Dear World, I love you but you're crazy

I have a few drafted posts that I've been meaning to polish up and post for a few weeks.

You won't be seeing them today.

Instead I just wanted to share an e-mail exchange I had with my mother, who called on the evening of the election just so she could talk to me because she was scared. My mother who described herself the next morning as a "miserable mess of protoplasm". The following is my response to her very broken-sounding message she sent my yesterday morning. I wonder which of us was more scared. I felt like she needed more comforting than I did, but in sending her a message to re-assure her, I wound up making myself feel a whole lot better too.

Mom,

I haven't watched any coverage since I heard the news online. I can't. It's blasting all over social media and I can't.

And it's okay. The more love and gratitude I pour into the world, the less room there will be for hate and fear, right? I keep telling myself that, though I'm very unsure of it's validity. Historically these times of great adversity provide an exceptional background for making some incredible art, so that in the very least excites me, though it doesn't make it any less scary. Him being president sucks. It sucks so much more that a whole country that I was pretty sure I liked a lot elected him. I heard your voice echo in my head several times last night, "But I don't know anyone who voted for him." I guess there's a lot of people I don't know.

I'm scared for my friends. For people who aren't white. Who aren't heterosexual. Who are weirdos. Who aren't men. But I still oddly find faith and joy in people everywhere. Something I find as satisfying as I do confusing, being a woman of no religious association. I do believe in people. They're awesome. I've seen it.

I'm including a picture I took on a walk over the Ben Franklin bridge that I tweeted today. This city speaks to me through graffiti regularly. Sometimes in scary-accurate ways. I love it.

I love you. Don't apologize for anything. You and Dad have given me ambition, intelligence and a moral compass that cannot be swayed. Those things will serve me so well over the next four years, and I hope I'll be able to serve others with them too.

One little foot in front of the other, even if everyone else seems to be stumbling backwards.

Sarah

I don't know why I'm sharing this. I really don't. I just want to throw a voice out in the dark in case someone needs to hear it. I just want to keep sharing things that are important to me.

I have the next few days off from school and while holing up in my apartment and being sad sounds a little tempting, instead I intend to make stuff. And love people. And laugh loudly.

The Man Who Stares

My neighborhood is not a quiet one. I live on a main thoroughfare, just on the boarder of hipster-land, about to topple into "keep-your-gentrification-to-yourself" borough. My neighbors are friendly, there are urban dogs who have likely never seen a patch of grass spanning more than a block in their lives that I know by name. My landlord stops by regularly to check on the units. He has a warm smile and a lazy eye. The woman who lives upstairs is a story for another time.

I'm a stoop kid. I love a good stoop, and mine is pretty excellent. During the Summer I've spent long hours sipping yuenglings and passing the evening invested in the neighborhood bustle and how it evolves. People running the last of their errands in the late afternoon phasing into people  jogging into dusk, transferring over to squeals of laughter as small groups stagger home drunk.

I don't remember the first time I noticed him. Directly across the street from my safe and warm stoop, a hulking man. At least six foot five. Standing, his frame nearly taking up the entire front picture window of the brick building across the street, just looking out. Staring with his whole body. It was dark enough out and there was just barely enough light in the apartment he was looking from that he was just a silhouette. He could have easily been one of those life-sized cardboard cutouts people get at party stores of James Dean or Elvis or Jean Luc Picard. But he was not. No facial features, no color, arms at his sides and with a massiveness that was enrapturing and a stoic, breath-taking stillness.

At first I thought he was waiting for someone to come home. He had a sort of "waiting for his daughter to come home from a first date" look about him. But no one came. And he didn't move. He stood motionless for about fifteen minutes and because he was just a silhouette, he could have easily been staring directly at me. Or not. Or maybe.

This was months ago, when I first moved into this place. I still see him. Very frequently. He stands in his giant picture window at the level of the street and stares out of it, blinds open. Still. Watching. It's a beautiful image, though still disconcerting. I've yet to wave at him and I don't think I will, though I know he knows I see him. I've yet to see him outside of his house.

I try to fathom what he's up to. What he's looking for or at or to. Is he nervous? Waiting for someone who will never come home again? Protective? Curious? Angry? Paranoid? Appreciative?

I've come to taking a great amount of comfort in looking up and seeing him there. A watchdog of sorts. There's a good chance his brain works differently. Maybe in a way that isn't so okay with the outside world. A way that allows him to stare, intently, motionless at a window presenting unchanging scenery for an extended period of time. His consistency has become part of my scenery, part of my expectation, part of the stories I watch unfold in an evening.

I've come to be thrilled by most things I see that are not ultimately pedestrian. The Man Who Stares is no exception. Often I imagine we stare at each other and weave the most passionate and incredible stories about each other. I know I do. I at my stoop and he at his window. Never the two shall meet, so long as the street parts us.

Pulling a Gardner

Last week around lunch I was passing through the lounge and overheard one of my classmates in conversation say, "Yeah, I pulled a Gardner last night."

