Let it Happen

Guys, I am a hot mess.

After I successfully complete a second interview for a dayjob in midtown east, I change out of my power heels and into my flip flops like any sensible Manhattanite with five addresses on her to-do list. Resolutely, I mosey my way uptown for an audition where I will be considered for two plays in one pop: one Chekhov, one experimental. Once it's my turn, things go alright - the guy behind the table is a personable bloke around my age, and chats with me about the two plays before asking me for a monologue. It is then I realize that I am still wearing my flip flops.

Guys, I auditioned for a Chekhov play in flip-flops.

I make it through my Shakespeare monologue, and am asked to sing. All the options I thought of a minute ago desert me. Briefly I consider busting out some My Fair Lady, but those high notes are always dodgy for me, and the only other song I can remember ever knowing in my entire life is a Gaelic lullaby. Well, actually, the first two words of the gaelic lullaby, so I sing them repeatedly. Which is kind of how I remember the first verse going...right? "Pretty," says the guy. He's very nice. We chat some more and I smile, inconspicuously slipping my flip-flops back on because they had fallen off. Again.

Afterward, I make a pit stop in the bathroom and realize I had forgotten to put on my mascara. GUYS, I forgot to put on mascara today. I put on everything else, including actual pink lipstick, but no mascara. I've been walking around New York City with full makeup and no mascara. How does one forget to put on mascara, one might wonder? I still don't know, but somehow this discovery is not surprising to me. Because I am a mess, a hot mess in fact.

On my way to my next audition, I am walked into by a woman on her cellphone as I stare at a window display. If I remember correctly, it was a display of children's clothing. Why??

Soon my mother texts to let me know that my birthday present to her has arrived at her house - two weeks late - and that it was addressed to me, c/o The Actors Studio Drama School. How??

During the next audition, in a sentence, I can't think of a word. (The word I couldn't think of, by the way, is "appliances." Why I was using "appliances" in a casual conversation during an audition, I cannot reasonably explain. Perhaps it is part of a misguided attempt to be quirky and charming, which lands somewhere between absentminded and baffling.) The rest of the audition happens, as time, loss, and entropy happen, with only moderate line jumbling and heartache.

I let it happen. It happened. It's happening.

I'm a mess.

Then, the easy part of the day. I join some girlfriends for a free concert. On the way in, my bag is searched and my three bottles of wine are confiscated. Yes, three. I was carrying three bottles of wine at this point, guys, and I am not ashamed - but apparently there's a law about smuggling them into concert venues. Who knew? I explain to the bouncers that these are my groceries, that they are cork bottles and I don't have an opener, that I had no intention of opening them at the concert because it's an AMY GRANT concert and that wouldn't make sense or be fun at all, but they are confiscated nonetheless.

As we make the way up the stairs to the venue, I see my ex standing in the doorway - because WHERE ELSE WOULD HE BE. Though I knew this was going to happen, I am still somehow unprepared. Luckily, he is a classy person and accepts my jittery hug with a smile. Whew. Later, in mid-conversation, a dear friend slams her fists in the table, stopping us all, and whispers urgently, "Guys, are we going to be okay?" None of us have a convincing response.

More dark adventures also happened that the world need not share, but to say the night ended in frozen custard and blank stares is an understatement.

This is a true New York story. It is my story. Today. Guys. I am a hot mess. Sometimes we are messes. For me, the mess is frequent and persistent, a happening, an endless beatnik parade with no beginning or end time. Sometimes I can't seem to get it together. Rather than bewail my self-made fortunes, though, I have decided to just...just...just...

Well, anyway, it happened. And by the way, I share this with all of you because I think it's quite hilarious and I want my fellow hot messes out there to know - you're not the only one. We'll figure this thing out. Happy Friday, everyone.

"Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final." Rilke, via my dear friend Suzette.

Do It

I've always been a girl with a lot of fantasies. Whether it was an impossible dream like jumping into the climactic action of Gunga Din alongside Carey Grant to do battle for Queen and Country and save the Empire myself or an achievable one like keeping a house plant alive in New York City, my head is always brimful of ideas and jam packed with notions. It's really daydreaming, you might say, that sometimes manifests as planning, to be followed by list-making, to be followed by Netflix and napping. Therefore, I have never learned Spanish, taken salsa classes, traveled to Iceland, or even - shame! - owned and operated a hot-dog stand.

