyes on the prize (that is, self-actualization) and attempting to get all of my misery and disappointment out of my system in one day. I don't know how successful I am as my mind keeps wandering to June 28h, the day that I'm supposed to pick up my meager check for my meager contribution for this major cause.
It is so much worse to be disappointed than angry or sad. Those kinds of pain hurt, but they feel temporary and once you let them out, you get over it. Disappointment, not so much. When you're disappointed, you're faced with proof that your positive expectations were wrong and the more disappointment you face, the scarier it is to allow these expectations again. I was so ready to bust my ass for the environment this summer and work for a cause and gain positive insight and experience and make some money (I'm not gonna pretend that wasn't a happy prospect) and have some human contact that it isn't work to be around and have a kick-off point for future endeavors and...now I'm sitting home again with no prospects at all. It isn't exactly encouraging. And it isn't the usual self-recrimination that fills my head when reflecting on these past two days (oh God I got fired after two days) so much as frustration that there was nothing I could do to make this better or to make this work.
I was expected to raise $120 in a full shift while canvassing. That was my objective. There's this talk about recruiting new members and raising awareness, but the bottom line is, our purpose is to raise money. I'm not saying this is a bad or shameful thing. I understand that campaigns can't be run for free and it is much more honorable to accept donations from concerned individuals who want to be involved than to seek sponsorship from a company in exchange for pimping out the interests of the American public. HOWEVER...they could have been a bit more up front about this particular purpose when they were seeking employees. I guess the name should have given me a hint: Fund for the Public Interest, but somehow I was caught up on the whole wanting to get people involved thing. I had it in my head that our zeal to get this issue out there and have our voices heard was a bigger deal than making money. My positive expectation...was wrong. And there was nothing I could do about it. I had "the rap" memorized, I was familiar with the background of the drilling and the intent of Environment GA, I knew to be friendly and concise when talking to people so that they didn't get sick of me while I was asking them for money but really, there's only so much you can do only so far we can go. We're in a recession. During recession, people want to save their pennies. They don't want to give large sums of money to strangers who knock on their doors asking them to make a financial commitment to an organization they've never heard of. I understand that. I accept that. And still I felt anxious and disappointed and ashamed to not get any new sustainers on my own and only manage to get one $50 single contribution on my observation day. I read my little info packet. I knew that I was seventy bucks below my quota and I felt really bad that I hadn't done a better job. I chalked it up to my inexperience and focused on the good moments and came the next morning with bells on for my FM training. That...only served to make me more anxious. According to the director, Aaron, (who would fire me a few hours later) it doesn't matter what kind of area you're in. If you're engaging enough and speak to enough people you should make more than quota every day. According to his logic, it's my fault that the people who agreed with me but didn't have any money because they had just spent it all on bills or they were bound for Europe or they were retired and on a fixed income didn't jump for the chance to give me money (but did offer me water and ginger ale). It's my fault that the people who supported my cause but had already committed funds and membership to a bunch of similar organizations or balked when they found out that their contribution wouldn't be tax deductible didn't want to throw their last few bucks into a vacuum to which they'd already contributed in some other capacity. It's my fault that the people who really appreciated my passion and enthusiasm and felt sorry for me for being outside for so long and thought that this sounded like a really great group and a really great idea but weren't prepared to open their wallets immediately because they wanted more information decided that they would just join online after doing some research. It's my fault that those assholes (I don't have to be nice to them now so I'll call them what they are) who are more caught up in their neo-con patriotism than the havoc being wreaked on our shores (by a foreign company btw) to speak against dangerous off-shore drilling because the alternative is buying it from our enemies (because heaven forbid we find a cleaner more efficient fuel) threw their viewpoints in my face before slamming the door in my face or demanding to know how we would get fuel if not from the ocean. It's my fault that some people are alarmed by what's going on in the gulf but don't want to jump to conclusions based on one instance and are waiting until they see how things play out before they put their names and pockets on either side. It's all my fault. If I had been a better canvasser all of these people would have been dying to sign blank checks made out to Environment GA regardless of their biases, hesitations, financial limitations, suspicions, and irritation at solicitors. I am curious as to how Zach (who raised over a thousand dollars in one shift) would have handled my turf. But alas, I'll never know because they only go to each area once a year. So despite my passing out a bunch of flyers to several people really interesting in becoming members online or when they had more cash on hand, got an almost renewal from a man who wasn't home but was pretty sure to continue his membership after he heard from me, wasn't able to talk to everyone because so many people didn't answer their doors and practically bullied the sweetest old lady ever into donating her last ten dollars even though it wasn't enough to officially make her a member (in addition to be offered a few refreshments)...I didn't meet quota. And that was all that mattered as I headed back to the office, finally acknowledging the pounding in my head that