There are several reasons this made me feel bad ass. Allow me to present:

First. I didn't play a lot of sports growing up. I mean, I played some sports, but I was never very good. I was a fair swimmer but there was no swim team in high school and I loved soccer but was really terrible at it. Other than that there was marching band which I absolutely hated. What I'm getting at here is that even with a first name as common as it was, frequently leading to three or four Sara/h's within a vicinity to looking up expectantly no one called me "Gardner". (Bonus info: the "S" sound is one of the few syllables you can hear when people are whispering, no matter how quietly. This led me to a paranoia/self-importance as a child that people were whispering about me regularly). I tried to get people to call me by my last name for quite some time. Lack of friends people who needed to get my attention regularly and not being a part of a sports team delayed this for thirty years, apparently.

Second. Your very existence being literally verbalized (by that I don't mean spoken, I mean turned into a verb) is pretty great. Since this first classmate said it, I've heard it thrown around the cohort on several occasions. It makes me feel like a total rock star.

Keystone & Crossbones. For badasses only.

Are you dying to know yet? What "pulling a Gardner." is? It's a very bad ass, rock star thing to pull. It's so insanely cool. Are you ready? Here it is:

Mike was telling someone he went to bed at 9:30. You know, like Gardner does. That Gardner sleeps SO HARD! She's always getting 8+ hours. She sleeps like she's got something to prove.

Which brings me to: Third. I think most of my friends pre-grad school (meaning most of my friends) would consider almost anything else in the world "pulling a Gardner" before going to bed early. Here's a few thoughts:

• Saying yes to every project someone asks you to participate in.
• Consuming a pint of Ben and Jerry's for lunch.
• Getting three hours of sleep before working a double.
• Getting three hours of sleep before going into a tech weekend for two shows.
• Getting three hours of sleep be fuck you sleep, I got shit to do.
• Hoping on a plane and not telling anyone where you're going.
• Leaving anywhere without telling anyone where you're going.
• Being secretive for no apparent reason.
• Working 4-5 very part-time jobs.
• Consuming an entire pint of Jameson.
• Climbing trees at 2 am. 
• Picking drunken fights with strangers that kind of deserve it.
• Sending postcards to people with no reason.

Please understand: I know that none of these things are Gardner-specific. I get it. Just as going to bed at 9:30 is not relate-able to only me. And some of these things I still do. One of the reasons it made me feel like such a bad ass though, is it speaks volumes to what being in grad school has done to my life so far. I've prioritized my own well-being in a way that I always thought was selfish before. My program is highly physical so not getting sick and being fully present/rested is a safety concern first and foremost. Not to mention that getting a shit ton of sleep has improved my general mood immensely.

Gotta get up pretty early to conquer this city.

Don't misunderstand: I don't go to be at 9/9:30 every night. There are even nights when I'm up until 2 am still (but never on a school night, kids). Though, they are less frequent and it's pretty rare that I see the back side of 11 pm lately.

I don't have huge amounts of judgement for the person I was a year and half ago (I certainly have none for anyone who chooses to live their life similarly). She was pretty delightful. Likable, charming, all that stuff. But she would not have done very well in school. She likely would have been miserable and tired and sick all the time.

I'm beyond grateful to be studying here. These people. This place. Even with the seemingly never-ending changes that it's bringing into my life, and feeling like I'm in a constant state of re-adjusting, I'm learning things about performance and myself at an exponential rate that brings me so much joy and excitement.

So if you're feeling run down or overworked or a little lame and need an extra dose of bad assery to your life, try pulling a Gardner: for true rock stars and bad asses.

How I Made My Father Uncomfortable. Part 2 Feat. Simon and Garfunkel

Part 2 out of an infinite amount. I have a knack for making my father uncomfortable.

We were a Simon and Garfunkel family.

Also a Tina Turner, The Beetles, Fleetwood Mac, Michael Jackson, Joni Mitchell family.

Simon and Garfunkel was one of my favorites though. The first vinyl I purchased for $1 at a thrift store that when I was in middle school. Wednesday Morning 3am.

My dad loves Simon and Garfunkel, probably leaning heavier towards the Simon. They filmed part of One Trick Pony (a highly mediocre to terrible film that was vaguely reminiscent of Paul Simon's career) in my Dad's home town and he proudly talks about trying to be an extra in a bar scene. "I was almost in that movie."

We listened to Simon and Garfunkel in the car often. We sang along a lot. Loudly and joyfully. I love the group more now because they make me think of hanging out with my dad.

The song Cecilia came on one day when he was driving me to one of the many waspy extra curricular activities I got to partake in. I was probably 8 or 9 and I needed some clarity regarding this relationship between our smooth-singing narrator and this lady Cecilia. The following is by NO means a transcript, who knows how my memory has morphed and changed this conversation over the last few decades but this is roughly how I recall it:

It may be useful to know that there was never a time in my memory that I didn't know what sex was, or in context of this song, making love. Mom just made sure we knew way more than we wanted to.