One of the biggest challenges of being a professional artist, to me, is effectively managing my time and energy. There have been times where I felt like I had to pick and choose my dreams because I just couldn't do it all. Where I limited myself based on what I thought were real, external constraints but ultimately boiled down to my attitude. I'd skip an event because of a small entrance fee or postpone opportunities because of...something that seemed important...can't remember what it was...

Well, phooey on that.

I'm calling myself out a bit. Rather, someone else called me out recently and now I'm taking credit for it. I was yammering about my fantasy plan for an ideal year and my friend looked at me and said, "Do it." Like it was that simple. Like we were in a Nike commercial.

And I'm thinking to myself, well heck, why not? Sure there are time and energy and financial constraints as always, but it all boils down to making a strong choice. As an actor, that's supposed to be my thing. Strong choices. Action.

And so I have determined to turn a new leaf in my dreamy life. I'm going to go after the things I want instead of counting the reasons why the timing might be off. This begins with a quest for a new yoga studio home and resurrecting my teaching practice. For once, I am going to travel to a dear friend's wedding even though it's on the other side of the country - because I want to be there. I'll actually finish writing the film script I want to finish, and commit to bringing it to life. Then, classes in something other than acting that I am curious to learn. I'll read the news at least once a week instead of relying on Facebook or clips of the Daily Show. Why not?

I'm taking responsibility for my dreams - all of them - and holding myself accountable. Next time I catch myself sighing about what could be, I'll smack myself and say, "Do it!"

Garden

my mom's sunflowers

 I am in northern California. My mom is recovering from a surgery, and we are using that as an excuse to essentially be on vacation together in her home, doing very little, sitting in the sun, escaping from reality for a while and creating an alternate universe of our own.

My mom is an awesome, lovely, sweet woman who is currently reading a book called, "Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking." She is not quiet at home. I am a cranky New Yorker readjusting to clean air and kindness, reading a book by Goethe called "The Italian Journey," and find myself saying very little in this holiday world. My step-dad is jolly and hard of hearing, occasionally popping in to shout jokes at us before disappearing to read a book called, "Chasing the Wild Pendulum: a History of Consciousness." It's been in the 90s all week and there are about 30 hummingbirds fighting over 3 feeders hanging from nearby cedars and bays. And that I think sums us up admirably.

mom's butterfly

We've realized through talking this week that I've been in New York City longer than I've lived anywhere else, and I'm not sure what to feel about this accomplishment. My mom's current house was my pre-teen and teen haven, but I've slept in New York City longer than I dreamed in the corner room with the writing desk. My step-Dad has been driving my old Mazda protege longer than I ever did, and now it smells distinctly of dog and cigar. It's not my car at all any more, even though the Japanese prayer my brother brought back for me is still hanging from the rear-view mirror.

There's been a slight paradigm shift under my feet as I've sunbathed in the rocking chair, a gentle ah-ha, settling-in feeling; the comfort of being around family, looking out the window at a tree-covered mountain, having nothing on today's schedule. Obviously one can't be on vacation all the time, but I dare to hope that this feeling of support and peace can be cultivated everywhere I go. And I think I will go other places. Having hit a record in NYC, I feel a release to dream new dreams and learn new things. That city doesn't have to be my comfort zone, because that place is here in my mom's garden.

her other butterfly

She waters it every day, even if she needs a cane. She let me help her with it a couple of times, but frankly she doesn't like being helped. We talk about the amount of time and water it takes to keep her plants alive, and I confess that I would feel rather oppressed if I knew I had to come home to an hour-long watering chore every day. It's a big commitment, cultivation. Mom agrees that I lack the natural knack, but she insists that standing still with a hose in your hand is a kind of a meditation, a cycle of nourishing at a pace I have grown incapable of keeping. She feeds her plants and they feed her, there's a symbiotic understanding between them more subtle than shade or scent. Slowing down is tricky for me, but it really is all I want right now. So I take up the hose.