hadn't stopped since that morning and self-consciously clutching my two sub-par contributions. I did not feel good and I had no excuses to make. The only thing running through my head was that I had failed for the second time and what was I doing wrong? I hoped to address this later with Aaron during debriefing but I never got that far. No sooner did I admit my inadequate results than he kindly let me know that "canvassing isn't for everyone" and I could come back to pick up my check for the work that I had done on the twenty-eighth of June. And that was it. I was dismissed. Inutil. None of my passion or desire to contribute mattered any more in light of my falling under quota twice in a row (the job packet actually says three times but I guess they just didn't have much faith in me). So now not only am I unemployed, I know for a fact that nothing I do on any given day is making a difference in the world to anyone. I couldn't get enough contributions and now I myself have nothing to contribute. I had nothing but time and I spent it trying...and failing. The worst thing about it was walking out thinking, What do I do now? Where am I supposed to go from here? And should I just give it up for awhile? I am disappointed. I was wrong. I was very very wrong. I hope and pray that I don't keep making thing mistake.
It is so much worse to be disappointed than angry or sad. Those kinds of pain hurt, but they feel temporary and once you let them out, you get over it. Disappointment, not so much. When you're disappointed, you're faced with proof that your positive expectations were wrong and the more disappointment you face, the scarier it is to allow these expectations again. I was so ready to bust my ass for the environment this summer and work for a cause and gain positive insight and experience and make some money (I'm not gonna pretend that wasn't a happy prospect) and have some human contact that it isn't work to be around and have a kick-off point for future endeavors and...now I'm sitting home again with no prospects at all. It isn't exactly encouraging. And it isn't the usual self-recrimination that fills my head when reflecting on these past two days (oh God I got fired after two days) so much as frustration that there was nothing I could do to make this better or to make this work.
I was expected to raise $120 in a full shift while canvassing. That was my objective. There's this talk about recruiting new members and raising awareness, but the bottom line is, our purpose is to raise money. I'm not saying this is a bad or shameful thing. I understand that campaigns can't be run for free and it is much more honorable to accept donations from concerned individuals who want to be involved than to seek sponsorship from a company in exchange for pimping out the interests of the American public. HOWEVER...they could have been a bit more up front about this particular purpose when they were seeking employees. I guess the name should have given me a hint: Fund for the Public Interest, but somehow I was caught up on the whole wanting to get people involved thing. I had it in my head that our zeal to get this issue out there and have our voices heard was a bigger deal than making money. My positive expectation...was wrong. And there was nothing I could do about it. I had "the rap" memorized, I was familiar with the background of the drilling and the intent of Environment GA, I knew to be friendly and concise when talking to people so that they didn't get sick of me while I was asking them for money but really, there's only so much you can do only so far we can go. We're in a recession. During recession, people want to save their pennies. They don't want to give large sums of money to strangers who knock on their doors asking them to make a financial commitment to an organization they've never heard of. I understand that. I accept that. And still I felt anxious and disappointed and ashamed to not get any new sustainers on my own and only manage to get one $50 single contribution on my observation day. I read my little info packet. I knew that I was seventy bucks below my quota and I felt really bad that I hadn't done a better job. I chalked it up to my inexperience and focused on the good moments and came the next morning with bells on for my FM training. That...only served to make me more anxious. According to the director, Aaron, (who would fire me a few hours later) it doesn't matter what kind of area you're in. If you're engaging enough and speak to enough people you should make more than quota every day. According to his logic, it's my fault that the people who agreed with me but didn't have any money because they had just spent it all on bills or they were bound for Europe or they were retired and on a fixed income didn't jump for the chance to give me money (but did offer me water and ginger ale). It's my fault that the people who supported my cause but had already committed funds and membership to a bunch of similar organizations or balked when they found out that their contribution wouldn't be tax deductible didn't want to throw their last few bucks into a vacuum to which they'd already contributed in some other capacity. It's my fault that the people who really appreciated my passion and enthusiasm and felt sorry for me for being outside for so long and thought that this sounded like a really great group and a really great idea but weren't prepared to open their wallets immediately because they wanted more information decided that they would just join online after doing some research. It's my fault that those assholes (I don't have to be nice to them now so I'll call them what they are) who are more caught up in their neo-con patriotism than the havoc being wreaked on our shores (by a foreign company btw) to speak against dangerous off-shore drilling because the alternative is buying it from our enemies (because heaven forbid we find a cleaner more efficient fuel) threw their viewpoints in my face before slamming the door in my face or demanding to know how we would get fuel if not from the ocean. It's my fault that some people are alarmed by what's going on in the gulf but don't want to jump to conclusions based on one instance and are waiting until they see how things play out before they put their names and pockets on either side. It's all my fault. If I had been a better canvasser all of these people would have