Young Me: So, he finds her cheating on him.

Dad: Yep.

Young Me: And then he's happy she takes him back?

Dad: Uh-Huh.

Young Me: I would think that he would have to take HER back, because she's the one cheating?

Dad: I guess not.

Young Me:... He just went to wash his face and he comes back and she's already cheating on him!? How long did it take him to wash his face?!

Dad: I don't know. Maybe... poetic license?

Young Me: And why is he so excited when she loves him again? Don't they have some talking to do if she replaced him so quickly? And what's that he says after?

Dad: "I fall on the floor and I'm laughing."

Young Me: That doesn't make any sense! Why isn't he more upset? She slept with another man within, like, minutes! That just sounds like a really bad couple. She doesn't treat him very well. But I really like the music.

Dad: Wanna listen to the next track?

Young Me: Is it The Boxer? What's a whore and why is it on Seventh Avenue and comfortable?

Okay, that last one was a leap of artistic license, but you get the idea. I preferred posing these questions to my Dad because I could gain not only literal meaning, but also social standing of the topic by gauging his comfort level. Mom was comfortable talking about anything and often told us more than we wanted to know about a given topic. Mom and I would have had a discussion about how it's not really any of our business who Cecilia's sleeping with because we're not in a relationship with her.

I think it's worth mentioning that while pulling an image for this post, I did some light reading on the song and found that Simon's intent was a song for St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music in Catholicism. This makes a lot of sense and I'm willing to bet that my dad wished he knew that when I asked him more than two decades ago, but the conversation would likely not have been nearly as memorable.

Cecilia. Patron Saint of Music and fickle, fickle mistress.

Tune in next time when I ask my Dad why the SNL skit where Southern women get really excited when "Colonel Ingus" comes back to town.

From A Concerned Friend

Something a little more uplifting than the last post. Please enjoy.

Dear Fellow Humans Who do Not Remove Their Pants Immediately Upon Arriving At Home,

I have some questions I'd like to ask you. I don't mean to pry into your personal life, goodness knows I'm not trying to pick a fight or make anyone uncomfortable. But after many months of living in a new place, full of humidity and a thick, oppressive heat I've become increasingly concerned. Are you okay? Do you posess all the nerve endings necessary to properly care for your legs? Are you, as a patient in an episode of House, unable to sense pain or perhaps, heat, in your body so you are unable to react to it? I'm concerned about your physical well-being. I have a few theories that I'm interested in running by you to spare you the possible embarrassment of whatever condition you may have that binds you so closely to the tool of the devil himself: pants.

Are you missing the skin from your legs? Are your pants substituting for skin in a way that were you to remove them your legs would collapse into a heap of muscle and sinew and bones once you removed them? I know the shape of my legs changes once pants are removed, which is one of the main reasons for removing them, but perhaps you lack the skin to contain your legs beneath you without the aid of pants.

Are you punishing yourself for something? Did you do something so terrible that even in the privacy of your own home, somewhere that it is completely socially acceptable to wear whatever you choose or choose not, you would choose to wrap and confine your entire lower half? What was this unspeakable crime that you committed? And surely whatever it was, we can come up with a sufficient and far more humane punishment than the terrors of being confined to a private pant prison. Surely. 

Are you a completely unfeeling human?

Wait.

Are you a robot, whose circuits need to be concealed and hidden beneath two tubes of confining fabric?

Are your pants special somehow? Do you shop in a special section of the store in order to purchase pants that feel as though they are not touching your body at all? Do you perhaps treat them with something which caused them to feel light and airy instead of  something akin to a snugged-up sausage casing?

I'd certainly like to believe that I am the exception. That perhaps the norm is to remain fully pants'd until bed time and then transfer into the evils that are full, button-down pajamas. I have considered this fiction and would like to present how this cannot be the case with the following scientific research*:

Pants are belt ruin-ers. You know that cool leather belt you just scored at a thrift store? God, it's so cool. Can't wait to wear it with those awesome pants every day for the next week and get compliments on it everyt day. Time to wash the pants? Cool, just take the belt out before... What the what?! Why is my sweet new belt completely bent and morphed into a crumpled snake? Of course. Your pants were jealous of the attention your belt was getting and so it set out to destroy this thing of beauty you once loved.

Pants are bad for impressionable legs and torsos. You can see the effects frequently. Some say it's just bad circulation, that some legs are just set up that way, but I know it's because the pants do it to them. The grab hold of them and push and push until they leave red marks that look just like pants all over legs. Pocket impressions on thighs, inseam impressions on young, unassuming ankles and the worst: button and waistband impressions on bellies.

"Comfortable pants" do not exist. Comfortable pants are called leggings or sweat pants and are only appropriate when the temperature dips below 55 degrees farenhight. Comfortable pants are not called pants.

Pants-less household tasks improve your sense of humor. Doing dishes. Folding laundry. Sweeping. All funnier without bottoms. Or showing your bottom. As a bonus, being pants-less will make you more cautious with things like cooking and washing pots and pans in very hot water.

