The Dream: What it looks like from the other side.

I have been wanting to go to graduate school ever since I found out they wouldn't let me stay in undergraduate forever without failing more courses. Now I'm two weeks shy of the end of my first semester of graduate school and I thought I'd bore, errr, indulge you all in a check-in of how the first semester's been. Notes from the other side of the dream.

Grad school is absolutely what I expected it to be. And totally not. I keep in regular contact with a friend of mine who is attending another MFA program, also in performance. It's three year, as apposed to my two-and-a-half, it's also on the Eastern sea-ish board and that's pretty much where the similarities end. She had nine papers to write, and about as many texts to read this semester alone. I'm working out of one literature book and have worked from one memorized text. My spare time is spent practicing juggling, piano, handstands or observing a variety of different things. Our programs are wildly different, though our degrees will be considered relatively equivalent. Mine in "Devised Performance" and hers in "Acting". I have a feeling this is a pretty accurate description of how we both feel though.

I'm not tired of wearing black. I didn't expect to be, ever. Had you told thirteen-year-old me that I would be in school in my late twenties and have to wear all black every day and wouldn't be allowed to wear shoes, I would have told you it's cruel to tease people. However, I do still fall victim to being teased by my peers when I change from my school blacks back into my regular street blacks. Don't worry. I don't have a black turtle neck collection...yet...

I'm so glad I brought all of my stupid noise makers. Mostly my slapstick. And my rubber chicken. Even though I haven't used the chicken... yet...

Yeah- This is from a real school project.

I'm almost as broke as I thought I'd be. I haven't gone into debt (outside of good old, regular student loans) thankfully. And really, fully due to the generosity and gumption of my super supportive and super-hero skilled S.O. You should probably understand, that before I even knew I was accepted to the program, we went through about ten days of, "You should come with me." "I should probably do this on my own." "We could try a long distance thing." "We should break up right now." "I'll write you." "We'll still be friends." Before finally settling on, "Hey, if you want to leave everything you've known and go somewhere we have no connections and no immediate prospects for work then I'd really really like it if you would come with me. Oh, also, it'd be great if you could support both of us while you do it because I won't have time to work and don't have savings to speak of and grad school is really expensive."

He's the goddamn coolest. Supports my head, heart and body with every fiber of his being. We're living off a lot grocery shopping savvy that I don't really have and I dare say, we're doing just fine. Our hearts are very happy.

And our bellies. Because dinner.

I'm. So. Tired. Thanksgiving break is winding down to a close, which is great. I needed a break. I'm up and moving every day from about 8AM-4:30PM. There's a lot of emotional and physical exertion in class. I'm usually asleep before 10.

Gobble Gobble. My whiskey intake has plummeted. This may be embarrassing. Or just healthy.

Personal grooming really has started disappearing. Well- okay, really just shaving. I have to keep my nails in check because we train barefoot. And I'm working on my sweet ukulele skills.

I have taken up the therapy of baking. This is good because it makes my house smell nice. It is also good because it keeps my backside round.

Scones, anyone? Or Chocolate chip cookies? Or peanut butter cookies? Or ginger snaps?

I miss home. This one blind-sided me a little. But that's okay. I'll see it again soon. And I'm making a new one, however temporary.

How could I not miss this place? I mean, please. #BoiseNeedsNoFilter

The more I know about academia, the less sense it makes. My program is partnering with a University for the first time this year. I have a work study project that involves researching undergraduate theater programs all over the nation. Lecturer, Adjunct, Associate, Assistant, Dean, Chair, Head, Director, Instructor I DON'T GET IT! But it may be an adventure I embark upon one day... who knows. Or dare I re-enter the.... PRIVATE SECTOR?

That's what's happening now. Two weeks until the semester break, then evaluations, then back to it.Grad school will be over before I know it. Then I'll have no choice but to get a real job... or start on that sweet, sweet PhD...

For Rent: A Craigslist Photo Ode of Confusion.

