Make It or Break It

I'm very picky about my choice in shows worthy of following steadily. My schedule doesn't allow for a great deal of frivolity during the school year and I hesitate to invest more interest in following the path of someone else's life rather than living my own. Considering my tendency to lean towards suspenseful dramas and my chronic irritation with teenagers, it was not my expectation to be into a show like Make It or  Break It, if for no other reason than its being picked up by ABC Family, the station that's known for bringing such hits as The Secret Life of the American Teenager and Greek. From what I understand of ABC Family, it's the station that Disney Channel lovers go to when they realize that they might be getting too old for Hannah Montana, but would rather not seek out a show of substance. And yet I found myself, more often than I would imagine, stationed in front of a television at nine (eight central) on Monday evenings, waiting to see what fate had befallen the Rock Girls.
 Something about my affection for gymnastics and my boredom on the day that happened to be the series premier left me sitting in front of the television watching Stick It! the movie that was supposed to get us excited about this hip new show. The movie wasn't excruciating if I just ignored the crap that happened in between the gymnastics, so I figured the couch could bear my weight for another hour while I gave ABC Family's latest attempt at originality a fair shot.
The premise of the story is not incredibly remarkable. Rather than the typical cluster of lockers and classrooms, and elite gym is the major background for the ensuing drama among a tiny drove of teenaged girls and their parents. You have Lauren, the catty blonde who always gets her way from Daddy, Kaylie, the sweet popular girl who allows distractions to interfere with her drive, and Payson, the ultrafocused overachiever who won't let anything stop her. The course of their lives is altered minutely but significantly by the arrival of a shabby, unpolished scholarship recipient with a strong sob story and amazing potential: Emily Kmetko.  I sat, I watched, I thought, and by the time ten o'clock rolled around, I wanted more. I wanted to see what happened next. I will give the writers kudos for coming up with a very intriguing end to the pilot. It was curiosity about where they would be able to take it from there, more than anything else, that led me to tune in again. In addition to it being about gymnasts, it surprised me and I wondered how long they would be able to keep surprising me.
For seven weeks they held my attention. Seven weeks and I came to care about what would happen next, not just out of literary curiosity, but out of concern for the lives of these fictional characters. Seven weeks and I kept coming back; watching faithfully nearly every Monday night. In those seven weeks, I became familiar with the characters, had chosen favorites, and was able to make predictions about what should happen and what likely would happen. In seven weeks, I decided to make this one of "my shows". It wasn't quite as popular as most stupid ABCFamily shows and went on hiatus last summer rather than being picked up for another season. I was angry, more for the caliber of shows that the network held onto in comparison, and I was ready to mourn my one and only young girl's drama.
Now, the continuous whining on teens and tweens seems to have finally paid off as the show has been picked up for a third season just in time to get the Rock girls to the 2012 Olympics. I was disappointed with the way that they ended their last season, even though I knew a good deal of it was because they thought it would be the very end, but I look forward to the writers' attempt to pull themselves out of the hole that they dug. It will be nice to have those kids to root for again.

Call It Providence

I'm sleepy. I've been sleepy for the past five weeks and am still behind. I struck for Xanadu on Sunday and on Monday evening, I was on my way to Quincy to sell my soul to another director for another six weeks, this time with a half-hour commute and the challenge of Sondheim. I did okay, nothing spectacular, but enough to get a callback, and that's really all you can hope for in an audition, right? Callbacks come, and I still do okay, and when the time comes to make the first cuts, I'm dismissed. Now I'm sad.

I have recently accepted the fact that I will forever be in an abusive relationship with musical theatre. It tears me up, it puts me down, it throws me to the side, but still, all I want is for it to embrace me. All it takes is a little implication that my love isn't worthless and I'm back at it again. The rehearsal process for Xanadu was hell for me, but when I was walking home on Sunday night, all I wanted was to go back to that theatre. I couldn't wait to have more songs to sing, more moves to learn, more moments to create. I shouldn't have auditioned for Into the Woods. I had already acknowledged that it would be stupid to do two musicals in one semester with no real break in between, that I would probably be banging my head against the wall in just a couple of weeks if I ended up going through with it, but I had to go. I had to reach out for another chance to be a part of the magic. Now the magic has faded and I don't have any more, and I'm having the hardest time convincing myself that it's okay.

A smarter person wouldn't be sad. If I were smart, I'd remember that I'm taking 16 hours and behind in most of my classes with finals looming not too far ahead. I'd realize that this free time means a chance to actually comprehend what's going on in French, instead of just arranging letters the way I think they're supposed to go. I would remind myself that the deadline to submit for SETC is only a month away, FTC only a week and a half away, and mock trial tryouts less than a week. A less selfish person wouldn't be sad. A less selfish person would consider the job she has promised to be available for after leaving the crew hanging during homecoming week and the organization she's supposed to be helping to move forward. A more sensible person would use this knowledge to plan her next few weeks knowing that she'll have a good deal more free time and look forward to the opportunity to finally go to the dance classes she paid for. A more mature Akia would recognize that there are numerous factors that go into casting that don't reflect talent or skill and can't be helped. I am none of those things.

I am a stupid, selfish, childish girl (not unlike Little Red Riding Hood) who cannot see any of the positive things that will come from my not being caught up in this show. Nor can I recall any of the positive feedback I've gotten from members of the production team in the past year. I cannot bring myself to acknowledge what a compliment it is to be called back for such a demanding show or how supportive the people who knew me at auditions were when I had to perform. All I can see is how badly I want to do this show. All I can feel is how hurt I am that I was rejected and how disappointed I am that I wasn't deemed worthy to take the journey into the woods.

I'm freaking out right now

School starts next week. That dreadful countdown between when I have all the potential that comes with having lots of time and having my time constantly absorbed by classes and the overwhelming extracurriculars that have me pulling my hair out near Thanksgiving. The countdown is by no means made less stressful by the necessity to attend to matters other than the ticking of the clock. It's almsot laughable to me that my fretting at the moment is in anticipation of what will happen when I "really" get busy.
I have a job. Significant things have changed as a result of my having a job. I'm eligible for food stamps, which may just be the determining factor in whether I graduate college shoulders deep in debt. I get a paycheck, which will eventually allow me to spare cash for frivolous expenses (like Zaxby's!) during the school year once my financial aid kicks in. I have consistently had goals and responsibilities set throughout this summer in addition to the arbitrary ones I set for myself, for which I'm never held accountable. I am blessed enough to have an occupation on campus which I can reach in under ten minutes by bus and which is not only financially sound, but mentally rewarding. These are all good things. These are the reasons I love my job. These are the matters of which I've had to constantly remind myself over the past week as my "break" before classes start has come to be the source of mounting anxiety. It took four separate painstaking attempts to make my work schedule feasible around my class schedule and I'm still waiting with baited breath to find out whether it will be approved. After all of my efforts, the best I could manage was a work week saturated from the morning (as early as 8:30) to the evening (as late as 6:30) with either work or classes.
I was, at least, fortunate enough to have my class schedule finalized before classes actually started, a first in my college career. (It's a testament to my own insanity that I was first dissatisfied when I saw that my schedule would only allow me to take 16 of the maximum 18 credit hours per semester.) As grateful as I am for those classes, I'm well aware of how gruelling they are going to be. I wouldn't mind this rigor (on the contrary, I'd embrace it) if it weren't for the fact that I'm not going to be finished when I finish my work day or my school day. There will still be homework. There will still be rehearsal. There will still be LSATs to practice for and papers to write, trips to plan and applications to fill out. At present, there's not a break in sight. The only break that I'm seriously looking for is between now and Monday. It would eb really great if I had a day with no pressure, no auditions, no appointments, no deadlines. That's not going to happen. Between generals starting up this weekend and the arrival of this new resident, it seems my interim will be break free. Therefore, I am freaking out.