Character Building. Being chilly builds character, which can happen once you adapt to your (hopefully) air-conditioned home. Being hot increases anger, discomfort and can cause dehydration and death**. 

Increased Accessibility. This point requires no additional explanation.

Decreased Circulation. Confining legs causes poor circulation, which can lead to blood clots, which can lead to strokes, which can lead to death. So pants are pretty much worse than smoking.

Separation Anxiety. Have you looked at your pants-less legs recently? Have you seen how close they are? God, they just love each other. Always next to each other, all the time. Sharing everything from secrets to the weight you put on them the the agony of your footwear choices (seriously guys, stop wearing converse to wait tables, it's just mean to your body). Why would you keep them apart from each other for so long?

I know you may wonder, "Hey, if you hate pants so much, why wear them at all? As a lady you have many socially acceptable options at your disposal." This is very true, my smarty-smart pants reader. I do. To be honest, morning me is a bit of a different human than afternoon me. Morning me says, "Oh fuck yeah dark wash denim that hugs all up on me paired with some sweet boots and over-sized tee shirt". Morning me also seems to frequently think she's in a 90's grunge band and 100 pounds. Afternoon me thinks the Armageddon is upon us and we will all be suffocated by sticky pollution air and my skin will be forever wet, salty, puffy and red. 

So I guess afternoon me is a woke pig on slaughter day?

To conclude. If you are the sort of person who gets home after a long day of work and lounges around in your home still in your jeans, or slacks or whatever you call your personal pant penitentiary, please consider letting yourself free. Just try it. Get home, close door, remove pants. 

No. I don't know why you didn't try it earlier.

You're welcome.

*Based entirely upon individual empirical evidence without control groups, formal structure or any set experimentation.

**Please google "Hyperbole Definition"

I Just Needed A Few Things

The following is a true story. Something that I just recently put to paper, though have recounted several times since it occurred. I'll likely continue working on it. It struck me. It has stuck to my guts. I think it's important to keep sharing it, even though I don't take a lot of joy in the role I played nor the events that unfolded.

It's also part of my "making other" portion of my contract. I'm sharing a work in progress:

I was at the grocery store, I just needed a few things. The one down the street from my house. The one that I always complain about the produce selection.

I stood in the check out line with my few items and waited patiently behind a mother/daughter/granddaughter checking out. I'm good at waiting patiently. I glazed over a bit, as I often do when waiting, pretending to read the cover of tabloids and gum labels. The youngest generation of the trio in front of me was 1 1/2, 2? 3? Maybe 5? I'm bad with ages, particularly of children. She was sitting in the shopping cart seat, specifically designed with children such as herself in mind, chewing on her tiny, soft and undoubtedly mushy, finger nails mindlessly, with a glazed-over look I could relate to, as the cashier rang up her family's groceries. 

No one was smiling, though grandma seemed pleasant enough, relatively speaking.

Mom said to the little girl, "Stop biting your nails."

The child looked at her with her hands stuffed into her face. Not indignant, just blank. Chewing away.

"Stop biting your nails." Second verse. Same as the first. 

Child, with appropriate-for-her-age child-eyes stares at mom, unmoved.

"Stop biting your nails." With a little more sternness. Not yelling.

Child still stares at mom. Still chews.

Then swiftly, as though something may happen to her precious offspring had she not done something immediately, Mom raises her had and smacks the girl's, nails, hand, mouth, face and all and said loudly and with the authority of using all three names, "Stop biting your nails you little bitch!"

.

And Grandma didn't say anything. And the Cashier didn't say anything. And I didn't say anything.

What I've Been About. Mostly Pictures.

                                    

                                      Smashed Barbie Doll in the middle of the street.

        

                                                                    The Rail Park

                          

                         

                                

                          

                           I'm so healthy and sustainable, eating a big bowl of fruit for breakfast!

                                       

                             Dinner. (Not Pictured, the pint of Ben and Jerry's that was lunch)

       

                                                       The Rail Park. Part 2.

       

                                                            Best part about work.

                        

                                                   Best part about work Part 2.

                       

                                                          Sunrise from my house.

                       

                                                                      Bounty.

                                     

                                                                      Projects.

Fool Me Once - Shame For Everyone!

Recommended Listening for this post: http://youtu.be/Q9WZtxRWieM

When I was about 24-years-old I was working in a fancy-ish restaurant. The kind of restaurant that has a pretentious black book filled with house-made cocktails from fresh-squeezed juices with names that you cannot pronounce.

It was very slow one night and I was cut early, around 8 or so and I sat at the bar where my friend was still working. She made me several delicious drinks. The dangerous kind that you don't really calculate properly. She didn't want me to go home because she was going out after work and said I should join her.

Once she closed up we got up and I unlocked my bike, walking it along side us to a neighboring bar. I'd need my bike to get home later, as I lived a fair distance from downtown at the time.