I've been new in town for a full two months now. I took a very strange and giant trust fall into this city and so far it has graciously supported me. Catch is a little too strong of a word, but it's rather floating me down quite slowly and generously and hopefully, eventually, solidly on my feet. I'm in my second sublet, which is actually back to the first house I was crashing in (remember Murphy?) and it's wonderful. My roommates are absolutely delightful. They cook delicious meals, I bake cookies, we drink wine, we quietly watch mindless TV, I disappear into my room.

THIS guy. Don't let his distinguished brow fool you. He's young and full of trouble.

I've been hunting for a place to call ours since I arrived (as there's a mere NINE DAYS until my fierce, wild, crazy, farmland dwelling, partner in crime arrives to the big city for some epic culture shock, true adventure and reuniting). Four people is a lot to have in a two bedroom and those of you who know me know I love to socialize almost as much as I love disappearing without a trace. Which is leading me here:

My life has been an endless barrage of "For Rent" signs and un-returned phone calls.

Apartment hunting in a new place comes with it's own set of challenges. Not knowing specific neighborhoods, judging which places are okay to go and view by yourself (if you're wondering: None of them. None of them are okay to look at by yourself. Just take someone with you. Don't be an idiot.), figuring out what utilities cost, and really, just finding what's available. I've of course turned to our lady patron saint of finding weird shit: Craigslist.

May she smile upon your search.

There's another site called PadMapper that was recommended to me upon moving here. In all honesty, I've had less luck with returned phone calls and e-mails on PadMapper than through Craigslist, and that's saying something. Over the last two months I have marveled over pictures of apartments on Criagslist that are posted, I thought, to entice me to want to live somewhere. I'm beginning to think they're posted as part of a new drinking game that I was unaware of (much like I've just recently found out what "Netflix and Chill" is thanks to one of my younger MFA cohort. I just can't keep up). In any case, I thought I'd share some of my favorite Craigslist and PadMapper apartment photos, or at least their "types".

The ol' Same shot, slight change:

See, such a bright home!

Oh! But also on "tree-lined" street!

Nothing says, "You'll love this place." More than, "I took extra time to tweak the lighting settings on my iPhone editor when I posted this.

This is either, "I do not understand how to internet" or, "I iz Robot Spamming. Money transfer direct to this account."

ALSO ALL CAPITOL LETTERS MEANS TRUTH IS HAPPENING HERE BUY THE THING WITH THE STUFF AND RENTING FOR LOW MONEY LARGE SPACE GREAT LOCATION LOCATION LOCATION!!!!!

 #NoFilter. Perfect Setting for #ManicPixieGirl. If you didn't #WakeUpLikeThis don't apply.

Perfect new home for your mug of perfectly steeped tea, Anthropolgie dishes, and sheer, over-sized white button down.

The blatant fish eye lens photos. One of my favorites.

This place is so tiny, you wouldn't believe it. Seriously. You couldn't believe it. Come and see it so we can prove how tiny this place is. Also: bring pepper spray and don't expect closets.

The tiniest blurriest of photos, helping no one figure out if this is the right apartment for them.

Sigh. This is just... but... never mind. Fuck you man.

Bro, the landlord doesn't even care what you do here! We didn't even have to clean when he took photos for the Craigslist ad! They'll let ANYONE live here! Beers and college and bros and weird things growing everywhere!

Making the least amount of sense:

It's really difficult to take pictures and transfer them to the internet, but we took the time to make a rudimentary emoji so you know we're as disappointed as you are. lolz. call 4 deets.

When this is the only photo:

WHAT ELSE COULD YOU POSSIBLY WANT?!?! YOU CAN EVEN SLEEP IN THIS ROOM! YOU JUST HAVE TO WANT IT BAD ENOUGH! DO YOU WANT IT?!?! DO YOU!? WASH AND DRY!

So while I continue to call and leave messages that go unreturned, while I see the same place I called about advertised and re-advertised it's hard for me to think that a small part of the property managers in this city aren't playing a bit of a trick on the new girl. There are things called brokers here, which I wouldn't have to pay, but I can't seem to get them to call me back either (I can only assume this is because I'm not willing to pay over four digits for a place to live. In my defense, I'm absolutely willing to live in a place that's falling apart).

I'll keep you updated. Adventure continues.

