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.

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:

                       

            

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...

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.