Progress Report

It's halfway through the summer of ending status quo and I find I can't hold off any longer on making a status check. Here I am in the second decade of my life, and what have I got to show for it? It's a question I'm always afraid to ask myself, but it comes to a point that it cannot be helped. If ever I'm to reach that moment of self-actualization where I can wake up and say that I'm happy, that I don't want anything more, I must first ask myself what I want and if I have it.
I gave myself a lofty list of things to accomplish this summer at the close of spring semester. Rather than "goals", I called it my "summer agenda" hoping my new diction would turn these items into things I had no choice but to accomplish. Going down the list...my agenda has not even come close to being fulfilled. The things I was determined to do when the summer started, things I felt I had to do when I wrote them down, lest I be an absolute failure, are largely undone and the ticking of the clock is getting more and more audible. I am aware that the summer is winding down and it makes me nervous.
I'm nervous, but I'm not panicking. I have two fantastic things to show for my summer: my job and my show. I started work the same day that we had our first rehearsal for Sweet Charity, so that Monday had a very "first day of the rest of your life" air about it (at least for me). That was weeks ago and while, on one hand, it seems like forever because this routine has grown so familiar to me, it feels on the other hand like I'm just getting started. There's so much more I'll get out of both.
 I love my job. I really do. I look forward to going to work every morning, seeing my colleagues and being useful to students. I'm glad when I walk out the door that I got out of bed that day. I feel proud to finally be earning money to help support myself without my means of income being determined by need. What I get at the Writing Center is mine and no one is going to start laying claim to it come 2015. And my having this job, this notch under my belt, means I won't be totally groundless when I ask people to hire me while I try to do my actor kid thing, which I can't neglect no matter what. I'm extremely glad that I took the leap of faith to do Sweet Charity in Quincy. My average is up to two shows a school year, I've branched out into another medium and I've gotten to meet new people, which is never a bad thing. I'm still not a good dancer, but there is enough physical activity in the show (be it dancing or being enthusiastically stoned) that I can call myself "active". Hopefully, I'll develop some endurance by the time the run is over. Between Sweet Charity and the Writing Center, I've come up with a pretty decent summer. Twenty hours at work and eighteen hours at rehearsal isn't a bad way to sum up a week. Still, as happy as I am with those two aspects of my life, I can't deny how much room for improvement there is.

I've sold one set of CUTCO and been to one Vector meeting. I told myself that I wouldn't go to a paycheck meeting until I'd sold something, but even after I did, I had no desire to go there and didn't put much effort into trying to find a ride. I didn't see much point in fighting for it after I got a job that pays regular-like, but the half-hearted attempts at making contacts has lately faded into nothing. I have yet to work through one solo. I might cheat and count all of the songs I've learned for Sweet Charity, but that would hardly improve my repertoire, which was the point. Because I've spent so much time in rehearsal, I haven't made it to dance class much since I got cast. It's not a bad excuse. We do have boot camps and dance rehearsals, but the things I need to work on often get lost in the counts. I have read a few plays, heard some good music, learned a few songs and had a few occasions to find myself outside of my dwelling without any particular purpose. If I were fifteen years old, with all the limitations of my teenaged years, if I were seventeen, with the delicate fence between child and adult to straddle, if I were eighteen, with four years of college to look forward to and a clean slate to work with...I'd be quite satisfied with myself at this point. As it is, I'm twenty. I'm not a kid and I'm not a teenager and I've passed all of those phases already. At this juncture, it isn't quite enough for me. I will justify not learning how to drive with the convenient excuse that I have not had a teacher. If that goal remains unfulfilled when the end of August comes around so be it. But how can I account for my dozen unfinished blog posts or my seeming inability to choose a research topic? Those things, I know, can be remedied in the coming days. And so they will. If someone was to ask me at this point how my summer is going, I could sincerely say, "Not bad." I am enjoying myself for the most part and it is a vast improvement compared to summers of old. As I say when I'm looking over drafts, we're off to a very good start (me myself and I). Now it's time to see what good a little tweaking will do.

Poor Judd

There is a huge difference of opinion in the realm of American musical theatre scholars which was the beginning of the contemporary musical theatre form. we know and love today. In one corner, you will find the statement with absolute conviction that there are two kinds of musicals: the ones before Showboat and the ones after Showboat. In the other corner, the more modern lovers of classic musical theatre will turn to the much-lauded "Rogers and Hammerstein miracle" which was inaugurated with the opening of Oklahoma! a musical of such proportion that it's title is not complete without an exclamation mark. Both were huge landmarks in the evolution of the genre that serves as a medium for my life and both will always be favorites of mine, but, upon serious reflection, I have to concede victory to Oklahoma! for its sophistication and truth. The veritas of Oklahoma! is unique, not because of its care to paint a realistic picture of life on the territory at the beginning of the twentieth century (though I enjoy it all the same), but because of its consideration to give the villain some dimension beyond that of "the bad guy".
I remember being asked in my high school literature class when we were reading The Merchant of Venice if I held any sympathy for Shylock, the antagonist who ended up losing everything. My initial answer was a decided "no".  What good is a villain if you have to feel sorry for him? Furthermore, how can you cheer for the protagonist if you know that said protagonist's victory will be at the expense of someone with whom you sympathize? Those questions were my answer, and it made sense at the time, but Shuler Hensley's (freaking brilliant!) portrayal of Judd Fry made it all too clear to me that it's not so simple.
As actors, we have to remember that every character is his own protagonist and no realistic portrayal will be completely self-deprecating. To the popular gang lead by Antonio and Bassanio, Shylock is the greedy Jew (Jews are bad) who deserves no more consideration than a dog, but to himself, he's just a man; a man whose malice has been nurtured by cruelty at the hands of his neighbors and whose capacity for affection has been stunted by his rejection at the hands of his offspring. Should we, the audience, forget all that he's been through just because he threatens our heroes? Should we ignore his entreaties to see him as a human being because he's spoken of badly by the others? Should we be happy that he falls because it makes the other characters happy? Or should we remember the misery that garnering a happy ending entailed? Amongst all the catchy tunes and cheerful dancing, Oklahoma! reminds us that every comedy is at least one person's tragedy.
In some ways, Judd Fry's situation in the opening is more pitiable than Shylock's because he didn't even have the comfort of indulging in material things. Where Shylock put what was left of himself into prosperity, the only investment Judd could make is with his heart. Lonely man though he is, he reconizes that his ill treatment and poverty would be remedied if he could just acquire that one companion. It's just his dumb luck that the girl he sets his eyes on to be that companion is afraid of him. Laurie doesn't understand that the pictures he buys and his aggression are his only means of defense against the complete dispair that isolation can bring.  He discards the hopes of finding joy in trinkets when he shouts at the peddlar man "I want real things!" but he can't let go of the anger that comes when he doesn't get what he wants any more than he can let go of her. He makes threats about if Laurie changes her mind about going to the box social with him, but it's in retaliation to the threat that he feels when Curly says that he'll take her. Curly himself is handsome and charming and has no inhibitions in his life. He has everything that Judd wants and still insists on taking this one last thing. Is it any surprise that the poor man snaps? Is it any wonder that a man, ridiculed and ostracized by every society he's encountered hits a point where he decides that enough is enough and he'll take what the world has refused to give? All I heard about Judd when I watched Okalahoma! was his growly disposition. All I saw was his pain.
I don't know what Oscar Hammerstein was thinking when he came up with Poor Judd Is Daid, but I can't imagine a better way to show the audience the tragic nature of Judd's situation. There is nothing more pathetic than looking forward to your own funeral in hopes that people will appreciate you more in death than they did in life (perhaps these high profile suicides make more sense after all...). There is nothing more unfortunate that a loveable character letting his darkest colors seep through as he mocks a man consumed enough by his loneliness to listen to the funeral's description with pleasure. In the end, when poor Judd actually does die, there is no lamenting the way they treated him in his life. The tears shed are only for the inconvenience of having to deal with his death and any recognition of his humanity is put off in order to celebrate the happiness of the people who shunned him. Our hero kills a man with no remorse and the world doesn't even bother to make him go through the justice system. The happy ending had the stench of a rotting corpse over it and no one noticed. They celebrated for Curly and Laurie. I weep for Judd.