Me Without You

I spent the majority of my fifteen years in back home carving a place out for myself. Creating context for me. Who I was in relation to this person, or in relation to such a company, or in relation to "X" institution. I feel like I then spent my last two years in there unwittingly ripping that context apart while figuring out which parts of my hometown relied on the context as much as I had and which ones actually just wanted me around. It was a messy and in all honesty, probably a very unfair way to go about things, but effective.

That does not exist here. If it does, it's in the very early stages and no one cares. It's strange being pulled out of context. I reach back often, sending messages to loved ones back home, reminding myself that I have a name and am a human that means something to people somewhere. It's strange in a professional sense, which I expected. I have worked for many years to establish my reputation as a hard working artist in a specific community, that no one knows or cares about here. It's flat out scary in a personal context. If I had a heart attack in the middle of this train, who would care? Would anyone call 911? Who would come to visit me in the hospital? Who would drive me home?

A door I walked by every day on my way to class until I moved to another sublet. I do, thank you door, I don't need your die coaching.

It's healthy in an annoying way. Like when I tried to actually eat five servings of vegetables a day for a month (very VERY unsuccessfully, in case you're interested). My cohort is wonderful, but no matter how many hours a day you spend with someone, it's no replacement for years of working side by side. Or hours spent discussing future projects. Or being able to communicate an idea with someone with three words and four sounds because you know each other that well.

It's also no replacement for being nervous to turn a corner and see someone you don't want to talk to. Or to wonder if you said or did something to make a whole company ostracize you because they never call you for work anymore. 

Blank Slate.

I still specialize in feeling lonely in a room full of people. I'm working on branching out a little faster. I'm working on not holing up in my room and actually carrying on conversations with people around me, awkward as I can be. I'm working on relinquishing a bit of control here and there. I'm working on taking ownership of space and time. I'm working on a little more exposure of my soft bits and a little more understanding of my more sharper ones.

I've been told the goal of our degree is to make us experts at space and rhythm. We spent a day at the beach studying both. It was pretty alright.

Six weeks has flown by. There's only ten left in my first semester. I'm devouring each second.

Journey to Groceries

There's something called a "Super Fresh" not far from where I'm staying. It's okay as a grocery store, but has apparently recently been bought out so they're not re-stocking anything. It's pathetic. It depresses me to go in there and it's actually quite a little trek from where I am, so I sort of swore off of the Super Fresh train.
On a Sunday just over three weeks into my move to the big city, I decided I had earned a day confined to my bedroom Netflix-ing my life away.

I had delusions of making it to a real grocery store but all I really REALLY needed was milk, because Mac and Cheese.

Dear Mother sent me four of these and various other food products because she in convinced I am starving. Everyone: Please continue telling my Mother I am starving.

So I knit and Netflix-ed and promptly realized it was past 4 PM and I should maybe consider leaving the house at some point. I Yelped the closest grocery stores (of which there were several, but I have recently noticed that a city's idea of a "grocery store" is similar to my idea of a "gas station"). Ultimately, I found something called a "Save-A-Lot" that was about a six minute walk from my gracious hosts abode.

I mean, c'mon, Save-A-Lot? How could it not be great? I like many things that include the word "Lot" Big Lots, back home is slightly quirky, but has some great things. Sir Mix A Lot? I mean, of course. Dye Lots? Has to do with yarn and is very useful, so of course I like it. Parking Lots? Sure. They're alright.

Couldn't possibly just be a coincidence, right?

I set out on my adventure and roughly three blocks from home base, I found myself surrounded by several very large, abandoned warehouses and came across this:

Because sometimes you just gotta burn a bunch of shit on the sidewalk.

So that's cool. Just a fire in the middle of the sidewalk. Saturday night public bonfire, perhaps? Whatever, I'm sure the had permits (I'm certain they didn't) or a good reason (disposing of crime evidence? a murder weapon? a BODY?!?) I'm sure they fire department came and put it out (I haven't seen or heard a fire truck since I've been out here. I'm beginning to think they're still horse drawn out here).

