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.

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.

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...

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.