The leap of faith thing...I'm still doin it.

I'm thinking about starting a blog that's just about Make It or Break It so that I can resolve my conflicting feelings about that show while it's in limbo without mixing it in with anecdotes about CUTCO and complaining about my life. That is not what this post is about, but I thought of a great example for the decision to do things that may have negative consequences from that show. Payson's parents don't want her to take endorsement money for fear of her not being able to pay for college and when they bring up their hesitation to gamble with their daughter's future, Alex points out that they are gambling with her life every time they let her do a trick or enter a competition. When your life is a big gamble, you shouldn't feel squeamish about making one wager.

I am a thespian. I decided to be an actor knowing how uncertain such an industry is. I decided to major in theatre with the full knowledge that there's nothing else you can do with a theatre degree and I decided to go to a school with a so-so program that doesn't have a reputation for turning out big names rather than stay close to home with a strong liberal arts house. I've pretty much guaranteed that my life will always be topsy turvy unless I switch to philosophy, go to law school and spend the rest of my life getting degrees that qualify me to talk down to people. I could make this a lot easier on myself but I haven't and I won't in those capacities, so what's keeping me from taking more minor leaps? By this point in my life, I shouldn't be held back for fear of falling; not when the life I've chosen requires me to fly.

And so here goes my time to jump in. Here I am in Tallahassee, hardly a booming metropolis, but a place with opportunities enough that those who seek them will find them. Yes, I paid for dance classes at two different facilities weeks before I will have an income and I currently can't afford to buy groceries but I had nice lines and I'm growing as an artist...and I could afford to cut back on my eats. No, I don't have another ride lined up for Quincy, but I had a great time at auditions and I anticipate lots of awesome people with cars being in the show and the majority of rehearsals are going to be in Tallahassee anyway. Admittedly, CUTCO is not the ideal job for an immobile youth with few connections, but I got through my first appointment and a decent set of recommendations and I have all summer to test out whatb they promise we'll all get if we just work at it. I'm...climbing. I'm not flying yet but I'm getting closer and getting stronger and every day that I remember what is not promised but can be, I have the opportunity to soar a little higher.

Getting out of bed is a gamble. Who's to say that this day will be as good as yesterday or not as bad? Every obstacle that existed yesterday is still there, sometimes higher and firmer. That's probably my biggest reason for sleeping in so often. It's a big scary world out there and my bed may not be the comfiest, but at least it's safe. Safe is alright. But life could be better. Life could be incredible. Life could be...good.

Jump!...or not

I really wanted to write an inspirational post about how taking a leap of faith is a good thing and it's all you have to do sometimes in order for things to work in your favor. I was going to have the perfect example. My handicapped stall, who said she'd call me back an never did is presumably not busy...either that or she's on facebook at work. I know this, because I am staring at the little green circle on her profile. I decided, against the rumbly in my tumbly, that it wouldn't hurt to give her a follow-up call. She probably forgot. She probably got caught up in something and doesn't know her schedule. She probably will be properly contrite at not calling me back like she said she would and then agree to make an appointment for 11:30 tomorrow morning. Okay, I thought, I'll do it.

There is typically more time than necessary between me deciding to do something I don't want to do and the action itself. In this case, I was strong enough to pick up the phone after only a few minutes with the help of The Book of Mormon playing in my head and an image of her daughter swimming. Between those two, I was only mildly nauseous as I punched her name in my phone. I braced myself for the bemused "Hello?" and...nothing. She didn't answer. She's closer to a computer than she is to her phone apparently, because it rang several times before going to voicemail. I hung up. I did not leave a message. I accomplished...nothing.

Well kids, what have we learned? Sometimes you jump and you just don't have the momentum to get over the cliff. Either because you're not ready or because the terrain isn't what you expected it to be, sometimes you end up neither falling to your doom nor reaching great heights. And sometimes you end up wondering if the mountains are even real. Sometimes it's right to stay in the same place for awhile. And even if it's not the best things, it isn't necessary to look at things in the worst light. Maybe I should've written about doing risky things before taking this particular risk. I wouldn't have been at a loss for reference points. Then again, maybe excluding a minor yet significant risk on my part would have been an act of cowardice sufficient to deem the whole post pointless. The phone call seems pointless. No one answered and no one knows why I called. Maybe she'll see the missed call in her log and remember that she was supposed to call me. Or maybe she'll be like me and only think the call mattered if there was a message. Maybe this trend of uncertainty is the problem I have with such situations...nah, that's a definite. Finally, a definite. I feel like I'm at the top of a very steep hill and I don't know where to go from here. On one hand, it's a beautiful place to be. On the other hand, I can't very well stay up here forever. Where do I go from here?

It sounds like you just want to be an actor.

I am a very ambitious person. I want to do many things with my life. I want to be rich enough to be considered a philanthropist. I want to perform in ridiculously expensive musicals in huge union houses that require true triple threat clout and star power. I want to snatch a seat in Congress and sponsor legislation that helps people who don't know what they can do to make their lives better. I want to travel. I want to write great books. I want to do great things. I want to be great things. I want I want I want. I want to be more than I am. My goals are lofty and childish and largely incompatible. Presumably, I would find more success if I focused on one thing, but it's hard to say if sticking to that one thing would leave me most fulfilled.