 Not even a block farther down the road was the mystical land called Save-A-Lot, whose entrance was surrounded by bars. You could get through the bars, but not easily. Looking back on it, I think they were placed that way to keep people from stealing their carts (they're VERY serious about keeping all their carts) but when I squeezed through them at the time I contemplated how one had to be truly hungry to shop here. A principle concept probably directly out of line with Sir Mix A Lot's teachings (yeah, I said his teachings. Like he's booty-prophet or something), whom I had assumed would have something to do with this place...

As far as the content of the store goes, it was really quite something. I'm uncertain if any of it had passed any sort of FDA exam. The ingredient lists for most everything were longer than my arm and from a brand that I had never seen. Isles had one or two things listed as being in them and were full of anything but. Although, some form of coffee or instant coffee could be found in every isle. In short: This place was magical. And so. cheap.

I didn't take pictures of the store because I was so entranced. If you would like to experience the ultimate anti-climax, you're welcome Google Earth link here.

I can't say I'll be returning to the Save-A-Lot anytime soon, as I don't think I could sustain a functioning, highly physical, active body off of it's goods for long, but as I was passing the skate park, classically full of pre-teen boys that reeked of weed and swore almost as eloquently as my mother does, I was grateful for the experience. It was also a place that I might as well have been screaming to everyone, "HEY! I DON'T BELONG HERE! I ABSOLUTELY DON'T BELONG IN HERE RIGHT NOW!"

So the adventure continues. Country bumpkin-ing. One foot in front of the other. Slowly but surely. And victoriously:

Yes. Shameless Mac and Cheese in bed selfie. And yes. 1 box=1 serving.

In Which Homesickness Strikes

I have now been living in Philadelphia for three weeks. My program is still incredible, but it's not the only thing I'm learning. I'm learning a ton about the city too.

I got a bicycle, which is making getting my bearings around the city MUCH easier than just riding the El, which has a tendency to jostle my sense of direction. As does being surrounded by tall buildings. Funny, when I can't tell where the sun is, my sense of direction becomes really terrible.

Why is there a dinosaur in this shot? That's a ridiculous question.

I'm learning all sorts of fun things. Things like you can't buy wine or beer in grocery stores. You can buy wine at liquor stores, but not beer, beer you have to buy at beer stores. You can drink beer at beer stores sometimes, but usually you have to take it home, unless it's a special beer store/restaurant combo. Unless it's some weird street festival like Oktoberfest, then you can just take your beer outside and drink it wherever you want. You can also pay an inordinate amount of money for six packs to go at almost any bar. and you can bring your own alcohol to almost any restaurant. Seriously, Pennsylvania, with the liquor laws.

I'm also learning that, hey, maybe don't go into parts of town that make you feel weird. Like the El stop closest to where I'm living. Or north of that one street EVER. Or anywhere near Temple. What makes it feel weird? I DON'T KNOW! It's seriously been the most fascinating country bumpkin experience ever. It's not a race divide, though it may have to do with class. I've felt the least comfortable when I'm out numbered greatly by gender in neighborhoods, which I don't really even know how that happens. It's really fascinating to have this instinctual feeling of "I really don't belong here" and being an analytical human that I am I immediately start asking myself, "Why do I feel like I don't belong here?" "What would make me feel more at home in this situation?" "Why am I asking myself these questions instead of focusing on getting off this block?"

I have gotten the stone cold bitch face down to a science. Like I didn't already.

"What about that shadowy part?" I asked and James Earl Jones said to me, "That is North Philly. You must never go there." I then promptly got off at a North Philly El stop. Sorry James. At least it was daylight hours.

I spent some time in South Philly yesterday, as I hadn't really explored that area before. South Philadelphia, for those who don't know is what upper-middle-class people would generally refer to as a "nice" part of town or "quaint" or "so bo-ho" or "cultured" or something else ridiculous. It was full of people having brunch and families in parks. There was an art festival happening in Rittenhouse Square and people enjoying their weekend everywhere. Why was I there? Come on guys, for the yarn shop, obviously.

Loop is one of the few yarn shops I could find in Philly that wasn't somewhere far off in the distance in West Philly or in a mythical land some call "New Jersey". Everything about this shop is delightful. The ladies working were warm and welcoming (yes, of course I dropped of my resume and fished for work-though to no avail), the shop itself was beautiful with hardwood floors and lovely displays, and the clientele was exactly what I've come to expect from yarn stores. Versatile and quirky as all get out (one of them was even in town briefly from said mythical land called New Jersey. Guys- stereotypes exist for a reason).

