cherry picker

i remember the feeling of the knowing.
a special blend of pride, grownupness, and wonder
of understanding the word that connected to the big industrial machine it signified.
cherry picker.
cherry picker.
cherry picker.
so strange it tasted, though
even without repeating the sounds until they lost meaning
i felt the incongruous quality of the juxtaposition
pairing a delicate and organic object with such a formidable and uninviting thing as that.
though i never picked cherries as a kid, i picked everything else from blackberries and strawberries to watermelons and wildflowers.
but the ritual of picking,
of discovery and ownership and pleasure
in finding something ripe and beautiful and free
it too was somehow lost in the desolation of an ugly and spiritless machine.
but today, i reclaimed the words.
cherry picker.
i put them back where they belonged
with juice stained skin, dirty fingernails,
and scraps of bark insinuating themselves inside clothes and hair,
with pits left of trees, the greed of taking just one more handful
and tall ladders that don't quite reach
that seductively laden branch another twelve inches away.
it was a good sprawl of a late afternoon
reminiscent of lazy alabama summer break
and daydreaming our lives a la anne of green gables.

cherry. picker.


part of the cherry pitting station:
{i must have pitted five or six pounds of cherries throughout the course of the evening}

artopia

we pried ourselves out of the house. reluctantly.
the past month of constant rehearsal and hard work creating an energy and sleep debt it will take a while to reduce to normalcy.

but we went and discovered:
the sun was too hot.
the artwork {mostly} mediocre
{the piece we went specifically to see we were never able to locate. processional seems like a good idea except locating the performers became problematic}
and the crowds annoying to my short patience.

at least i got a few photographs.

a melty ice sculpture.

a nice installation in a beautiful building with too many people.

"the day after" sun

this was taken shortly after scoring a used copy of c.s. lewis's narnia series box and all for 2.99 at the neighborhood value village. i've had my heart set on it since the urban hike i took ages ago with my friend sheree and we discussed the horse and his boy extensively.

and it hasn't really sunk in yet that we're done.

yet.

yikes.

currently wanting to listen to: regina spektor's new album far, but i'm trying to justify spending more money on non-necessities....hmmmm

one year

one year ago today my grandfather died and i started this blog.
that was an end of an era for the mikesell family.
but some new was instantly manifest in the blog and in the writing.
i was writing not just for myself any more, not just for the closed covers of my handmade journals.

today, i took john to the airport in the {wee hours of the} morning as he moved away to hawaii.
that's an end of an another era: our friendship and our small community of friends.

and tonight, we have the meisner showcase.
the last act of a nine month ensemble class that i can't even begin to put into words right now {or much of the last five months, sadly}.
an end of a personal era.
of my first significant step in the direction of acting.

that is all i have to say now. my heart and body is simultaneously nervous and certain.

here we go.

first anniversary

here we are in the final days before meisner ends.
nine months.
and it all wraps up this thursday.

coincidentally, this thursday marks the one year anniversary of my grandfather's death which is also the first anniversary of this blog.

363 days and counting. 357 entries and counting.

what a year.
what a ride.
thanks for joining.
really.
truly.
sincerely.
thanks.

to the next year and beyond.

francis ford coppola

i don't know what to say, really. i mean, there was the moment i met him when he repeated my name back to me musingly.
"nathania...i haven't heard that one before." yes, and i'm happy to hear that.
"i understand it's a city in israel, but my parents were thinking more russian."
we got into the big escorting suv.
a block down the road.
"nathania...i just met a girl named nathania. and suddenly i see, just how beautiful a name can be." {to the tune of maria from west side story}

magic.

pure magic.

after i jokingly say no one will believe me if i tell them he sang to me, he continues with a synopsis of war and peace {since natasha is of the similar vein} then continues with a compare and contrast to anna karenina when i mention that is the one book of tolstoy i have yet to read. he meandered through the topic charmingly and i listened with a surprised smile on my face and as many interjections as i could comfortably and politely manage.

later, while i missed my one chance to really talk to him {rats} i did have a small moment when we were waiting for his wife to show up at the hotel. i happened to glance over at him and he was looking at me. i mean, really looking at me. i made eye contact. and held it. past that moment we westerns consider long enough to be comfortable and polite. and when we crossed that subtle threshold together there was that slight shift and quiet acknowledgment of two human beings meeting each other on another level. i see you seeing me, and it's nice to meet you. again.

