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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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.

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?