As the ticking on my biological clock becomes more and more ominous, the prospect of what I'll be when I grow up becomes more a fear than a hope. I knew I wanted to be an actress when I was six and I've more rejections than marks on my resume. I decided I would be a writer when I was seven and it's all I can do to beat out a coherent blog post. I haven't given up yet, but who's to say that, ten or twelve years from now, that decision will still be up to me? It's a staggering foretaste that my wanting too much will be the principle means of my acquiring so little. Because fear is so often my primary motivator, it's no surprise that my thoughts have steered toward what my principle occupation would be if it came to that.

There were times when, while I was working with one of my tutoring charges or trying to calm a large group of kids, I would think, "I can do this. I could spend the majority of my time doing this if I had to." I've found that I would be "okay" with being a teacher; sharing what I know with eager young whippersnappers on a daily basis and gaining insight into the progress of human nature. I've always been able to see myself in a courtroom. I love the theatrics of the court and relish the opportunity to make a case; to make a difference. I could be a lawyer and make barrels of money fighting or a go into politics and do pretty much the same thing, with a little pandering every four to six years. I could be...could I be a writer? When I was in single digits there was not question, but ever since my junior year in high school I've found myself doubting every time I put pen to paper. Maybe writing will only ever be something I like to do on the side. (But what good is writing if no one reads what you put out? This will require further reflection on another day.) Between my passion for the performing arts and my left-brained disposition, I could totally do theatre. Sure, performing depends on making directors and producers like you, but there's always stage managing and teching and administrative work. I could probably see to it that whatever I do serves theatre in some way. If I look at the things I would like to do, I would like to do them regardless of whether I can do something else. But if I look at the things I have to do...it gets tricky.

For the whole of my theatre education, it's been stressed to me how important it is to be able to do something besides act. Actors get famous, but techies get paid. Actors might not get a part for superficial reasons, but a stage manager's not going to be rejected for having the wrong look or age. It isn't sensible for an actor to be just one thing. Now all of a sudden, it seems it would serve me better to choose. I spoke about how musical theatre is my favorite in a talk with our guest director and, following my explanation, he responded that, "it sounds like you just want to be an actor." He ignored my earlier protestation that I love all aspects of theatre and continued to assure us as he went around the room that the other stuff would come. It was in our best interest, according to him, to find that one thing we wanted to do and do it. This was the thing I took from that workshop. Our teacher charged us before we began to find what came to us in this time that we could use immediately. His revelation came at my like a freight train, but it's been months and I still don't know what to do with it.

"I want to be an actor" makes so much more sense to me than "I just want to be an actor". I don't want to be "just" anything. Bill Gates isn't "just" the founder of Microsoft. Donald Trump isn't "just" a douchebag. People don't find success by deciding that they can only do one thing by not doing anything else. What would happen if I just majored in philosophy and just went to law school and just occasionally did theatre stuff when I found the time? What would happen if I just did my shows and sang my songs and auditioned all the time and just got a day job? What would happen if I just went to work for my mother and just moved up the ranks through leasing and just let my aspirations stop at Candler Road?

I would probably survive. I would probably be just fine. But it would definitely not be enough. I would not be enough. I really don't know how to live without somehow pursuing everything of significance to me. I don't want to survive. I want to live!

Why Did I Get Up?

This morning was my first official day as a CUTCO sales rep once more. I went to bed last night determined to be up and ready at seven this morning with my phone in hand and my "friend approach" ready, even though the people on my list had probably heard this approach about a zillion times. In anticipation of having to get up, my body actually chose to end my circadian cycle shortly after six and I found myself staring at my phone several times between then and seven waiting for phone time to come up. In the time that it took for my alarm to catch up with my biological clock, I had a chance to worry about things that had been hitherto pushed aside: namely, would anyone want to answer their phone at this hour? We were told to make call between seven fifteen and eight thirty to maximize chances of getting in tough with the average customer, but these weren't "average" people I was calling. These were theatre people who lived on nights and weekends and whose days varied one from another as much as the colors in a bag of skittles. My fear of bothering anyone led me to delay making any calls and, instead of killing time by reviewing numbers or going over my approach...I just stared at the phone some more. Probably not a good idea since, by the time I mustered the courage to call my first customer, I realized that I didn't actually have her phone number. I scanned my list over and over looking for her name and it was nowhere to be found. I couldn't believe it. I refused to believe it. I was so deep in denial that, rather than try to get in touch with her online, I trashed my room, sure that somehow ten numerals with her name beside them would magically appear if I only made a big enough mess...it didn't and I finally had the sense to email her asking for her number...then I waited. Despite my having wasted a good deal of time already, it was still within the recommended call time. I could've just gotten on the phone to see if I could make some other appointments in the meantime. Accept...you know how you get used to always going for the handicapped stall in the public restroom because it just feels right, and even though another stall is shown to be more sanitary, you really don't feel right not using the handicapped stall? Abby was my handicapped stall. So, rather than salvage the time I had with the few contacts I had, I went back and forth between facebook and my emails in hopes that she's one of those people who gets emails on her phone and replies right away. She didn't. I did eventually break down and try to call other people. None of them answered. It was after eight at this point and I had to wonder if these people hadn't answered because I'd called too early or called too late. In any case, by the time I went through my short list, I was out of time and had not even a complete call to show for my troubles.

This is what I got up for this morning. I got up to make phone calls and get in a couple of appointments to make my start. I got up so that I would be farther along this afternoon that I was this morning. I got up because I thought when I began my day that I would be able to make it a good day. My getting up was for naught, it seemed. I sat in my room with my phone in hand, my blue notebook ready, and wondered what I was supposed to do with myself now. I still had an entire day ahead of me and all I wanted to do was go to bed.

This morning was the earliest I've gotten up all summer. I sometimes wake up at odd hours, but this morning I woke up conscious of the time and place and chose to start my day before seven a.m. Granted, "start my day" ended up translating to "brushing my teeth and staring at the phone for a couple of hours", but I got out of bed with the expectation that I was doing so for a reason; the notion that getting up and doing something would work out better for me than rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. I thought wrong. I finally overcome my tendency to be lax and I end up holding a phone to my ear listening to another outgoing message, that CUTCO smile still frozen on my face in hopes that this positoovity kool aid they're selling will actually do me some good. Only a couple of hours into the day, I find myself questioning if getting to this place was really worth getting out of bed for and preferring a nap to the answer. Resigned, I set my alarm for 9:30, crawled back into bed and tried to disregard my disappointment for awhile. When I got up again, rather than hopeful prospects to check, I had my trashy room to deal with and my growling tummy to satisfy. Of course I had other things to do. There are always other things to do. But my day was no longer made of what I would make out of it. It was reduced to a series of obligations and a countdown until I could go back to bed with the hopes that tomorrow would be better.

It's days like this that make it so hard for me not to want that extra fifteen minutes after my alarm goes off. With all the drudgery and disappointment that today tends to bring, I'd much prefer to hide out until tomorrow. What is it that makes most of us get up every morning? Is it anticipation of a particular event, like a dance class, or a necessity to accomplish a task, like making a series of phone calls? Or is it like mine was today: a grudging acceptance that leaving the bed is necessary to survival? I wish it were more. I hope for a time that what I look forward to is today.