I tripped over my bike at one point. The pedal caught my shin, or something. Something that's not completely out of the question, drunk or sober to happen when you're walking your bike on a sidewalk that you're also sharing with a friend. I tripped over it and landed on the sidewalk. It was fine and silly. My friend helped me up and we chuckled the rest of our way to the bar at my clumsiness.

I didn't go out often. So when I walked into the bar and saw a group of people I knew, I was thrilled, and so were they. We had a mutual moment of, "HIIIII!!!!!" Until I watched their faces fall as they looked at me. They were instantly somber. Even a little scared. It was hard not to be offended. Or extremely self-conscious. I wasn't sure what had provoked the change in them.

One of the women from the group grabbed my wrist and took me to the bathroom where I faced a chin and upper lip with minimal dried blood. My jaw dropped and that was the kicker. About half of both of my front teeth were missing. 

The rest of the night is a boring tale of a young inebriated woman attempting to find affirmation that she's doing anything right in her life, so I'll spare you.

My dentist was able to get me in on very short notice. He was non-judgmental, kind and light-hearted (as always- if you ever need a dentist, this one's amazing). He had my teeth fixed temporarily and affordabley, as I don't have health insurance, never mind dental. He warned me that I would very likely eventually have to have crowns on these two teeth, but this would do the job for now.

Sometimes stuff gets stuck in the seam of these teeth. It looks like my teeth are stained. If you look closely, you can see a jagged edge where a smooth one should be. I become so ashamed of my teeth. So ashamed that I try not to smile, or when I do I look down and away so people can't see my mark of shame. The stupid choice I made to have a drink six years ago that resulted in permanent (and VERY minor) disfigurement. The choice to not go home right after work. The resulting fight that happened with my then-boyfriend. The foolish choice I made to live so far out from the downtown area I adored. 

I know that dwelling on all of these past things is a really excellent use of my time and energy, obviously, that's why I did it.

No. I do it because I'm ashamed.

Don't worry, I, like many in our culture revel in shame in not just one way, but many, many ways!

Those pants don't fit anymore? Shame!

Did something that a close friend disagrees with? Shame!

Not strong enough to do x? Shame!

Cry in front of someone? SHAME!

Didn't get into graduate school the first time? Or the second? Eat your shame, you fool.

Make something that someone didn't like? Shame. Shame. Shame. Gut punch to the soul shame.

I did eventually get into grad school. Among many important things I have learned there so far, this one has been big: My shame does not stop, or even diminish with success. I do not think I am an anomaly. I think many people feel this way. Those pants may never fit again. You may never be strong enough to do whatever x is. Your life does not stop there. There are so many better things to do without shame.

The biggest danger I see in shame is that it is often paralyzing. We become ashamed of past decisions and so terrified of their results that we never take a risk again. Granted, I will not likely take the risk of chugging cocktails anytime soon, however had I not busted out my grin that night, I may not have calculated future evenings with a more decerning eye. But take applying to graduate school. I didn't want to do it a second time. Or a third. I felt embarrassed. Like some fool crippled by the definition of insanity. You know, the whole repeating the same action and expecting different results analogy. I'm so glad I shucked off my shame to get here.

But it does not paralyze me. I continue. I move, forever forward. I've earned an appetite for fucking shit up a little. I'm cultivating fearlessness and celebrating falls. At least the ones that don't end with my face drunkenly in the pavement.

I still feel it. Daily. Some days, hourly. Sometimes it rules my life for weeks on end. I'm not aiming to fix anything. I'm just like everyone else. Navigating one day at a time. I try to bring my best empathy, compassion, embrace and lowest levels of guardedness that I can. 

It's why this post didn't start with a disclaimer that this was going to be about something not light and fluffy. Or apologize for being long. 

We've got better things to do than wallow in our shame. It affects us. Acknowledge. Move. 

Keep moving. You are not your shame. We are not mistakes. 

We're mutha' fuckin' stardust.

https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_listening_to_shame?language=en

Embracing Outsiderdome

I've been doing yoga regularly for a very long time.

All sorts. I'm pretty non-discriminatory at this point in my life.

When I got back to Philadelphia after Christmas Break at the end of December I was having a very difficult time re-adjusting after having spent ten days with many of my favorite humans and my family. Never mind that there was nothing to do until the fourth week of January. So I signed up for a yoga studio special. The first money I had spent on myself in Philadelphia that did not relate to sustenance or something that was school required. 

The studio is a three minute walk from my apartment. It's a version of hotish yoga, which wasn't my first choice, but it was so close and it was Winter, after all. My first few classes there were great. I love being a student in a yoga studio. I loved being somewhere anonymously again. Sneak in, sweat, sneak out. I quietly mumble hellos and goodbyes and give a small nod and briefest of eye contact as I'm scooting out the door. Part of something bigger than yourself, while still able to hide behind the masses. No one knows my name. I don't know anyone. I just leave my troubles in a puddle on the floor in the studio.

