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.

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

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.

                         

    

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.

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.