The Womb of Success

After much hesitating and agonizing, I've decided to try my knives at CUTCO once again. I knew there was a Vector office in Tallahassee long before I got hired and it's always been my assumption that, with the general close proximity of places in Tallahassee and the advantage of public transportation, I have to have better luck here than I did when I was stranded on Long Drive. I have a couple weeks before my jobs starts and even after it does, I won't be working more than twenty hours a week. I got to meet some grown people through Cabaret, so I won't have to depend on one lone associate to get my start. By all accounts, it seemed an easy prospect.  For some reason though, I couldn't help hesitating when the time came to actually do something. First, I reasoned, I had to know when I would be back in Tallahassee. That being over with, I had the time commitment to consider. That's not really a consideration since hours are flexible. Then of course there was the matter of getting to and from meetings, but it's two days a week and I'm not quite so friendless that I can't find anyone to get me once or twice. Finally, I sat down to figure out how many people I would actually be able to call the first day I came to a CUTCO phone jam and mustered up a good dozen names, give or take an old phone number and a lack of availability. Okay. I had exhausted all excuses to stall. Now all that was left was to make the call to the office.

...I haven't actually gotten around to that yet. Despite my having answered every logical objection, I couldn't get past the one objection that I couldn't reasonably answer: I'm scared. Only making an average of five appointments a week, nearly never selling ANYTHING, and often losing out on money because of cancellations was somewhat understandable when I had to walk to all of my appointments, lived in an area where I knew practically no one, and I didn't have access to the product's target demographic. Now, I can't speak to how successful I should be, but considering that factors have changed, I should probably do better...but what if I don't? What if I end up, after a couple of months of traipsing around Tallahassee with my trustee bag of knives, and spending a couple hours a night on my phone, not even having a base that I can return to if I take a break from selling for awhile? What if I come out of this summer, or however long I end up selling for, at the same promotion that I am now (which is rather dismal, considering I'm only about a studio set aways from my next promotion)? What if I look at my finances in August and find myself praying that my net check drops early so that I'll survive the first few weeks of school? What will I tell myself? What excuse will I have?

This is, if not the summer of no excuses, the summer of considerably less excuses. I feel in every morning that I get up later than my alarm and every prospect that I approach that I should be better by now. I have a job; I shouldn't be unemployable. I have enough pennies tucked away to take class; I shouldn't be a terrible dancer. I have access to scripts and music and practice materials; I shouldn't be a mediocre student of the arts. From the earliest days up to my teens I had factors to share in my failure: money, my parents, my environment. I resented them, but they lightened the load at the end of an interim and I had to figure out what went wrong. This time, the failure will be all mine. I don't know if I'm prepared for that. In absentia of the resume listing accolades from authorities and accomplishments in areas that interest me, I depend on my unfortunate circumstances to assert that I have talent and intelligence and potential. Potential is one of my favorite words. It's that old faithful crutch that failures favor when we haven't a leg to stand on in justifying our dismal lives. I could be president of the United States so long as I'm underage. I could've been president of Sudan if only I were a citizen. I can play Elle Woods on Broadway if the producers, writers, and audiences will just suspend their disbelief. At the end of the day, when I go to sleep not having earned my fatigue, I have a growing pile of rejection letters and not one piece of correspondence saying "I want you", and my checking account can barely withstand the service charge for making a withdrawal at an ATM, potential comforts me. Potential is the blanket I wrap around myself when I curl up on the floor and use my hair as a pillow. I can just feel my comfy little blanket being torn away by my one-of-a-kind luxury knives if I go through with this Vector thing. I stand in constant terror that some straw will break me and I'll find myself working at Captain D's to pay my rent while I chase move-in specials on Candler Road. I worry about staring at the mighty monster under the bed and discovering it was just a pile of empty dreams. I pray that, when I lose my potential blanket, I have something else to protect me in the cold light of day. I can't saw whether I want night to last forever.

And here we are again

So, once again, it's summertime and I am playing Little Red Riding Hood as the heat sets in and the drudgery of classes dissipates. There's something very exhausting about the dichotomy of summer. It's considered (for students) to be a vacation, but it's expected that we do something with that time. It's a chance to explore opportunities that aren't possible during the academic year, but it's depressing if none of those opportunities come to fruition. As eager as I was for the summer break to begin, now that it's here, I can hear the time bomb ticking; waiting to drop another great big shell of FAIL on my life. This is the way it's been for me. Will it change this time around?

The last time I had a major change in status quo, it was my job at Fund for the Public Interest, and my high hopes were dashed less than a week later. This time around, I have a more promising position, one I won't lose based on other people's personal prejudices and one that I'm not likely to lose due to poor performance. I'll be doing something I enjoy, so there won't be the dread of calling strangers that came with Vector or the resentment over how much effort I'm putting into it. Although I hesitate to jump for joy at the implication of progress, I do find comfort in at least saying that I'm not in the same place that I was last year.

This will be my first summer in Tallahassee and, consequently, my first summer on my own. I sincerely thank God that I won't be doomed to rotting at home under the confines of geography and lack of transportation at the same time that i wonder what I will do when I have options. I can take the bus; call a friend; walk a bit depending on the heat. I can do free things like go to the park and enjoy a good book or some things that cost like see a play or take a dance class. I'm actually dealing with advantages rather than compensating for disadvantages and it makes me feel excited (well, excited and scared). What will I do with myself? I know where I would like to come into the fall semester, but I know how to get there about as well as I know how to get from Covington to Tallahassee: the route is only familiar when I've gotten into it. I have to ask myself if I'm going to end up trying to figure out again where it all went wrong.
I'll have the answer in about ten weeks.

That Pesky Glass

You take a glass of about 16 ounces. You add eight ounces of milk. The glass is half empty. The glass is half full. You know cognitively that the glass is both, but your outlook in life correlates to which characterization you use to identify it. What difference does it make? You still have eight ounces of milk. You still haven't filled your glass. It's progress, presumably, if your intent is to fill a glass. If your intent is to drink a glass of milk, you may have wasted time more than necessary, or you may have saved yourself from spilling by stopping while you were ahead. It's all a matter of perspective, really. But perspective only matters if it's isolated. It's impossible to call a glass half empty without acknowledging that it is also half full. It is foolish to call the glass half full to accomodate for its being half empty. The assessment of the glass may prove to be fruitless altogether if, in the time you spend determining how good a place you're in, the milk spoils. And yet it is a mark of human nature to be acutely aware of our condition. Is it a mark of evolution to not be satisfied with 'just keep swimming', or is it an impediment to survival the way a child's demanding why a simple task must be done is an impediment to productivity? Perhaps it should be simplicity, and not complexity that we seek. Perhaps if the matters we stressed over were simpler, we would be stronger when addressing them. It's only milk. It's only a messy room. It's only one class. It's only one test. Mosaics are beautiful because of their pieces. In the information age, everything is a mosaic; we just have more pieces. Maybe life is not as hard as we make it...maybe is should comb my hair and go to sleep...