The squashes and the sunflowers are hard for me, nothing but leaves, but once I make it to the tomatoes and the hot sweet smell of them hits me, my imagination chimes in. The tomato plants transport me to Marlon Brando's death scene in the Godfather, where he's chasing his grandson, and the memory of sharing the film with my Dad. Their earthy, bright smell takes me back to another garden mom kept in another county, another life when I was half my size and surrounded by all the people I loved in the world (it was a smaller world then). The tomatoes we pick for our salad are small and still hot, and taste like the Amalfi coast in Italy, where my mom daringly took me to celebrate graduating from High School.

might just stay here...

I still don't think I am ready to knuckle down and devote myself to a garden as vast and lush as my mom's, but that is only because I haven't built up the patience or the land yet. I understand now how she can devote herself to it, how it gives itself back to her, how it becomes it's own world of memories and thoughts as well as living forms. There's a small succulent plant on my windowsill in Harlem that my roomie is keeping alive for me at this very moment. I explained to her that if I can keep this plant a live for a year, maybe then I can trust myself with pets, children. She pointed out that recovering addicts have the same process, which I think is hilarious. I am not a recovering addict, just a bit of a workaholic space cadet. Why is it so hard to keep other things alive? That succulent of mine may have company soon, because I really want to take my mom's garden with me when I go back. I want to spend time and energy in the garden, to tend and garner results. I want to slow down. I want to live at the pace of plants.

happiness

Well...at least, sometimes...

Father's Day 2013

My Daddy taught me that real men are fathers to every child in the world; that women were capable of anything, that my mother is my best friend, to trust my gut, think all the time, eat pasta (but not too much), imagine, find humor in everything, champion beauty and loveliness, work smart, fight for what's right, do what's fair, have panache, listen to the Holy Spirit, respect children, value loyalty, listen to beautiful music and watch beautiful films, make meatballs, wear a pantsuit, kick ass and take names, and relish the *$&% out of life. Even when I sometimes fumble in applying the lessons he's taught me, I feel strong and loved because he took the time to be not just a Father, but a Daddy. Dads (and future Dads), your impact matters SO MUCH.

Poems

Somewhere along the way, I stopped writing poems. It didn't seem to serve any purpose anymore. There was no time and, frankly, no interest. My step dad wasn't around to read my poetry after a few shots of tequila and tell me I was a genius, which left only myself and one very nice professor from undergrad to glance over them once in a while. Gone were my jobless teenage summers, sprawling sun decks, and endless thoughts. After grad school, I hit a plateau where I didn't want to think anymore, didn't want to string words together on paper in journals or submit to publications or care. If poem could be a verb, I didn't want to poem. Poetize? Poemify? Yeah. Not gonna.

There was this one time like 8 years ago that I struck up a conversation with a lady on a bench in central park. She was wearing a long hippy dress, hadn't brushed her hair, and had a journal with a big moon on it on her lap. She was sitting there to write poems about her dreams, never to share with anyone. She told me it was for her own eyes only. She must have been in her forties, frizzy and alone, and something about it struck me as too much. I mean, good for her, but it suddenly hit me that this was a possible future me and I very urgently I realized I didn't want to be wearing hemp and writing in a moon diary when I was forty just the same as when I was fourteen. And I didn't want to be the girl giving everyone poems for Christmas and birthdays anymore. I thought, "How embarrassing is that at 19? Gross!" (I was gross. I was young. I'm less gross now. At least I think so. At least, I don't think poems are a gross present anymore. I think it's awesome.)

My dreams and poems used to mean a lot to me, but after a few years in New York City I just didn't want to care. I didn't want to be a poet with feelings sitting alone on a bench with a journal - it was very occupying being an actor with feelings, thank you very much. Very occupying being an actor with feelings doing things and trying to do more things and not being allowed to do certain things I wanted to do like get famous and reserve a table at schmancy expensive clubs in TriBeCa and jet off to Cannes. Writing things sounded just impossible. Or ridiculous. Between eight weekly shifts at a restaurant, rehearsals, auditions, and the mounting August crankiness, I lost my poetry. I just lost it.

But just this week, I think I found it again, and I think I know why.

See, I was the only child at home after my brother moved out, and with our 12 year age gap, it was more like I was an only child. And like most only children, my imagination was my constant companion - my BFF. There was a lot of wearing funny hats and sitting in trees talking to myself and my invisible unicorn friend Bow, and I wrote a lot. Don't get me wrong I totally had friends - non-invisible ones - but I was always equally happy to sit down all day with a word processor. Literally, all day. Once I clocked 12 hours. And my imagination was prolific - there were bushels of short stories, books of poems, two unfinished novels and even one finished (not my best, I think, but a good start). Alone time was always my friend, and honestly, I wrote for myself.