                        

I went for all forty days of my intro package. More than a few times I went twice in a day. 

I love yoga, but I'm so much more apt to practice with a class. Structure.

Toward the end of my package deal, an announcement was made after class that they were still looking for people to help with their Energy Exchange program, which means if you work three sessions a week, helping the instructor check students in, tidying up after class and making a commitment to the community, you were given free access to all classes at the studio. It was perfect, and the only way I'd probably be able to continue practicing. And it meant giving up something I had become so comfortable in: anonymity. 

I volunteered and started almost immediately. The processing of students and regular tidying around the studio is easy enough. If, like me, you've worked a zillion costumer service and retail jobs, all the steps are pretty much the same, just with different intentions and a different computer system. I arrive at class a half hour prior to practice and stay about a half hour later. I check people in and answer any questions they might have. I encourage and congratulate them if it's their first time. 

It started to sink in slowly, then once school started back up and I was regularly running around hardwood floors with a band of crazy weirdos, it really started to hit me. I don't belong there. I think I noticed it for the first time when one of my fellow "Energy Exchange-ers" said, 

"Let's get a picture of all of us in a row doing headstand!" 

"Sure!" I replied.

I don't really have headstand. I mean, I have MY headstand. Yoga's a practice after all. But it was about community. It was about sharing with people.

She later posted the picture to Facebook and it struck me hard and fast. Second in from the left, like a slightly dangerous adolescent turkey in a flock of graceful and still flamingos was a very physically honest me. One leg half raised and blurry, the other bent and resting in my hip socket. My generous hips and thighs taking the space and drawing attention to themselves by a ridiculously bold henna print neon teal and pink yoga pant.

        

Good God I don't belong there. It was so clear  in that moment. Among these graceful women whose arms were lean and ate quinoa and kale and sipped wine on patios. Who were either already taking teacher training or being courted by the studio owners to do so regularly. Me and my home-made hair cut and thrift-shopped yoga clothes and a mat my sister had gifted to me ten years ago. Me in my 450 square foot apartment in the same neighborhood as the studio. Me an my sweat the second I walked into the lobby. Me and my beer. Me and my chipped teeth. Me and my movement-based theatre program. Me and my shame shame SHAME.

I continued to feel this way. I was relating to my partner how uncomfortable I was with how much I felt like I didn't belong. How I felt like I could never be a part of this community. How I wondered if it was a Philadelphia thing or a me thing. Without missing a beat he said, "I don't understand why you're not embracing being an outsider. That's what I've always seen you do."

Oops. 

So here I am. No longer sneaking out of the studio. No longer making eye contact for as little time as possible with the fancy lululemon-wearing, artist warehouse-living, hairs done every 6-8 weeks clientele. Now it's a big giant smile, my best shot at remembering their names (forever a curse. Face blindness is real.) and still working on unfurling that headstand (and handstand).

                    

       

That makes it sound really easy. It's not. I'm nervous to smile at these people. I'm nervous every they'll see how I'm sweating before I even walk into the studio because I rode my bike there. I'm nervous they'll see me sweating because I'm nervous. I'm nervous I don't belong and no amount of being a novelty weird theatre grad student is going to help that. Really, I'm nervous every they don't want me there, because I want to be there. But it's not our samenesses that make us interesting as humans. The exciting part of most humans is what makes us weirdos.

I'm a weirdo in most social settings. It only really stands out to me when I've been around performers for a long time and then I'm thrown into a more "average" social setting, which is very much what the yoga studio is. I still feel shame- more on that next week, but I mostly feel lucky that I get to see these people as they are and I'm getting better at letting them see me for who I am. I'm not ashamed to be here studying devised theatre, even if no one knows what that means. I'm immensely proud. It took a shit ton of work to get here, and I will weirdo all over the place to celebrate.

Reasons My Co-Worker Is Apologizing

I think most people are familiar with Chronic Apology Syndrome.

Okay. It's not a real thing but it's totally a real thing. I'm sure most people know someone who apologizes constantly. Often not because they're doing lots of things wrong, just because it's how they communicate.

I'm guilty of this. I've been working on it over the last decade. I've started calling out my friends on their consistent apologies. Being sorry is necessary. No one's perfect, we all mess things up. I feel pretty strongly that if we apologize for things that aren't actual offenses, for example: Sharing an idea that isn't favorably received immediately. This not only teaches people around us that we have so many things to apologize for (like existing, having ideas, being a human) but it also compromised the integrity of our apology. So when you really fuck up and say you're sorry, what is it worth, if it's every other word out of your mouth anyway.

I recently started my new job selling rich people overpriced coffee and cold press juices and other hipster-related life style swag. I don't know the people I work with particularly well yet, but one young woman who started around the same time that I did says she's sorry so much I'm surprised she's at accepting of  any thing she does.

I feel inclined to point out at this moment that I do not think this is an inherently female conundrum. One of my favorite (male) collaborators had a nasty habit of apologizing so much that a superior once banned him from using the word. He now says "I apologize" so frequently it's almost eye-roll worthy.