There Are Starving Children In Africa

National Day of Silence. The one day a year in America that gays, straights, and heteroflexibles show their support for victims of bullying, abuse, and general not niceness towards homosexuals (or percieved homosexuals) by refusing to speak. It's said to be meant to draw awareness; and act of fraternity for the many people who were not able to speak out in the past...but what does it really accomplish?
I first paid attention to this practice halfway through highschool when I noticed that a large number of my classmates were carrying cards that they would proudly display when they were addressed. Once it was established that they wouldn't speak, they easily turned to other means of communication anywhere from from scribbling to sign language to playing "hot and cold" while we guessed what they wanted from us. Though it got my attention, I was more annoyed by their game than inspired by their cause. To put my perspective in context, I went to a teeny high school with a large percentage of gay students, none of whom tended to be treated unfairly based on their sexual orientation and speaking out about hate crime in a school full of gays seemed silly to me. Additionally, the ease with which the participants managed to get their points across despite claiming to have taken a vow of silence for the day belied the message as far as I was concerned. If finding solace for a bullied gay was as simple as seeking a different means of communication, what was the big deal?
One would think that, at a large university where crimes against peers were less regulated and more severe, I would be able to find more credence for the cause at least. I will admit I'm much more sympathetic to victims of bullying and harrassment for any reason than I was a few years ago. But for the life of me I can't figure out what good it does to tape your mouth shut and carry a legal pad around all day. On the contrary, I question the day of silence in the voracity of its supposed mission.
As a part of a group that wasn't permitted to vote for the majority of this country's history, I would never consider asserting the legitimacy of my citizenship by not voting. If children are being bullied, if men and women are being harrased, if people without a voice are being victimized I would speak out. Awareness is all well and good, but simply knowing there's a cost to silence doesn't pay the price. There's a reason that acknowledging the problem is the first step in every program; acknolwedgement alone is not a solution. No one will hear the silent multitudes so long as there is one decibal of noise. So make some noise. It's so much easier to observe than silence.

Attack of the Pro-Lifers

Oh what a beautiful morning on the hill it was. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and the gentle morning breezxe brought out the best of spring. The day being as lovely as it was and my having a comparatively light schedule, I came into my theatre history class in rather high spirits. All of this came crashing down as I casually gazed out the window and saw ABORTED FETUSES. And I don't mean scrambled eggs. Mounted in the area directly outside the main entrance to Tucker Hall was a huge display (it probably could've spanned more than two billboards) comprised of aborted fetuses, holocaust survivors (from like the day the Allies came), and Cambodian refugees. It was disgusting. I nearly vomited my breakfast burrito and I'm positive that whatever I may have regurgitated would've been more appetizing to every sense than those images. There were signs that said things like "genocide" and "the insanity of choice" and, given their heavy-handed language,I was torn with regards to whether I was more appalled by the images pr the captions that accompanied them.
As a person who believes all human life is sacred and that no person should claim the right to terminate another life, as a young female who is infuriated by stupid girls who choose to "take care of" the products of their own mistakes, as a human who has serious concerns about the potential of the innovations of science and technology to curb the sense of morality that is essential for asociety to function well, I was offended; not only by the fact that they had their display in my face, but that they chose this incredible impoasition as a means to getting their point across. In the political world, there's a bold and firm line between "pro-choice" and "pro-life" as if the two are mutually exclusive and generally inclusive in a manner that necessitates a degree of extremism which forces centrists to reconsider their positions. Based simply on the fact that they called themselves por-life, the women out there handing out pamphlets should be on my side. But they couldn't possible be on my side and choose to do something that hurt me. It hurt me to see those images of of little baby hands and feet in pieces on some table wrapped around a quarter or little baby eyes staring pleadingly up at me as if they were aware of some culpability that I held. It hurt me to read those captions accusing me of duplicity in genocide and associating women who get abortions with Nazis. Te mere presence of this display hurt me. There was nothing I saw that could be unseen and even with my most concerted effort not to look, I couldn't escape the atrocity of what I knew was right there. And what hurt me most of all (because it deepens the pain of every other hurt) was that these people who had inflicted so much pain claimed to be the good guys.
When I, along with a couple of friends who were similarly affected after seeing what I had seen, went out to let them know what kind of effect they were having on three pro-life people, the apathy that I got from the girl to whom I spoke was at once shocking and infuriating. There were horror movies that depicted much more gruesome graphics, she opined and there weren't doing anything but showing he truth. In response to my expressing how offensive and disturbing I found the images, she defended having them out for the public to see by asserting that "it wouldn't be right to hide them and pointing out that there were signs on the way to the hall warning what was ahead. We stayed out there with them a good ten minutes speaking into deaf ears and listening to hard hearts about how good a cause it was to stop abortion by showing people the horrors of what it entailed and in all that time, this group who had invaded our campus paid no heed to the horrors that they themselves had inflicted. They gave no regard to the fact that I hadn't recieved any type of warning from inside my classroom where I couldn't help but see those displays outside our huge windows. They didn't even care when I told them how deeply affected I was by all of the sensations that had been inflicted by them; the people who were supposed to be on my side. I walked away even more appalled than when I first saw their images splattered outside my hall.
I left having accepted that I wouldn't be able to make them understand, but it doesn't follow that I was able to let the matter drop. How could I, when they brought a plane with a banner to circle over our heads the rest of the day, in case we decided to avoid the entrance to Tucker Hall, but were more inclined to glance up at the buzzing over our heads. I couldn't stop thinking about what I had seen and what they had said and as the passing of those ten minutes went through my mind over and over again, my horror at their apathy manifested itself in a deepseated sense of betrayal. How is it that this group, this project, saw fit to display victims of the most vulnerable lot without regard to what horrors they were inflicting on us? Who posted these pictures, saw them mounted onto huge easles and was able to stomache seeing half-dead men stacked together in disgusting barracks without the presence of mind to care that they were being photographed in this condition and having the little eyes of aborted fetuses staring up at them without dying a little inside? What is accomplished by exposing us, the students to the same atrocities that have apparently made these people apathetic enough that they have no problem standing proudly with such a monstrosity behind them? They claim to be advocating for these victims, but they give them no respect; no dignity. They parade these images around like animation in a slide show and expect something positive to come of it? The fact stands that, after the initial shock and the attempt not to lose one's breakfast or lunch, one's most likely reaction is to be repulsed by what he sees. What else can we feel when faced with something so repulsive? These ideas swam around in my head from the moment I was back in my classroom trying my best to concentrate but unable to find any mental solace from what I'd just witnessed.
It pains me to call myself pro-life when I know that these people lay a claim on the term as well. I sincerely hope that I am not one of them.

Je suis fatigue

I made the decision awhile ago to go to SETC, no matter what it took and, being that I was able to make it, I made sure that I would capitalize on every moment I had there. From the time time that I arrived in Atlanta a little after three on Wednesday afternoon to the time I wearily let my head fall onto a table in the hotel cafe on Saturday afternoon, I pushed myself to do take part in the conference in every manner possible. Between the workshops and the festivals and the volunteering, I exhausted myself to the point that I nearly couldn't see straight by the time it was over. It took staring at a wall and not being able to focus for me to realize how tired I was because I had been so engaged, so determined to completely immerse myself in this incredible world that I love so much. Despite my being fully involved and getting a very little rest in those four days, I didn't truly feel tired until I had no choice but to feel it.