been dying to sign blank checks made out to Environment GA regardless of their biases, hesitations, financial limitations, suspicions, and irritation at solicitors. I am curious as to how Zach (who raised over a thousand dollars in one shift) would have handled my turf. But alas, I'll never know because they only go to each area once a year. So despite my passing out a bunch of flyers to several people really interesting in becoming members online or when they had more cash on hand, got an almost renewal from a man who wasn't home but was pretty sure to continue his membership after he heard from me, wasn't able to talk to everyone because so many people didn't answer their doors and practically bullied the sweetest old lady ever into donating her last ten dollars even though it wasn't enough to officially make her a member (in addition to be offered a few refreshments)...I didn't meet quota. And that was all that mattered as I headed back to the office, finally acknowledging the pounding in my head that hadn't stopped since that morning and self-consciously clutching my two sub-par contributions. I did not feel good and I had no excuses to make. The only thing running through my head was that I had failed for the second time and what was I doing wrong? I hoped to address this later with Aaron during debriefing but I never got that far. No sooner did I admit my inadequate results than he kindly let me know that "canvassing isn't for everyone" and I could come back to pick up my check for the work that I had done on the twenty-eighth of June. And that was it. I was dismissed. Inutil. None of my passion or desire to contribute mattered any more in light of my falling under quota twice in a row (the job packet actually says three times but I guess they just didn't have much faith in me). So now not only am I unemployed, I know for a fact that nothing I do on any given day is making a difference in the world to anyone. I couldn't get enough contributions and now I myself have nothing to contribute. I had nothing but time and I spent it trying...and failing. The worst thing about it was walking out thinking, What do I do now? Where am I supposed to go from here? And should I just give it up for awhile? I am disappointed. I was wrong. I was very very wrong. I hope and pray that I don't keep making thing mistake.
Monday, June 7, 2010
I'm still sore
My legs hurt. I got done just before ten, was technically finished canvassing around nine and two hours later, all the most prevalent sensation in my body is that of blood rushing to help repair the destroyed myelin sheaths in my poor little calvesies. It hurts, but it's a good kind of pain; like the kind you feel the day after an epic dance class or when you finish an intense run. It's the kind of pain you're proud of because you know it's worth something. You aren't feeling this for no reason; that pain is going the product of and still yet to produce something wonderful, certainly something worth it.
This has been a looong day for me. I've never had to work a ten-hour shift before and certainly not one that entailed having doors shut in my face and elderly know-it-alls suggesting that I "educate" myself more on the topic. It was hard and it was long and having procured only fifty dollars after three hours hurt. Still does. I choose to take this pain with the same perspective I lend to the soreness in my legs.
I'm tired. I've been tired for hours, really, and it isn't just the walking. Canvassing through Buckhead was quite the adventure and as many do, this little trek gave me some interesting perspective. When you see out of your own eyes for so long, it's easy to forget how many different POVs there are out there. There are the gracious but cautious well-bred people who don't want to slam the door in your face but aren't committing themselves to a group based on the smile of some girl off the street. I feel for them and I appreciate them more for their willingness to listen than their eagerness to join our cause. Then their are the deep-set "convervatives" who aren't willing to take a stand against oil companies because they don't know what will stand up in their place. They disregard people like me because of our youth and our eagerness to "make a difference" as if our idealistic aspirations are somehow a byproduct of our ignornce. Meanwhile, they know the truth and they simply don't care. These are my favorites, really. As a canvasser, it's annoying, because they take up time that we could spend getting the attention of people who would really contribute. But as the student of human nature that I am, determined to carve for myself a political future, it's like candy; both enticing and toxic. If I could I would have sat in each of these such people's kitchens and gone hashed out our differences right then and there (as civily as I could of course). I can't right now, because that isn't my focus, but the prospect illicited a little geeky anticipation that I might one day have the chance to take all of this opposition on. And then there are the haters. They're neither hurt nor envious. Their type of hatred is the worst: the kind that comes out of the notion that they should hate because they are entitled to. One woman followed me down the street in her car demanding to know what I was doing in her neighborhood and throwing thinly veiled threats at me for "soliciting" without a permit. These people I'd rather not deal with as I'm just far too tempted to point out to them what terrible human beings they are. I just listened to this woman undermine my cause and my method of acquiring support for it all the while my mind was racing with mental tears and angry shouting that included how she didn't deserve her beautiful home. And it was a beautiful home, even though she had a dog who went up and down the street peeing on other people's mail boxes (which is against the law whether you have a permit or not)and one of her statues looked like it needed a new head. It was a beautiful area that belied the spirits of many of it's occupants. That isn't to say it was a snooty neighborhood full of people who looked down their nose at us, but it was a slow day and people's conceit was a big part of that. Raising fifty dollars in three hours was...discouraging to say the least. And still we pressed on. After awhile, it wasn't the ungraciousness that offended me so much as the condescension.