I thought finding a lovely yarn shop would make me feel more at home and in my element in a new city, but alas, it made me long for the things I saw echos of familiarity in. I ache a little for home this weekend.

When I'm constantly busy working through the week and physically exhausted from school it's very easy for me to keep my Philadelphia blinders on. But when the weekend hits and I have some time to stew, I start to miss small things like nature. And being not sweaty from humidity. And of course, the humans. I find myself illogically, immensely frustrated that I can't just go visit Boise for the weekend. But I can't. And that's okay. It will make it all the sweeter when I can. See you someday, Boise.

It's Only the Beginning

*Please Note: Things are getting more personal. My life is getting less private. Expect to see that reflected here. I'm exposing more (MAYBE BOOBS?!?! WHO KNOWS?! READ ON!). There's more me here than usual. *

I've just wrapped my second week of graduate school and it's wonderful. It's hard work. It's exactly what I was hoping it would be and then some.

School uniform! Looking particularly maniacal.

Philadelphia Fringe Festival happens to be running for this first month of school- which is incredible. We're seeing tons of shows that we'll be discussing at a later point in class. We're being encouraged to "Fringe-Binge" to our heart's content. Philly Fringe is chalk full of local, National and International performances in theater, dance and visual arts of all sorts. Locations are all over the city in basements of bars, formal theaters, empty store fronts, outside in parks, everywhere. It's been a beautiful introduction to the city.

A shot of the house pre-show of Pig Iron's Fringe Fest Piece: Swamp Is On. Sheer rock n' roll awesome.

I find my country bumpkin-ness kicking in from time to time, but nothing that's gotten me killed thus far. Sometimes someone on the street makes eye contact with you and you exchange pleasant hellos. Sometimes someone makes eye contact with you and then asks you what you name is and if you've got a minute and looks at you like maybe he wants to take your skin off your body and wear you as a suit. Hey- there's all kinds of people everywhere you go. In that respect, I've had to raise my guards a bit. In class I've been trying to find where they are so I can take them down a notch.

The view from my crappy local grocery store. I was mugged while I took this picture. Not really. But I felt like I should have been because I was taking a picture of a city skyline in a grocery store. Doing everything but exclaiming, "Whul golly gee!"

There's 15 of us. We are all exceptional. And challenging. Over the last 6 years of beginning my professional career I have had the great fortune of working with many of my favorite humans. Former class mates I had always admired. Professors I was crazy about. Professionals in the community who invited my voice into a room. Drinking buddies with a drive. All of the above. Regardless of who they were, we had a former mode of communication before we began working together, with very few exceptions.

Not so with this class.

NERD! Happy, happy nerd.

We range in age from twenty-three to fifty-four (maybe older, but I'm not one to inquire about ages), which is thrilling for me. We range in experience from fresh out of undergrad to producing professional regional theater and beyond. We range in background from military to Carnegie Mellon grads to circus school grads. We make something together in varying group sizes every week and it's extremely difficult.

1st and 2nd years.

I find myself on a precipice fairly frequently. I'm uncertain as to what that precipice is exactly, as I generally have been steering clear of it because it feels like it could be doubt and anguish and sadness and tears and fear. However, in the interest of being less guarded and more open and showing off some of that sexy vulnerability, here's a touch of honest openness for you: As much as I revere my independence and am proud as an individual, I miss my partner in crime out here a great deal and it sneaks up on me in what I deem as unfair ways. Often I'm so involved emotionally and physically in courses that missing him feels romanticized and melodramatic in an almost sweet, longing, classical way. Other times I just wake up plain angry, annoyed and immaturely inconvenienced. It's strange, but I'm fairly certain a good thing, in the long run, though immensely frustrating in the short term.

So much stupid happy.

I also just miss being established somewhere. The community here has been kind to me; offering couches and sublets to house me until we have enough money and security to find a place for both of us. It will take time. It's reassuring knowing that I don't have to establish myself here if I don't want to. I'm here for grad school, not to start a completely new life, though that may happen. I'm allowed to be temporary right now.