So, without further ado, I present to you:

Reasons My Co-Worker is Apologizing

She asked me to hand her a milk to re-stock the cold case (this is part of my job)

She walked past me

She asked me a what time I worked tomorrow

We sent her home because it was dead, then it got busy after she left. She apologized profusely the next day.

She was refilling the water pitcher and I walked past her.

She set up the entire patio before I had a chance to help her.

She rolled all of the silverware.

She said something quietly.

She had to get past me behind the counter (where it's very narrow) so she stood there quietly until I looked at her because I thought she had a question.

She walked into work (on time).


I don't know her well enough to really bring this up to her yet. I have a feeling if I did she would apologize profusely.

Ownership: It's Mine

Summer. I'm in it, people. Like, seven weeks or something. I don't even know. It's getting weird. Here's some things I've noticed over the last seven + weeks:

I live in Philadelphia. Wait. What?

It's hot and often very muggy here. 

I don't have classes eight hours a day to distract me from

I frequently don't finish thoughts.

My time is easily occupied and totally don't feel guilty about watching seasons of anything on Netflix, HBOgo or Hulu.

The West Wing really holds up.

I totally feel guilty about binge watching seasons of anything, even if it's slightly intellectual.

I lie to myself about feeling guilty.

I hate elections, hatred and what burbles up through the mean (all?) parts of the internet because of them.

People at the local thrift store know me by name now.

I don't want to be over dramatic. I'm not going completely stir-crazy. I've adapted over the last few weeks. I'm on a regular schedule practicing piano at school. I strum around on the ukulele now and then. I contacted one of my instructors that I really enjoy working with and asked if her theatre company needs any help this Summer. It does, so I'm freelancing some research for her.

In my meeting with her she said she's draw up a contract for me (my work is voluntary) just so we both know what's expected of me, that way there's no miscommunication and we both have it in writing. A few days after that meeting, it struck me that everyone in the theatre (maybe even artistic) community should do this. I've been a part of countless processes where rifts were formed simply due to someone not fully understanding what their job was. Not due to any fault of their own, just because they had never done it before, or it wasn't laid out for them. Then I recalled a process where we were under contract for a very small stipend, but I was SO relieved that it was in writing and I signed a piece of paper saying "this is what I'm going to do and this is how I expect you to treat me".

Contracts, guys, or Letters of Agreement, whatever you care to call them, are pretty great. 

                         

                             I bet someone was contracted for this.          Sorry. I just needed a 

                                                       Reason to use this photo...

I think they're so great that I took some of my Summer vacation time to write one for myself.

I was considering my goals for the Summer and they were all things like, "learn how to play piano" or "play a lot of ukulele" or "Write more". All worthy, to be sure, but none of them specific. 

So I wrote my first contract as a self-employed artist. For myself. To sign and complete.

You know me: Party. Animal. (Now complete with contract!)

Most responsibilities are weekly. It's not a small amount of work, but nearly all of it are things I'm doing anyway, just sporadically and in a disorganized manner.

No more, my friends. I present to you: My signed contract for being a Human Who Makes Things. This will also mark the first time I've actually attached my name to this blog. Taking ownership all over the place here people.

Contract for Human Who Makes Things

Contract Duration: June 20th, 2016- August 29th 2016

Job Title: Self-Contracted Artist

Job Duties:

Rehearse piano 3 hours weekly

Rehearse Ukulele 2 hours weekly

Read required reading 1 hour weekly

Read for pleasure 1 hour weekly

One blog post weekly

Swim Pony research: 7-10 hours weekly

One postcard or letter weekly

Physical activity excluding bicycle commutes: 4 times weekly lasting 30 minutes or more.

Make one thing outside of "regular craft" each week: 2 hours

This can include, but is not limited to: Dance, songwriting, painting, drawing, acrobatic sequencing, comedy, construction paper collages, model-building, carpentry, clowning, origami, etc.

One movie weekly

Knit 1 hour weekly

Share one work-in-progress with one or more persons each month, beginning no later than June 30, 2016.

Compensation: Self high-fives, spontaneous dance parties, artistic growth and satisfaction, staying out of stupid trouble while getting into all kinds of worthwhile trouble.

I, Sarah A. Gardner, fully understand and commit to completing the above tasks as stated to the best of my abilities. 

                                  

        

Oh yeah, I also wrote it by hand. Because. Summer. And you can't sign an iPad with pen.

So. One blog post a week. I suppose that takes a bit of the surprise out of regularly unscheduled contact. I'll try to make still as unexpected and strange as I am.

I'll end with a yummy Knit Preview:

                       

            

Summer Begins

Summer break is upon me and I'm not sure how well I'm taking it.

I got a j-o-b for the Summer. I'll have to wait until my first pay check comes in to really see how happy I am with it, but for the time being I like it just fine. Nice people. Good food. Tips. Under 40 hours a week. Decent hourly. It's a little ridiculous, actually.