I'm back at school for my second week since spring break and I am feeling weary. Granted, I did pull an all-nighter studying for two tests in completely different subjects, but even knowing cognitively that my body is lacking for sleep, this weariness is too familiar a feeling for me this semester. I used to be excited to be worn out, knowing it meant I had done significant work and anticipating a good sleep to follow. That isn't happening now. I sleep, but I don't get rest. I try, but I don't accomplish. I'm...losing. I seem to be missing the energy that invigorated me to survive those four fantastic days; the adrenaline that enabled me to run on empty. I'm empty now and I'm not sure what fuel will pick up my pace. I very much want to take a nap right now; a nice long nap from which I wake up without calculating how much more time I can stay down before being an utter failure; a nap that doesn't magnify my weariness instead of helping to assuage it. It may be a case of mind over matter, but even my mind is weary right now. I feel it with every part of me and only my need to keep writing is keeping me awake. It's something. It's keeping me going right now. It doesn't keep me writing enough, though. Too often, I don't write. I feel like it but I don't have the materials. I have the materials but not the time. I have the time but not the courage. I seek the courage...and lose the drive. Then all I want to do is sleep; just close my eyes and leave the world for awhile and hope it's nicer when I get back. But I get back and it's waiting for me; angry with me for making it wait rather than allowing it to keep going. I hate waiting. Who am I to make my life wait? My life hasn't the power to change itself; it can only keep going and has no choice but to wait on me to change it. I have been unfair. Life isn't fair. Two wrongs don't make a right. Life is hard. Life is real. Life is organic...alive. Dreams are beautiful, but I can only use them in wakefulness. I need to wake up. Wake up! Stop sleepwalking through life. There was a time I earned my sleep. I need to find a way back to then.

The lie about commission

When I checked the mail today, I found an envelope from Belltower Books. They had hired me to do campus buybacks at the end of the fall semester and between the lethargy of winter break and the stress of being back at school, it had slipped my mind to look out for the spoils of the two weeks that I went around trying to fill my sack with books. So I was surprised, then pleased to find that Belltower had not forgotten about me as I had them and took the time to relay my commission. The grand total of my payment for the books I bought: $0.42.

This on this surface was not too upsetting. I hadn't bought many books,so I wasn't expecting and significant amount of money, and considering the check was worth less than the stamp it had cost them to mail it, I would've been thoroughly amused had I gotten the check alone. Unfortunately, the head of the company saw fit to enclose a letter praising neither my results nor my efforts but the company's policy to pay solely based on commission. He lauded that fact that the company had managed to buy more books than ever and were proud to enforce a philosophy of paying "based on work put in". I could practically hear the smugness in his voice and see him sneering over his signature. I knew that he didn't write this letter specifically to me and he probably had no idea who was paid what for their work besides the top few numbers he could quote as evidence of how wonderful the company was but, seeing the CEO's letter alongside my worthless check was the equivalent of saying "Congratulations. The value of everything you did in the course of those weeks to acquire books amounts to forty-two cents." And that just killed the punchline for me.

I first got caught up in the commission cult when CUTCO came calling with its promises that we would make more money than our friends' financial aid gave out and we would always have promotions to look forward to and all of the accolades that come with knowing that, because you sold something, you made some money and you could be proud of your income because you'd earned it. But what I learned from CUTCO, and knew before working for Belltower attempted to make me forget, was how little the effort that you make actually goes into closing a sale (or in Belltower's case, a buy). The truth is, a commission is no more a determination of how hard you've worked than casting is a determination of how good an actor you are. If the customer simply doesn't want what you have to offer, there is simply no persuasion in the world that will change his/her mind. Of course, anyone who has done sales can tell you that not choosing to buy doesn't have to be the final answer. As one of my managers told me, "An objection is not a no". Of course, if there are specific concerns that need to be addressed, a salesperson may be able to push for that commission by addressing the concerns efficiently to the point that the customer comes around. However, skill with persuasion, even with manipulation, is not the only determining factor in closing a deal. I don't see the best salesman in the world convincing a struggling college student to sell a book that cost over a hundred dollars for a quarter. And even if I did, I couldn't in good conscience try to use those tactics knowing as I do that this customer is getting the short end of the stick.

This isn't to say that I think salespeople are dishonest simply by making sales. I think it's great to have a product you stand behind and believe in the value of, but at the same time, your belief alone is not enough to make me stand with you. There are people who say no and while "Don't take no for an answer" may be an admirable quality for activists and students whose financial aid hasn't come, when it comes to an unwilling customer, the philosophy just qualifies the salesperson as a bully. Who am I, a complete stranger with my own baggage that I can choose to keep to myself, to tell you what you want; what you need; what would be of value to you? Who am I to determine whether you can afford it or, if you can, how much you'll appreciate it once you have it? There are some for whom "no" means NO. It doesn't mean "try harder", or "you should've made more phone calls" or "I'm not convinced because you aren't smiling big enough". And these "no"s don't care how hard you tried, how many calls you made, or how badly your cheeks are aching. All they care about is that you are of no use to them anymore and they want you to go away.

Employers won't tell you that when they hire you. They'll be thrilled to see evidence of work you've done when your results are good, but when they aren't, your effort doesn't make any more difference to them than it did to those customers you couldn't satisfy. In truth, they have no need to concern themselves with how much work you've done because they never have to worry about paying you more than you've earned. These are the ones to whom the commission-based job is truly advantageous; the ones who have nothing to lose from a system that depends so much on factors beyond a determined individual's control. These are the salespeople who truly believe in their product, however useless it proves to the rest of us.

I'm thinking as I write this that I'll probably be buying books again at the end of this semester. If I end up going to summer school, I may pick up my knife set and resume polishing off my CUTCO chops. They aren't ideal, but they're available, and I sincerely hope that, whatever my return is, I don't measure the value of my work with the numbers on my paychecks. I hope I can do better than that.

I don't know what to do

I hate these moments when I feel completely helpless and it's incredibly frustrating that just putting one foot in front of the other doesn't work in real life. There are too many directions for my mind to go in and come from for me to just push forward and I'm losing time trying to figure out how to get something out of my time. I'm sad. I'm disappointed that I didn't get a callback for Ain't Misbehavin, not because I particularly want to be in the show, but because I know that not getting a callback from a man who's never seen me means that after watching me act and seeing me dance and hearing me sing he didn't think that I might be worth a second look. I'm still disappointed about Chicago because I wanted it so bad and now I've lost my shot at Ain't Misbehavin and after talking to Stacy I really don't want to be in Trojan Woman, so I'm resigning myself to the fact that I won't be in a show this semester, but not by my design. I want to be in a show. I always want to be in a show and not knowing what I'm going to do with myself between seven and ten. I don't know where to go if I'm not a journey guided by a director with steps set out by a choreographer and words given to me by some brilliant writer that the world probably doesn't appreciate as much as they should. I'm sad and disappointed and I feel lost and empty and I was trying to write; to be the writer that I know I am until I have a pen in my hand or a keyboard in front of me after which my brain screams at me that it was all a lie and locks the words away until I'm alone again and I no longer have the means to reach out to anyone. I see on facebook and twitter that people have been going on auditions and callbacks and I missed that and I have to kick myself for not paying enough attention for being so lax that I could miss out on something that I want so bad. I have case law to review for Mock Trial. I have studying to do for AFA and BSC. I have a play to read for theatre thistory, a class still in my major. I have research to do for my monologue in my acting class that will take hours. I have to learn Mi Chiamano Mimi and get it run off to Kara. I still have to turn in my application for MURAP, the personal statement for which refuses to come out right. I don't have time to sit in the library and cry and feel sorry for myself over everything being exactly the same as it's always been. And here I am. I tried to go back to 14th St Playhouse where I had the best day ever. I thought if I could just recap that day, relate that joy, I would be able to get going again. But I couldn't do it. The words came out wrong, the feelings from being there didn't translate to the web and that's one more failure I have to count and it's all just awful. I can't get out of this. It's only three weeks into the semester, three weeks into 2011 and I'm already breaking down. And I think to myself I'd be so much stronger if I just had a little pick-me-up but there's nothing here. Everything I would turn to to pick me up has already let me down. I need help. I want to go to Pigeon Forge.