The beautiful view from my gracious hosts' roof deck. Yummy.

Thank you for your text messages. Your Facebook updates. For favoriting tweets. You make me feel close and warm and snugly to that sweet Boise bosom. Heh. Boise bosom.

Firsts

And so the adventure begins.

I arrived three days ago. I caught a cab. I big part of me wanted to go for public transit right off the bat. I'm not 100% stupid though, so I took my extra heavy bag and two carry ons to the cab stand and paid my $40 fare (totally worth it) to get to my generous hosts' house.

Totally nerdy picture of a city bridge I took from the cab.

The place I'm currently staying is delightful. Two performers (one focusing predominately in the dance medium) and someone that I'm fairly certain is a marketing director of some kind. 

When I first arrived no one was home. Keys were left for me sneakily. I hauled my things up stairs and settled in, noting the very sweet and excited dog in the kennel in the living room. 

"Can I let your pooch out, or does it stay kenneled till you get home?" I texted my host.

Gah! That FACE!

"You can let him out! His name's Murphy. He's my roommates. I think there's a leash by the door if you want to take him out to pee too!" 

Of course I did. 1. I love dogs. 2. What a nice thing to come home to after a long day at work, knowing that your dog had already been taken out. 3. Why bother thinking beyond that? WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE WRONG WITH THIS PLAN?!

I changed out of my sweaty shirt and grabbed Murphy and we were off! Sure I was in a city I didn't know, but I had looked at maps pretty studiously for the last few weeks, and Murphy clearly knew exactly where we were going.

We strolled along, he peed on everything. He led me around a corner and tried to tug me across the street to a dog park. I know better than to take a dog I don't know very well into a dog park. At least I have that going for me. 

I wanted to turn around and head back, as I realized I'd neglected to leave a note for Murphy's owners and they might be worried that someone had robbed their apartment of their dog. Maybe my host had forgotten to tell her roommates that I was coming in today. I hadn't even met these people yet. For all they know maybe I'm just a serial dog napper. 

Now of course as I started trying to loop back Murphy was NOT okay with they fact that we were missing his favorite point of the walk. You know, that part with grass, and other dogs? I apologized to him, (as dogs totally understand what an apology is and it fixes everything) and kept tugging him along, attempting to not look like some sort of animal abusing idiot while trying to find my way back to the apartment I had left six blocks ago.

I pulled out my phone and mapped myself, which I HATE doing, but I was out of options. I kept heading down and re-checking block by block. At about the fifth time I checked my phone (we'd probably been out for a good half hour at that point) I looked up from my screen to see a man 20 yards from me eyeing me suspiciously. He then squatted down with a sign of relief and said, "Hi Murph."  

Over apologies ensued. I felt dreadful, then promptly called him by the wrong name. Then apologized some more. I should have known better than to take him without asking you directly, I should have at the very least left a note, I should have not been an idiot.

Murph on our totally non-approved walk.

It took us a couple days but I think we're on the level now. He cooked the whole house breakfast this morning. It was delicious. I'm very lucky and trying to be the least noticeable house guest I can be. I leave them tomorrow.

I have housing lined up for September as of last night.

I still don't have a student ID.

I'm still not registered for classes, that start on Monday. 

I have a very small, part time position working in the office of the theater. 

I have a cat that wakes me up at three AM to snuggle. He's lovely.

I have my chevro-legs.

I have a ukulele, thanks to a dear friend who gifted me one we've named the "starter uke" that I am to gift and sign as soon as I purchase a better one.

I have a kick ass theatre program and a diverse and exciting cohort. 

I have work to do. I need to start living a less guarded existence. It hasn't gotten me far. It certainly hasn't gotten me anywhere compared to laying all my cards out and showing my under belly and saying, "I could use some help." "I'm really vulnerable right now." "Please." "Thank you."

I like this place. A lot. People are nice. I've been thrown into a family of people who want me to do well.

Adventure officially begun.

Adventure.