I do not take kindly to being talked down to and all too often we had the misfortune of dealing with people who just thought we were wrong. They're young, they thought, they're simply jumping onto whatever hot button issue is big among their generation and foolishly thinking they can change the world. They're uninformed, they assume. They hear about and oil spill and they don't do any research of their own rather than blowing one news story out of proportion. Then of course there was the gentleman who thought the whole matter of fighting oil was nonsense because it made life unnecessarily complicated. "We all have to maintain a certain lifestyle," he said. And what of the lifestyles that will never be the same in Mississippi and Louisiana due in part to the indifference of people like him? We can't all enjoy a certain lifestyle; it will happen at the expence of someone else. Sometimes it's worth it. In this case, it isn't. I understand that I see this issue through my biased eyes and a person who complains when her mother plays in the fireplace because it's bad for the climate but really? No one is blowing the dangers of off-shore drilling out of proportion. At this point, the only thing blown out of proportion is the drilling equipment responsible for safely procuring oil. It's gushing is destroying the livelihood of innocent Americans who depend on a decent marine ecosystem and threatens the welfare of the entire east coast and you dare say we don't have a good enough grasp on the issue? Something very bad happened. We don't want it to happen again. The way to ensure that it doesn't happen is not to let it. She says as she clenches the issue for dear life. Sorry I just had to get that out.
But even with such frustrations as that, at the end of the day, I was glad for how I spent those nine and a half hours. I was proud of the conversations I had with the people who I'd talekd to and eager to sway the minds of those who were less than supportive. And I, like so many teachers, parents, social workers and police officers, had a light-bulb moment. I got to meet a rattler fan who loved the environment and supported our work a hundred percent. I got to hear him say how much he loved and missed Tallahassee and share with him some other issues we're concerned with as well as some of our accomplishment on old issues. I got to meet his beautiful daughter when she came out to show him her gack! the most fun thing a kid could have and stare up at us with her big blues eyes as cool and clear as the ocean used to be. She seemed to beg us to protect her coastal beaches at the same time she gave us hope for the future, even in light of the stoic opposition her elders had given us at previous houses. It was late in the evening, the sun was going down and I was at the point where I didn't want to know on anyone's door anymore for fear of disturbing their dinner or family time and making enemies rather than friends. It took all day, but it was all the confirmation I needed that what I was doing was right. I wish I could do more and someday I will. For now, I do what I can and push through the pain.
This has been a looong day for me. I've never had to work a ten-hour shift before and certainly not one that entailed having doors shut in my face and elderly know-it-alls suggesting that I "educate" myself more on the topic. It was hard and it was long and having procured only fifty dollars after three hours hurt. Still does. I choose to take this pain with the same perspective I lend to the soreness in my legs.