Now I Know How E. E. Cummings felt

How can I relate to anyone how wonderful a day I had? What words will possibly suffice to express what joy came with expanding the typical ninety seconds into the six glorious hours that made my day; my weekend? I hope I can find the words.

I had a really great day. Specifically, I had a really great audition. It was November when I first saw the ad for Dollywood Entertainment auditions and, being that I was still very much in a funk over my failure at FTC, it served as my first glimmer of light out of the college tunnel. I decided to go and I planned to go and I prepared to go, but as much as I had pinned on it, I walked in resolved to let it be like any other audition that I would leave behind after I walked away. I have lost my resolve. I don't want to let go of how wonderful that day was.

Although I haven't been on so many auditions that I can function on autopilot, I consider myself to be seasoned enough to know what to expect. You go in a group, the SM guides you, you have somewhere between one and two minutes to make a table of strangers care to know you better, and you're done. A very sad representation of what a nerve wracking experience that can be, but that's the gist. Imagine then, my confusion, then surprised pleasure, to come into the seeing place and find it as open as the sky. Because I wasn't in the first group to sit on the stage and try to make these strange men love me, I got to sit back and watch.

I watched and listened as entertainer after entertainer, all with some merit you rarely find in open call, took their place on the X and entertained me. In my impatience to reach the stage, I've often lost sight of what joy can be found as a part of the audience. I watched and I listened and I enjoyed. I enjoyed the songs, I enjoyed the sincerity of the performers, I enjoyed seeing how much the adjudicators genuinely enjoyed these people. I looked forward to bringing them joy that way without resenting anyone else for having the opportunity ahead of me. I know logically that not everyone up there was great and voices varied in tone and power and all these different things, but there was beauty to be found in everything and I found it without the cloud of judgement to overshadow it. For that interim of time, it seemed like my mind was on rotation, alternating between, "Oh that's precious!", "Ooooh I love this one!" and, "I really have to pee". That last one came with increasing urgency largely due to the fact that I wasn't willing to miss any more of the performance treats the open call had to offer. If they hadn't decided to take a break to transition, I very well might've just sat in the back of the theatre and wet my pants.
I almost did wet my pants when I came back to the theatre for the bathroom and saw folk singers. Folk singers! It was such an incredible transition for me and I'm super glad that I chose to step out when I did and come back to this new environment that was all at once beautiful in its own way. Earlier, I had sat thinking, This is what I would love to do. Coming back to these bands, I sat down thinking, This is what I would go to Pigeon Forge to see! I got so excited when these people came together on the stage and gave me gifts. I loved the family act whose girls had hair so long you could sit on it where the soloist who couldn't be more than eight years old and everyone wore boots with spurs. I could feel the vibrations of the bass way upstage from way in the back singing words that I didn't understand and really didn't need to hear because that sensation was enough. I felt so excited and at home that I wondered why I didn't listen to this type of music all the time. Then at the end of all this wonderful, there was a couple; a freakishly bedazzled pair of twenty-somethings who dressed and performed the kind of way I usually look for on shows like America's Got Talent. The head casting agent person guy let them do their entire song (a terrible original piece called "Poop on Your Face"...that was actually about the title), did not insult them, and when they finally stopped asked, "Do you have anything else for us?" with all the sincerity of a man who wanted to give them every opportunity to be what he wanted them to be. They didn't and they left and that was the end of the group acts, but as terrible as they were, they made me appreciate being where I was even more.
I was in the next group of individuals who went up to the chopping block and by the time I found myself standing on the blue X and the head casting agent person guy asked me how I was doing, I honestly told him, "I'm having so much fun." I was overjoyed when I was asked to stay and do a dance routine, less because I was excited about being judged on my dancing and more because I wasn't ready to leave. I was never ready to leave. Half a week later I'm still not ready to leave. The longer I was there, the mroe I wanted to stay. As self-conscious as I tend to be about my dancing and as isolated as I tend to feel among friends who go on auditions together, the stretch in the downstairs studio with these other people who, in another world, might have threatened my place, was just a fun hour or so doing something I only too rarely get to do. I remember the combination. It was fun. When I was finished, my heart was racing and my clothes were damp, and I couldn't be happier. I was having so much fun. And once again, when I thought I was finished, they asked us to come back to

I'm stopping now because this isn't working. I'm posting it because I'm supposed to share.

Arizona Shooting

I'm watching the stream of "Together We Thrive: Tuscan and America" both out of a curiosity as to how the people affected by this tragedy react without news anchors to prompt them, and out of a need to feel the reassurance that always accompanies an assembly of people who share a stake in something terrible. For the second time now, I'm listening to a scripture quote from one of the speakers and somehow I don't see any atheists scoffing at them over using their big anthology of Jewish fairytales as a crutch. The first three speakers, when given a mike, didn't spend their time bashing the party that may be responsible for making this man snap or even placing blame on the gunman himself. They instead focused on their love for the lost and the wounded. When Obama took the podium, there were no demands of "where's the birth certificate" or challenges to Obamacare. There was only welcome and joy and having him here. Unfortunate though it is, there is something about unspeakable violence that brings people together. When the market crashes, the people are out for blood, but when a plane crashes into a building we're racing to the Red Cross to give blood. When a homeless man in the street asks for some spare change we can't find any but when an earthquake literally rocks a neighboring country we're willing to sacrifice our own luxuries so that a stranger can have clean underwear and a nice blanket. Just as the destruction of muscle acts as a prelude to increase strength, destruction of structure in society serves to fortify the bond between individuals who share a quality. Light after darkness is so beautiful that it's overwhelming. The greatest kindness Obama bestowed on us tonight was the image of a woman simply opening her eyes. We find the goodness in people; the humanity in each other; the love in ourselves. In the midst of finding this comfort, marveling at these miracles, I can't help but wish there were a hundred million of them. It does not take a sudden fall to prompt that you reach out and touch someone. I will not thank this madman for endangering so many lives and, for whatever reason, disregarding his own humanity. I won't feign gratitude for the predicament of instability an act of random violence inflicts on a society. I am not one to smile at a rainy day. As I get through it, however, I am wont to appreciate the rainbow. This heightened sense of benevolence is a beautiful side effect of this painful dose of insanity.