Having now been in Philadelphia for over 8 months I feel like I finally moved here. I'm not longer around the same small group of 13 people every day (all of whom I love, I just didn't feel like I moved anywhere particular other than in with my class). I have resources to see more shows. Go out to eat occasionally. Buy more groceries than what's absolutely necessary. Hell, I just bough razors for the first time in months. 

        

I had a killer second semester in grad school, guys. I went to circus school and had an absolute blast, doing everything short of running away to join the circus. We did multi-character pieces, which if you're familiar with any of the tours I used to do back in Boise you'll understand that I felt very at home. I took saxophone lessons and piano lessons, both of which reminded me what it's like to learn something that you're not a professional about (aka: suck really hard at something that you feel like you should be good at because at this age you should really be good at everything, right?), which I think made me take bigger risks as a performer.

                                                 

My year-end evaluation culminated in notes about things I was cracking open and fierceness I was bringing into the room. I'm unsure I understand exactly what that means, but I feel things. You know, like a human.

I've been considering a lot lately the how I've changed over the last few years. This was brought on by my typical, boarder-line-debilitating scroll through social media. Specifically the "people you might know" field. Which I noticed was speckled with several people that I not only knew, but was sure that I had been Facebook friends with in the past.

So of course, as an insecure human being that is under the impression I am generally like-able, I spent an unfortunate amount of time in the throws of grief as to what I had done to so offend or accost these people that they would want to shut me out of their precious, wonderful, sought-after social media circle.

And then I realized that it's really none of my fucking business and my life got instantaneously better. It was remarkable. 

                        

      

Don't get me wrong, I'm still a little hurt by it, but over the past few years of my life I have concerned myself much less with being well-liked and become much more concerned with what I want to actually do (which has been a nothing-short-of-terrifying endeavor). I've come to the conclusion that while being well-liked is a perfectly worthy goal in life, I'd much rather it be a side effect to what it is I want To Do (TBD). 

The years I spent with the main goal of being well-like by people, or a group of people, or a company, or some sort of community, ended with a great deal of emotional and mental stress that ultimately ended in a lack of productivity on my part. That's the business side of it. The personal side of it is sadder and more hurtful to those close to me and taught me even more valuable lessons. As it turns out, being well-liked meant I kept my mouth shut when people may have preferred I speak.

It doesn't even begin to end there. There were people and groups of people that I deemed "shouldn't" like me anymore because of some social stigma/standard about which I became obsessively paranoid and so I decided the "polite" (what the fuck? Where do I come up with this shit?) thing to do was to remove myself from their lives as much as possible. If anyone's ever lived in a community of any sort before, whether a big city or a small town, you know how impossible this is to do. It's also just so massively awkward I can't believe we didn't all end up laughing until we were in stitches. It wasn't funny though.

A big draw to my current grad program for me was a sort of nerdy/boredom research stumble. I google/news searched the name of my program and came across pages and pages of reviews for shows currently or recently running in Philadelphia that were either involving if not completely and independently produced by recent grads of the program (the program has only been going since 2013, so there's not really any option other than a recent grad). Upon my skype interview with the program director one of the things he said to me that graduates from the program know what kind of work they want to make. As someone who has always joyfully hopped on board with the latest project (arguably, I've elbowed my way into my fair few projects...) this was immensely appealing to me.

A year in and I'm still not sure what kind of work I want to make, but I'm more certain every day of what work I don't want to make. I gain new tools every day. I am confident in a mode of physical story telling that I simply didn't know existed until a few months ago and I'm slowly steeping into a community that is thrilled I'm here. 

I composed my first song. My first three songs, actually. I held a handstand. I broke my record for running a mile. Three times. I yogaed the shit out of lots of yogas. My classmates are puppeteers and modern dancers and clowns and directors and playwrights and twenty-three and fifty-four and acrobats and teachers and musicians. 

       

  

I work at a coffee shop. I walk a lot. I'm looking into continuing circus school lessons over the summer. I'm going to buy a piano. I'm reading. I bought a bicycle I have a big old crush on.

       

So to those who have unfriended me, I hope you're not reading this. Not because I don't want you to know my thoughts - actually I hope I have so little to do with your life that you'd never even consider checking in. I hope I was part of some Spring cleaning of your social media accounts. And to those who I've "politely backed away from", I got nothing. Only speculation.

I still have none of the answers. I just feel a whole lot more comfortable not knowing. I'm thrilled to do things and not be sure if it's right. Like transposing songs. Or improvising a song as a character. Or get lost in Center City. I've finally put into practice my love of failure. Sometimes. 

My first post-semester evaluation I was criticized for "being such a good student". My desire to "do well" or "do it right" was crippling in that first semester. I feel like I wanted to do everything in my life so well, or so right, that I never contemplated whether it was something I wanted to do. Like my entire life goal was just for everyone I knew to say, "Good job!"

New things are afoot. Or abreast... Heh.

I will update you as infrequently and unexpectedly as you have come to know me.