I'm tired. I've been tired for hours, really, and it isn't just the walking. Canvassing through Buckhead was quite the adventure and as many do, this little trek gave me some interesting perspective. When you see out of your own eyes for so long, it's easy to forget how many different POVs there are out there. There are the gracious but cautious well-bred people who don't want to slam the door in your face but aren't committing themselves to a group based on the smile of some girl off the street. I feel for them and I appreciate them more for their willingness to listen than their eagerness to join our cause. Then their are the deep-set "convervatives" who aren't willing to take a stand against oil companies because they don't know what will stand up in their place. They disregard people like me because of our youth and our eagerness to "make a difference" as if our idealistic aspirations are somehow a byproduct of our ignornce. Meanwhile, they know the truth and they simply don't care. These are my favorites, really. As a canvasser, it's annoying, because they take up time that we could spend getting the attention of people who would really contribute. But as the student of human nature that I am, determined to carve for myself a political future, it's like candy; both enticing and toxic. If I could I would have sat in each of these such people's kitchens and gone hashed out our differences right then and there (as civily as I could of course). I can't right now, because that isn't my focus, but the prospect illicited a little geeky anticipation that I might one day have the chance to take all of this opposition on. And then there are the haters. They're neither hurt nor envious. Their type of hatred is the worst: the kind that comes out of the notion that they should hate because they are entitled to. One woman followed me down the street in her car demanding to know what I was doing in her neighborhood and throwing thinly veiled threats at me for "soliciting" without a permit. These people I'd rather not deal with as I'm just far too tempted to point out to them what terrible human beings they are. I just listened to this woman undermine my cause and my method of acquiring support for it all the while my mind was racing with mental tears and angry shouting that included how she didn't deserve her beautiful home. And it was a beautiful home, even though she had a dog who went up and down the street peeing on other people's mail boxes (which is against the law whether you have a permit or not)and one of her statues looked like it needed a new head. It was a beautiful area that belied the spirits of many of it's occupants. That isn't to say it was a snooty neighborhood full of people who looked down their nose at us, but it was a slow day and people's conceit was a big part of that. Raising fifty dollars in three hours was...discouraging to say the least. And still we pressed on. After awhile, it wasn't the ungraciousness that offended me so much as the condescension.
I do not take kindly to being talked down to and all too often we had the misfortune of dealing with people who just thought we were wrong. They're young, they thought, they're simply jumping onto whatever hot button issue is big among their generation and foolishly thinking they can change the world. They're uninformed, they assume. They hear about and oil spill and they don't do any research of their own rather than blowing one news story out of proportion. Then of course there was the gentleman who thought the whole matter of fighting oil was nonsense because it made life unnecessarily complicated. "We all have to maintain a certain lifestyle," he said. And what of the lifestyles that will never be the same in Mississippi and Louisiana due in part to the indifference of people like him? We can't all enjoy a certain lifestyle; it will happen at the expence of someone else. Sometimes it's worth it. In this case, it isn't. I understand that I see this issue through my biased eyes and a person who complains when her mother plays in the fireplace because it's bad for the climate but really? No one is blowing the dangers of off-shore drilling out of proportion. At this point, the only thing blown out of proportion is the drilling equipment responsible for safely procuring oil. It's gushing is destroying the livelihood of innocent Americans who depend on a decent marine ecosystem and threatens the welfare of the entire east coast and you dare say we don't have a good enough grasp on the issue? Something very bad happened. We don't want it to happen again. The way to ensure that it doesn't happen is not to let it. She says as she clenches the issue for dear life. Sorry I just had to get that out.
But even with such frustrations as that, at the end of the day, I was glad for how I spent those nine and a half hours. I was proud of the conversations I had with the people who I'd talekd to and eager to sway the minds of those who were less than supportive. And I, like so many teachers, parents, social workers and police officers, had a light-bulb moment. I got to meet a rattler fan who loved the environment and supported our work a hundred percent. I got to hear him say how much he loved and missed Tallahassee and share with him some other issues we're concerned with as well as some of our accomplishment on old issues. I got to meet his beautiful daughter when she came out to show him her gack! the most fun thing a kid could have and stare up at us with her big blues eyes as cool and clear as the ocean used to be. She seemed to beg us to protect her coastal beaches at the same time she gave us hope for the future, even in light of the stoic opposition her elders had given us at previous houses. It was late in the evening, the sun was going down and I was at the point where I didn't want to know on anyone's door anymore for fear of disturbing their dinner or family time and making enemies rather than friends. It took all day, but it was all the confirmation I needed that what I was doing was right. I wish I could do more and someday I will. For now, I do what I can and push through the pain.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Day by Day
I went to the library on Wednesday. It being my first time back there since going to Tallahassee, I was jolted to realize the magic that was there, the magic that I love about that place. As a life-long bibliophile who's racked up debt on numerous library cards spanning three counties, I can say with good authority the Newton Country Library is quite the entity. Between the large selection of fascinating non-fiction and multi-media and the quiet bustle Newton County citizens in for their biweekly fix, it's one of my favorite atmospheres. It's suggested that churches are such powerful places, not only because of their religious purpose, but because of the energy that emanates there even long after service is over. Many a time I've walked into an empty theatre and felt similar energy, remnants from the characters and players who at some point or another made that space their home. It occurred to me in manically browsing the children's section, that the library has that same energy, that same sanctuary atmosphere.