A little more than four weeks ago I heard about a new MFA program. A program across the country that had recently come into existence from the magical roots of a theater company that I've long admired from afar that started in the mid nineties.

I was in the midst of finding something to do while working at my summer job which consisted of sometimes teaching and sometimes making myself available to teachers while they taught kids to sing songs from musical theater. I buried myself in an office and tried to shut out the non-melodious sound of 9-year-olds learning what the words "off key" mean.

I went to the schools website and figured it was far to late to apply for this Fall, but I figured I'd get a head start on Fall 2016 and started my application. I think I put in my address and saved it, going back to do something more relevant to work.

Here's some things they do:

They're website's pretty great too: pigiron.org


Two days later I got an e-mail from the school.

We've got spots available for Fall 2015.
You should apply.
Have any questions?
Need anything? 
Here's the program director.
Here's three former students you can talk to about anything you want.
What kind of theater do you make?
Where are you? Boise? That's so cool.
Let's Skype interview.
We like you. Do you like us?
Come. Please. Bring your weird Boise magic.

Now, there's some pretty fantastic roller coaster craziness that happened in the two weeks leading up to my departure- which is now in two days. Things that multiple times made me come to the conclusion that I couldn't go, then could, then couldn't again. They're entries in and of themselves and I'll save them for another time.

As of now, I have less than 48 hours left in what I have made my hometown for the last fifteen years. It's weird. I'm still unsure of where I'm sleeping the first night I'm there- though I have a last resort, so that's good. I'm terrified. And so excited. I'm moving to Philadelphia to make some art with people. It's going to be an Adventure.

Now if you'll excuse me. I need to get back to putting my life in boxes.

Because It's Not Easy

Saying what you mean and meaning what you say all the time. I worked on this for long hours that turned into days that turned into weeks that turned into, "have I spent so long on it now that it's disingenuous?" But it's not.

I shared some scraps of it with you guys, but here's the final incarnation. Well- one of the final incarnations. It was tweaked quite a bit for each individual school, and I'm willing to bet not a single program actually read it. Not even especially not the program I was accepted into, but I did enjoy writing it. And I think it's just a good exercise for artists to do. "Statement of Purpose" is probably the most intimidating name for it, but having to justify why you're doing what you're doing is hard. And like most hard things good for you (insert penis joke here. And another one for the word "insert". Why are prestigious programs not calling me back again?)

Please kindly respect that this is not an invitation for your editorial, or an exclamation of how pretentious or not pretentious enough I am. It's just me sharing some work.

Read at your own risk.

            I am an asset-filled, resourceful harbinger of my generational and personal heritage and history. I am the proud owner of a beautiful collection of many mistakes. Today I am a knitting teacher, performing, table-waiting, dishwashing, directing, paper pushing, traveling theater artist. I explore funny walks, interesting sounds, stitch patterns, puppetry, meal serving, Mexico and play constructing. I’ve made sweaters, pigtails, mittens and skins from yarn. I tinker with other devisors in an attempt to find universal truths, turning to classic texts for examples. My diverse background in making provides me with a rich tool set for theatrical creating.
            I strive to be equal parts detective and explorer. I am well versed in how to speak clearly onstage and how to love deeply, quickly and easily in life. I utilize a lexicon as effectively as I do my empathy. I have an equally deep desire to research and analyze as I do to be guided by immediate kinesthetic response. My work ethic is paralleled only by my demand for adventure and play. I continually mine and forage my fields for a perfect blend of unusual and classic, something as guttural as it is soothing. I think of a theater as a laboratory, my brain as a mad scientist and my body as a Bunsen burner. I have a voice that is strong, full and hungry for a venue, feedback and hoards of co-conspirators.
            I have torrid love affairs with stories. In listening to, learning from, telling and re-telling I attempt to consume stories while sharing them, to make them a part of me and my soon-to-be history. When telling stories, I indulge in collaboration with fellow artists, finding new meanings in old stereotypes and iconography, and blending the necessary technical with the unexpected and honest instinctual.  I explore cultural and personal heritage through story telling, recalling symbolic imagery and morphing it to serve specificity in story.
            I crave more tools as an artist. More modes and methods of communication with an audience and my co-creators, more instruments with which to devise and play. My current theatrical vocabulary allows me to tell interesting stories and is wrought with potential. I am a rule-following, limit-questioning wise-cracker who longs to break off chunks of the technical rules and gnaw at them until they’re mine again. I look forward to picking apart each rule, each “should” and “shouldn’t” to discover why it has earned its respect in the theatrical hierarchy and how they can best serve story, questioning each one as I follow it.