The thing with story telling is that it can't exist in a vacuum. Something I am really digging about my acting classes at The Barrow Group is the way that they remind us, over and over in various ways, that we're actually not there to have a personal experience. We're there to tell a story. And we're not telling it to ourselves, we're telling it to our audience. I mean, duh, right? But somehow I super need the reminder. Actually, I never really thought about an audience while writing...which means I kind of missed the point.

I don't really write for myself anymore because I don't want to just sit with myself. Part of the reason I stopped writing poetry was because it felt a bit...self-involved. TOTALLY unlike blogging right??? Sheesh.

Well, anyway, I just needed to stop the poems for a bit. I didn't have the spare energy for sitting with myself because I had blocked that off and was so busy with other people, but now the thought of writing again is exciting to me because of other people. I want to write for them, tell them stories, give them poems. I want people to read my stuff. And I am really happy, actually, that I had some time away to think about the difference between living privately in my imagination and sharing parts of it with others. Communicating. After all, what use is a light if you hide it under a bushel?

Momentum and Memorials

April showers bring May flowers, and the downpour can be my only excuse for neglecting this blog so long. April saw a boom of work for me both in and out of the entertainment industry, and on this rainy start of the Memorial Day Weekend Festivities, I am relishing the chance to slow down, hole up, catch my breath and gain some perspective for a minute.

me and my stunning prom date Larissa

April and early May saw one of my year-long goals accomplished, as I got to appear in a fantastic production of "12 Angry Jurors" with the AlphaNYC off-off broadway. My first episodic TV gig came through in the form of Mysteries at the Museum on the Travel Channel, and I had my first pilot reading with Brown Dog Productions. Whew! What an awesome month. I also got to attend the Private Theater's Prom, an epic fundraiser that knocked the socks off of all my previous prom experiences, even the year that I went with the Prom King. It's great to be busy in New York City.

In honor of our three-day weekend, our busy-ness, our heroes, our barbecues and our collective sigh of relief this weekend, I'd like to seize this moment to cherish the momentum that has picked up in my life and thank everything that came before that made it possible. Like our soldiers whose sacrifices have enabled us to live in freedom, our past experiences have created this moment for us to make the most of. Freedom isn't free, and opportunity is a responsibility. I certainly mean to make the most of my opportunities now, at this moment in my life, and not squander my freedom and youth. It is a great thing to be American, to be the recipient of all that came before - and it is also a job. I can't drop the ball now. The momentum has to keep flowing. I have to keep paying it forward. To remember and to honor and to move forward, creating - that is my Memorial Day Weekend plan and, if I can stick with it, my year plan.

Now off to movie nights, rooftop parties (if the rain stops), auditions, and frolicking in the Big Apple. And let's all remember to honor our men and women who didn't make it back to the land of opportunity.

All Things New

New apartment. New life and singleness. New budget. New scene partners and conversations and plays and props in class, lines to learn, crosses to justify. New plumb line in headstand pose. New interviews and auditions and email addresses and appointments to keep track of. New goals. New vest - for free! New box of wine. Yeah. A box of wine for my birthday. How cool and new is that.

New neighborhood grocery store, laundromat, subway stop, routine, neighbors who let us use their toilet when ours breaks, street rhythms and lights and strange, long absences of sirens. New bedroom to myself equipped with closets (!!!!!) and hallway. New doors with broken knobs, glass panels, and original wood finish. New March, new year in my existence and wrinkles around my eyes. New address. New wall colors and new old dogs who like to lay on a new old floor in what to me is a new old floorplan in a new old brownstone. New sky. 

New confidence, lighting in the mirror, knowledge of myself, and clarity. New action plan for seeing friends, new fire lit under me to get things done. New sense of attainability. New boss at the dayjob and new relationship to build. New orders of business. 

New seconds and minutes whizzing by, filling eternity as they etch stories in our souls, drawing closer to a new future. New need to trust God. New desire. New earrings and dress. New recipes. New books. Happy Resurrection Day!

"Behold, I am making all things new." - Jesus