We're taught at a very early age that books open doors of the imagination, allowing us to explore unknown worlds and uninvestigated concepts. I realized in standing among so many "doors" that each aisle was akin to a long hallway and every cover a window; a brief but tantalizing glimpse into the world those pages hold. It was at once thrilling and overwhelming to peer into these windows and see such incredible places. I had limited time and could only explore a few, but I could feel the potency of the worlds that surrounded me as keenly as if I'd put my hand to the door of a room on fire. I was on fire; quietly burning inside with both good and bad anxiety. I wanted to never leave. I wanted to take it all home with me. I wanted to read. I wanted to pick out books that I could read later. I wanted to write. I wanted to discover new writers. I was pulled in a hundred different directions at the same time I was firmly planted in one spot, smoldering until I could contain my flame an inch a little farther down the aisle. The library is a special place for me; as special as church and theatres. It's a place I know that God exists, not because of some logical conclusion, but because I can feel it with every fiber of my being. It is a special place, but I can't stay there forever. I can't always go when I want to. Oftentimes I have to wait much longer than I plan to get back.
For some Christians, it is difficult to be devout Monday through Saturday. Without the voices of the choir, the boom of the head minister, the amiable interaction with the neighbors on your left and your right, the incredible wonders of the world that you're so grateful for fade away among the hustle and bustle of everyday life. The ardent love and optimism are lost to the drudgery of their very own 9-5. By the time Saturday night rolls around, all they can do is thank God Sunday service is on its way. When I get back to church, they say, I can fellowship and worship. The job and the family and the friends won't seem so bad. Life will be what it ought to be again. When I get back to the library, I say, I'll get things done. I won't feel suffocated by the deafening silence or utterly alone in a group of people. All of my goals and aspirations will be feasible again and I can lose myself in as many strange lands as I like till closing time. Until then, I sit home, I go about my routine, and I miss the magic. Separated from my sanctuary, I feel farther from my self-actualization. It's a struggle every day to remember and acknowledge that I am the temple. And so I pray.
We're taught at a very early age that books open doors of the imagination, allowing us to explore unknown worlds and uninvestigated concepts. I realized in standing among so many "doors" that each aisle was akin to a long hallway and every cover a window; a brief but tantalizing glimpse into the world those pages hold. It was at once thrilling and overwhelming to peer into these windows and see such incredible places. I had limited time and could only explore a few, but I could feel the potency of the worlds that surrounded me as keenly as if I'd put my hand to the door of a room on fire. I was on fire; quietly burning inside with both good and bad anxiety. I wanted to never leave. I wanted to take it all home with me. I wanted to read. I wanted to pick out books that I could read later. I wanted to write. I wanted to discover new writers. I was pulled in a hundred different directions at the same time I was firmly planted in one spot, smoldering until I could contain my flame an inch a little farther down the aisle. The library is a special place for me; as special as church and theatres. It's a place I know that God exists, not because of some logical conclusion, but because I can feel it with every fiber of my being. It is a special place, but I can't stay there forever. I can't always go when I want to. Oftentimes I have to wait much longer than I plan to get back.
For some Christians, it is difficult to be devout Monday through Saturday. Without the voices of the choir, the boom of the head minister, the amiable interaction with the neighbors on your left and your right, the incredible wonders of the world that you're so grateful for fade away among the hustle and bustle of everyday life. The ardent love and optimism are lost to the drudgery of their very own 9-5. By the time Saturday night rolls around, all they can do is thank God Sunday service is on its way. When I get back to church, they say, I can fellowship and worship. The job and the family and the friends won't seem so bad. Life will be what it ought to be again. When I get back to the library, I say, I'll get things done. I won't feel suffocated by the deafening silence or utterly alone in a group of people. All of my goals and aspirations will be feasible again and I can lose myself in as many strange lands as I like till closing time. Until then, I sit home, I go about my routine, and I miss the magic. Separated from my sanctuary, I feel farther from my self-actualization. It's a struggle every day to remember and acknowledge that I am the temple. And so I pray.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Status Quo
So, I have decided to write a blog. In making this decision, I fully understand that it must come with some degree of conceit. I mean, who am I to assume that more than one person on the planet will care either way about anything I choose to post? Writer though I claim to be, the fact that kept me from doing this a long time ago was, when it comes to my own life, I have very little material. Most bloggers write about the things they’ve done and in all honesty, I don’t really do anything; certainly nothing noteworthy. I feared if I did choose to blog about myself, it would eventually just become a medium to vent my frustrations, my annoyances, a forum for things that no one, including myself, really wants to hear. And just when I’d accepted that I would all too often have nothing to report, I was blessed with something to report.