            I look forward to a future of meeting new artists, co-creators and audience members with contrasting and diverse backgrounds, to a future of learning new rules that are ripe for following, bending and breaking. I’m looking to a future of collaborating with like and different-minded people who are up to the task of planning the world take-over of story.

Free To A Good Home

Is the sign I'll be wearing around my neck at graduate school auditions next year. Don't get me wrong, I know I aimed high in my grad school application process. I know I was shooting for Ivy league and private schools with nary a legacy nor an interesting ethnicity to my name. Never mind that no one says, "Second time's the charm!"

At the end of the Pier during my visit auditioning in Chicago. It snowed 19 inches my first 12 hours there. It was wonderful.

So next year I'll attend the mass "college fair" style graduate school auditions, white flag in tow, CV thicker than a New York Times Bestseller, experience far beyond any recent undergrad, little investment in any of the programs there and some damn fine, well-polished monologues. Not to mention my charming personality (and hopefully by then I'll figure out a way to check my cynicism at the door).

In the mean time I'll continue to pick up 15 hours in an office, 35 in a restaurant, 25 in retail, rehearse 4 hours a night for a show, direct some amazingly talented and beautiful performers each weekend of the month and catch up with the contemporary play reading series for children. I'm fairly certain I've been talked into teaching this summer again too. I have a feeling all of that will keep my mind off how much more disappointed my mother is than I am that I didn't get into grad school AGAIN.

Do you guys remember 1982? When my mom and dad get approached by graduate programs before they even finished undergrad and offered a bunch of money to pursue their education instead of jumping straight into one of the very plentiful and very profitable professional sectors of their field? Remember that? An remember how right now, in 2015 is exactly like how it was then, with all sorts of well paying jobs and tons of educational opportunities? Remember how all that's totally true?

Yeah. Me either.

So tell your friends in academia. I'm sick of being overlooked. Imma 'bout to blow some minds next year. With my killer grammar skillz and spelling and connection to youth culture. All the programs be like, "Damn gurl, where you been all our two years with your broad spectrum of professional and educational experience and clear communication skillz?" An' I be like, "Ask Yale." Because as I was told while visiting to audition for them (not BY them, to be clear), "White girls don't get into Yale."

As promised: Me eating my most recent rejection letter. Sweet, sweet, delicious rejection. I just can't get enough of you.

Now. To be fair. If you look closely at that letter (I have blurred out the name of the school because I have a lot of respect for the program and don't want anyone to get the wrong idea that I'm bad-mouthing them or "mad" at them some how...) you'll not that I was a finalist for their program, which accepts 7 students out of the roughly 800 that audition. They were very kind. One of only two schools that I really still wanted to go to after I auditioned with them.

Also to be fair: I did get accepted into a program. Initially I was called back and had such a weird, backwards, uncomfortable experience sitting in on classes and talking with faculty and staff and while the performances I saw were lovely- I've been doing that level of performance, even producing that level since I graduated from my undergrad program. They were very kind to offer me a spot in their MFA program. They have no opportunity for financial aid. I wasn't into it. Thank goodness I know myself at least that well.

Snapped this while I was chillin' with the Ewoks on my visit to a school that actually liked me.

I love my life. I love the work that I get to do. The stuff that's directly connected to theater and the stuff that's not and the stuff that falls somewhere in between. I work in a restaurant with people I would never meet otherwise. I work at a yarn shop with people I would never get to meet otherwise AND I get to teach people a skill, or save the day on their project or help them welcome their first or seventh great-grandchild with cozy goodness. I get to direct a variety show that I'm fairly certain saves my life every time I see them. And every time I elbow my way into a circumstance, somehow, someway, people ask me to stay.

So watch out graduate programs. The elbows are out next time.