and that was it.

and yet, not.

but it's enough for now.

home stretch

this is the final week of siff, the final week before the freehold auction {which i'm doing a lot of volunteering for too} and the last few weeks before the meisner grand finale.

i'm taxed out, but have a little bit of extra brain space to love this and put it up to share.

thanks again, sahra.






currently cultivating a crush on paul giamatti who made up for all of spike lee's reticence.

currently listening to: riceboy sleeps & bon iver

into the neck

it's a rare moment when my memory fails me this much. i pride myself on my memory, particularly my ability to recall moments that contain a strong emotional element. but i have no idea when this began.

it's a small thing.
small as in short-lived and fleeting.
small as in easy to ignore once the moment is shaken off yet again.
and even though it isn't really small, it's something i've only voiced to one person,
perhaps two, and one i've invested a lot of energy keeping secret.

it is the moment a partner, when lying on top of me, expels that final deep breath of a finish/satisfaction/release out from his lungs and into the curve of my neck.

i've flinched away quickly so many times the physical response is automatic now. and time and time again i've silently watched the other person assume i'm merely responding to physical discomfort. i let him assume it tickled, or perhaps was too loud in my ears. i let him assume something or anything other than what i was really going through in that moment.

but last night was different.
the flinch and shift that typically shakes off the feeling while putting me out of range of further exhales wasn't fast enough or far enough and my neck caught a second deep breath.
and that was it.
the breaking point.
the moment it was too much to keep in and i finally admitted to someone the physical and emotional disgust that runs through me every time it happens. and even though i know the person above or next to me isn't that person for a split second they are the target of all my revulsion which always spoils the moment, no matter how briefly the sensation is.

so after last night, a partner of mine finally knows not to breathe into my neck like that, but i'm left with the empty-handed frustration of not knowing where and when and with whom this all began and that to me is equally upsetting. i was in tears last night not only relaying the experience of a lover becoming, even for a split second, something awful and revolting, but also this blankness in my mind in place of the momory of where it all began. when it all begin.

i can only think of one person i've been with that i was only with because i couldn't say no. who, even at the time, i knew in some part of me that they were manipulative and abusive and repugnant. but somehow i can't seem to connect the two things together. there doesn't seem to be any flavor in this memory either of this other man or the time, just after college, when we were involved.

so i don't know where to go.
i don't know where it's from.
i don't think i had any sexual relations as a child.
i know many women who were molested as kids and i don't have any of the behaviors i see so prevalently.
so what is it?
when is it?
who is it?

and how can i get rid of this violent response i have that puts a stain on all these lovely moments?

little surprises

class was hard. really hard. meisner 3.something? i lost count long ago. but there was one breakthrough and a lot of discoveries in the physical exercise i did with my partner {manipulating the body of the other while delivering our lines into them}. getting in my body fully and pursuing what i want physically always is a big key for me. easy way to tap in.

and the breakthrough was a quite moment of renewal when robin reminded me yet again to go back to the root of this character which is the love she has for her whole family. she says she hates her dad, but that's just her bark. she wouldn't be there if she hated him. she wouldn't have come home looking for something from him if she had completely given up on him. so back to the drawing board. back. back. back. to the love. put it in it's place and then all the other harder layers of disappointment and betrayal can go on top. after they actually mean something.

so my treat tonight was to go to the encore showing of the opening night of the short films weekend. they added in the best animation to the mix and viola! a night of laughter and fun and assisted suicide and a man one row back and two seats over with a laugh exactly like my grandfather's. exactly. ha HA! ha HA! it charmed me completely every time. and here, on the verge of the anniversary of his death, it only left a little sting of missing him. i guess it was nice to get to borrow the sensation of being in the same room again. loan it out for the space of an hour and a half. i thanked the man afterwards. wanted to invite him over for eddie izzard and a night of laughs. but didn't.

it was still nice to have the loan anyway.

now i'm off to bed. off to bed. off to bed. and thank you siff for another night of cinematic goodness.