I, inexperienced, underqualified, infantile Akia Sembly, have a job. And not just any job either; a job that I actually want more for the experience than the money; a job that I can use as a foundation for circles I plan on moving in for the rest of my life…I hope I don’t sound too excited. I’d hate to fool my invisible audience into thinking I scored a show. No, on that front, I am as unemployed as I ever was. My journey to the Tonys and beyond has not yet made its step into the professional realm. I did however land a place with Fund for the Public Interest, a non-profit organization focused on lobbying (feel free to give me a better word) for issues that affect the masses, not just special interest groups. In essence, I’ll be campaigning for people to get involved. Think Obama campaign, only more for things than persons. Fun, yes? Exciting, yes? Jump start for when I go into public office, yes? Indeed, wonderful things to tend to come in threes. I submit that this is a good thing, no matter what anyone says.
I have been majorly bummed since finding out our camp endeavor fell through. Even though it wasn’t my idea, even though I wasn’t looking forward to the weight on my shoulders, even though I was terrified about screwing up, it was a great opportunity to have a unique experience and work with children (which I love) and make some money (which I need) and grow and mature both personally and artistically. I was so resigned to what my summer would be and determined to make the most out of it, I was shattered when I found out that it wasn’t going to be the picture I had painted in my mind. Today would have been my first day putting rose-colored lenses on the eyes of little ones who never before realized that there is so much more to art than what they see on TV. I was supposed to be Ms. Akia today, the woman who happily and patiently led my little recruits down the rabbit hole into the wonderland over which they would soon be stewards. Of course when I woke up this morning, I was none of those things. I overslept once again and all around was solid concrete that I had no chance of penetrating. It started raining soon after I went outside, my mother was working on the main level, I didn’t have enough music with me and I had no idea which book to tackle next. Not the makings of a good day. Finally, like all the desperate youth of my generation, I turned to my computer for solace, eventually finding one of my tabs open to craigslist. Doubtful though I was that many people would be looking to hire someone who couldn’t start before the second of June and would be unavailable after late August, I threw a bone to the hopeful side (or rather, the side that doesn’t want my idleness to be completely my fault) of my psyche and gandered at an interesting-looking ad. I actually first saw it a week ago, but I didn’t want to apply and get an interview only to be up in the mountains when they called. It looked like they still wanted someone and I definitely still needed a job so I went ahead and called, not really knowing what this group was about. It only took a brief phone call to get me very interested in what they are about and very happy that they were looking for young people like me; not experienced, but very devout. Unfortunately, my mother didn’t share my enthusiasm. It wasn’t until several hours later that I had convinced her to (reluctantly) take me (that license is still on my to-do list) downtown for my interview. Now, I am not one to hold my breath. I know very well how much brain-damage that can cause, especially when there’s a position for which a lot of people apply and there isn’t too great a demand which is often the case with not-for-profit companies. That being the case, I didn’t allow myself to feel my growing excitement until I was back in the hallway an hour later with an information packet in hand and an invitation to start training on Monday! Woohoo! says Akia’s brain. “Are you sure this thing is legit?” asks Tavalyn. *sigh* Thanks for the enthusiasm, Mom. Fortunately for me, I have unlimited texting and can find several friends to be properly animated in her stead. Like many endeavors important to me, this little step is peanuts to her. But whatevs. I’m just gonna pull a GW Carver on her. This job means something.
In The Sound of Music, Maria said that when God closes one door, somewhere He opens a window (yes I know other people have said that too, but I love me some Julie Andrews). Well this is my window and while the sun sets, my window is facing due west. Although in any continuous narrative, the characters are in some constant state of change, the beginning of every show is triggered when something major changes; something big enough to alter the status quo. In Gilmore Girls it was Rory being accepted into Chilton. In Make It or Break It it was Emily’s coming to The Rock. In Robert Langdon’s adventures it was the phone call from Kholer. This, my first job, a job that really means something to me, in the summer I mean to become most active in my theatre work and end up being as mediocre as before…I have to say it’s a change. It isn’t world-changing, what I’m doing, but it is something to be proud of. I have reason to believe I may have just altered my own status quo. I have high hopes that by the end of this summer, I won’t even miss camp.
I, inexperienced, underqualified, infantile Akia Sembly, have a job. And not just any job either; a job that I actually want more for the experience than the money; a job that I can use as a foundation for circles I plan on moving in for the rest of my life…I hope I don’t sound too excited. I’d hate to fool my invisible audience into thinking I scored a show. No, on that front, I am as unemployed as I ever was. My journey to the Tonys and beyond has not yet made its step into the professional realm. I did however land a place with Fund for the Public Interest, a non-profit organization focused on lobbying (feel free to give me a better word) for issues that affect the masses, not just special interest groups. In essence, I’ll be campaigning for people to get involved. Think Obama campaign, only more for things than persons. Fun, yes? Exciting, yes? Jump start for when I go into public office, yes? Indeed, wonderful things to tend to come in threes. I submit that this is a good thing, no matter what anyone says.
I have been majorly bummed since finding out our camp endeavor fell through. Even though it wasn’t my idea, even though I wasn’t looking forward to the weight on my shoulders, even though I was terrified about screwing up, it was a great opportunity to have a unique experience and work with children (which I love) and make some money (which I need) and grow and mature both personally and artistically. I was so resigned to what my summer would be and determined to make the most out of it, I was shattered when I found out that it wasn’t going to be the picture I had painted in my mind. Today would have been my first day putting rose-colored lenses on the eyes of little ones who never before realized that there is so much more to art than what they see on TV. I was supposed to be Ms. Akia today, the woman who happily and patiently led my little recruits down the rabbit hole into the wonderland over which they would soon be stewards. Of course when I woke up this morning, I was none of those things. I overslept once again and all around was solid concrete that I had no chance of penetrating. It started raining soon after I went outside, my mother was working on the main level, I didn’t have enough music with me and I had no idea which book to tackle next. Not the makings of a good day. Finally, like all the desperate youth of my generation, I turned to my computer for solace, eventually finding one of my tabs open to craigslist. Doubtful though I was that many people would be looking to hire someone who couldn’t start before the second of June and would be unavailable after late August, I threw a bone to the hopeful side (or rather, the side that doesn’t want my idleness to be completely my fault) of my psyche and gandered at an interesting-looking ad. I actually first saw it a week ago, but I didn’t want to apply and get an interview only to be up in the mountains when they called. It looked like they still wanted someone and I definitely still needed a job so I went ahead and called, not really knowing what this group was about. It only took a brief phone call to get me very interested in what they are about and very happy that they were looking for young people like me; not experienced, but very devout. Unfortunately, my mother didn’t share my enthusiasm. It wasn’t until several hours later that I had convinced her to (reluctantly) take me (that license is still on my to-do list) downtown for my interview. Now, I am not one to hold my breath. I know very well how much brain-damage that can cause, especially when there’s a position for which a lot of people apply and there isn’t too great a demand which is often the case with not-for-profit companies. That being the case, I didn’t allow myself to feel my growing excitement until I was back in the hallway an hour later with an information packet in hand and an invitation to start training on Monday! Woohoo! says Akia’s brain. “Are you sure this thing is legit?” asks Tavalyn. *sigh* Thanks for the enthusiasm, Mom. Fortunately for me, I have unlimited texting and can find several friends to be properly animated in her stead. Like many endeavors important to me, this little step is peanuts to her. But whatevs. I’m just gonna pull a GW Carver on her. This job means something.
In The Sound of Music, Maria said that when God closes one door, somewhere He opens a window (yes I know other people have said that too, but I love me some Julie Andrews). Well this is my window and while the sun sets, my window is facing due west. Although in any continuous narrative, the characters are in some constant state of change, the beginning of every show is triggered when something major changes; something big enough to alter the status quo. In Gilmore Girls it was Rory being accepted into Chilton. In Make It or Break It it was Emily’s coming to The Rock. In Robert Langdon’s adventures it was the phone call from Kholer. This, my first job, a job that really means something to me, in the summer I mean to become most active in my theatre work and end up being as mediocre as before…I have to say it’s a change. It isn’t world-changing, what I’m doing, but it is something to be proud of. I have reason to believe I may have just altered my own status quo. I have high hopes that by the end of this summer, I won’t even miss camp.
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