tipping point

i understand the block.
i really do.
and i understand the fact that you don't want to limit a character's life to the scope of your own experience. but as an actor, as the instrument, you have to open up your humanity and expand it out to encompass the character.
the problem is, i've shoveled the key bits of myself that hester smit and i happen to share into carefully managed compartments. they have had their hayday in the past, allowed to parade about more vulnerably on the surface, and then are promptly ushered back again to resume a resemblance of control. and then they are reduced to informing the smaller moments in life: making cameos in disguise throughout random conversations, tiny upsets, and the occasional heated moment of frustration or anger. nothing serious. i'm generally a well integrated human being.

but that's not helpful here.

her story has to be meaningful to me. very meaningful. and not just in a general way. not just in that comfortable i'm seating in my armchair reading about hester smit's life sort of way. i need to live it. i need to feel it in my body all the way through me and out the other side.

and in order to feel her story, first i have to feel my own again. not that i'm going to tear open old wounds or start prodding at the bruises we all carry. but just find the places in me that know what it's like having not enough, that knows what it's like wearing second-hand clothes i'm ashamed of, know what it's like being made fun of as a kid, misunderstood, alienated in a family, emotionally abused and manipulated by my father. and wanting more. always always wanting more.

then, once i can get there. i give these things to her. give them to her circumstances. envision myself in her places, spaces and lives. make it real for me. but now i'm getting ahead of myself. again.

slow down, nathania. one thing at a time.

start with growing up poor.
it's the south.
alabama summers.
playing outside in the dirt. hands are dirty. elastic waistband on my trousers. class pictures. never looking as pretty or neat as the other girls. my hair always shaggy. cut by a parent. i remember when he cut the bangs in germany. off center. and they always cut it too short. i looked like a boy. not the cute bob haircuts and lacy dresses of the other girls. and i was too tall. i knew it then. in kindergarten when i was almost the height of the teacher in the class pictures. a good head and shoulders taller than the other kids. the smell of the library. the little shop set up in the library during christmas time. the excitement of having money to spend always followed by the disappointment of not having enough to buy the one thing i wanted to get. i'm remembering a plastic red watch. i don't know who i wanted it for, myself perhaps, and even though i knew it was cheap and that it wasn't worth what they were charging for it, i wanted it. i wanted to be grown-up and wear a watch. i wanted to wear a watch. but i didn't have enough. and i never got things new. ever. ever. ever. well, a few times, but those few times are remembered because i didn't take them for granted: i got a new set of sheets (princess of power, from maria herweigh, for christmas the year i went to germany with my dad) or a new dress (also from maria, who also always had the best toys, for a birthday that was in the 33 adam's street house 4 or 5 years old--it was blue with lace or ribbons on the bodice, i was so proud of that dress) these moments stand out crystal clear in my memory. because they were rare. because we were always scraping by. and money was always the tipping point for every explosion, argument, suicide threat. it was always money...




this is a start.

25 days left

it's june now.
june=the last month of meisner.
i know i've been light on the meisner entries since the tail end of the last quarter, but it's still been a bi-weekly presence in my life. and now it's almost done. june 25th. mark your calendars folks. we have a showcase of the scenes we're working on that night.
even the thought of the night makes my stomach curdle.
the end of meisner.
the night when all the last nine months come out and parade around in the form of these scenes that have way too much pressure on them at the moment. i'm choking myself up. smothering my creativity under the weight of it has to be perfect. the scene has to show how much you've learned. how much you've worked. and how good of an actor you are and will ever be.
and don't forget the least helpful of the bunch: you'll never be able to let this or that bit of hester smit come alive in you, nathania. nope, you won't find her. no, you can't transform into her. no, you can't let her come alive in you. find a new life in you.


i have fits and starts. little revelations. but i need a landslide of inspiration to come and sweep me away.

now.

or in a few minutes.

please, dear god, please. i love this character. i want to do her justice. i want to do myself justice. i want to do well for me and for my scene partner, az. and i want to do well for all the people coming to see me living and breathing all the hard work of the past year and all the proof that the next undetermined bit of my life won't be foolishly spent in the pursuit of acting as a career.

yes. yes. yes to i'm not sure what but something to counteract all the no's i've been chorusing through my head since we've started these scenes.
yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes.
yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes. yes.
yes. yes. yes.

yes.



currently listening to: kristina morland - pidgin music.