chapter 7

the question "what is in the way of pursuing acting/performing as a way of life" has been rattling around in my head all week, and this is the rather painfully simple answer:

i am a perfectionist. wholly and completely.

coincidentally this week in the artist's way is one where julia writes a considerable amount on the topic of perfectionism and for the first time, i am not merely underlining the points {some of which are reproduced on the right, below} that stand out to me, but i'm writing copious amounts of notes in the margins {on the left, below}.

all the logical...................... the perfectionist has married the logic side of the brain...
reasons i can't be the actor
i want to be:
too old
not thin enough
not pretty enough
not talented enough
too tall
not driven enough
can't afford to take time
off for a project

it's also fear that...................... to the perfectionist, there is always room for improvement. the
if it's not perfect it.....................perfectionist calls this humility. in reality, it is egotism. it is pride
won't have ANY...................... .that makes us want to write a perfect script, paint a perfect
value...................... ...................painting, perform a perfect audition monologue.

...................... ...................... ......the perfectionist is never satisfied.

what do i need to...................... ...but at a certain point you let go and call it done. that is a
let go of in acting?...................... part of creativity--letting go.
being awful???

perfectionism is a paralyzing mentality and one i have maintained throughout my entire life of self-examination and emotional evolution and at some point i have to let it go. interestingly enough, az watched eddie izzard's biography online earlier this week and mentioned the fact that this world famous and brilliant {in my opinion} comedian made years of crap work before he found the rhythm of his voice and natural hilarity. and, i guess that's the key. i am terrified of the years ahead of me of bad work and am uncovering the fact that i am a little scarred from the bad work i've already done.

let me go back in time for a moment.

a year and a half ago i finished the 9 month acting intensive based off of meisner's teachings {the label meisner has a whole slew of postings on the topic that you might recall.} regardless, the culmination of all that growth and hard work was a presentation held for friends and family. the audience ended up packing the space, many of whom were people i knew to varying degrees: acting acquaintances i'd worked with in the past to dear friends, mentors and family that i had invited specifically. and the scene was performed and the class ended. and the thing that kills me to this very day is that only one person gave me any kind of feedback about the performance. my work. my hester. that moment in time of my incarnation as an actor and it there is this big black void of non-response completely engulfing the experience. and while i've been coached to take a performance in from my own perspective and to not rely on the audience, in this case the complete and utter silence reeks of failure.

i haven't been able to go back. not even audition for one thing since or even seriously consider auditioning. i haven't even joined tps so i can see the audition listings. a painful estrangement to an art form i have had so much longing for all my life.

and this brings me to the next section of julia's writing discussing risk.

--------.......................................the sucess of a creative recovery hinges on our ability to move
--------.......................................out of our head and into action. this brings us squarely to risk.
RISK...................... ..................most of us are practiced at talking ourselves out of risk.
-------...................... .................we are skilled spectators on the probable pain of self-exposure.
--------
{yes, there really are................in order to risk, we must jettison our accepted limits. we must
squiggles surrounding.............break through "i can't because..."
the word risk i wrote.............. usually, when we say we can't do something, what we mean is that
in the margins}...................... we won't do something unless we can guarantee that we'll do it
...................... ...................... .. perfectly.


and let me tell you, her words have hit home. hit. me. home. because i see myself as a risk taker. i know i am bold and daring and i live authentically in a place where i am vulnerable and risk hurt for the sake of living fully. but that's only in a space where i feel confident, connected and in touch with myself and my strengths: in relationship with others. i have spent my life inside my head, examining each thing i do, how others react to it and how that in turn comes back to me. this obsession with emotional minutiae has gifted me with a lot of insight and clarity into myself and others. i am able to quickly recognize and act on my emotions as i process things quickly and decisively. taking risks comes easily to me here.

but not in my acting. this is wrapped up so tightly in a ball of hopes and fears that all i can do is continually wish that i had started earlier, auditioned as a child, given up sports in high school in order to be in a school play, studied it in college, anything, anything, ANYTHING but starting from scratch {or near enough} as i flirt with my 30's.

but, as julia says earlier in the book {i'm paraphrasing}: how old will i be until i finally get any good at it? as old as you are if you don't even try.

on a slightly tangential note {it circles back, i promise}, last week in the artist's way meeting we spent 20-25 minutes going around the room to different stations and doing an activity posted on the wall. activities were:

play the WORST song on the piano possible. loudly. sing if you want, but only badly.
do the WORST mime ever.
play the WORST air guitar ever.
draw the WORST self portrait ever.
make the WORST painting ever.
do the WORST modern dance.

you get the point.

it was hard. i mean REALLY hard for me to do the first one. i ended up at the piano and when the facilitators said go i literally could not get my hands to play the piano badly. i couldn't even touch the keys. it was like that repellent force that magnets of the same polarity have that is elastic and buoyant. i literally had to psyche myself out to start pounding like a two year old on mountain dew. and despite the fact that we were all shouting things at the top of my lungs and i went through the wringer with robin on this particular meisner class, i still couldn't let go. i'm out of practice at being that free. i need to learn to let go again. i need to learn to risk in the acting space.

{my eyebrows pull together in certain humiliation and disappointment at the thought of what that entails}.

i wrote in a previous post that the journey to the lifelong relationship i envision and the journey to the artist career i envision is along a similar path, so let me borrow some of the relationship daring, certainty and risk and bring it over the to the art side for a bit.

stay tuned.

$5 luxuries

from the capitol hill farmers market.

my heart sings today in red, yellow and orange.

no where to put things

i forget that it's not just healthy babies that are born into this world. or, it's not that i forget, but i am luckily allowed to know it only from the words NICU* written next to a family's name, or the success stories as they are being discharged a month or three later. healthier. or at least healthy enough.

and i've been very lucky, as much as i am ready and willing to step up, in that i have never yet been asked to photograph a fetal demise.

so it came as a surprise to me how hard it hit when there was a code blue emergency and a nurse tore out of a room with a baby in her arms saying not again! not again! the grandma trailing worriedly after, pacing the halls as another nurse ran into the room looking for the baby and then back again out to the nursery. dad in the doorway. disappear into the room. more running.

i stood in our office door trying not to gawk. helpless. wanting to walk up to the grandma and rub her back or hold her hand. wanting to know what was happening but also knowing that's not my place.

the baby ended up in NICU under the careful care upstairs and the floor eventually calmed down. but i found myself feeling lost and weepy at unexpected moments throughout the day. the image of the little bundle held away from the nurse's body as she looked down and ran surprising me as i went about my business and walked the halls.

just another reminder of life's fragility left to linger some where in my body.



*neonatal intensive care unit

more dreams

my life came to an important moment of self-questioning last night and that question is: what part of me is getting in the way of me pursuing acting as a way of life?

i had just read week 7's chapter in the artist's way {which deserves an entry in itself} and as little as i've been working on this specific aspect of my artistic blockage, this entire chapter pointed to my un-aired desire to create and tell stories with my body, my spirit, my voice, my presence. not objects that i create, not even words, but myself. here. there. now. and tomorrow and tomorrow. as wonderfully and tragically flawed as i am at every given moment.

so last night i put down my to-do list, and even put down the never-ending work projects that i can't even seem to successfully chip away at, and i drew up a bath, lit one candle and soaked.

and as i rested there in the heat and dark, i drew into my body these questions i've been pushing away for years, or looking at aggressivly and saying not just yet. or there's not enough. or i'm not enough. and i voiced the question again and again: what part of me is getting in the way of my pursuit of acting?

i went to sleep an hour or so later, the question still on repeat in my head. and this is what i saw:

thom yorke* was touring and the tour was coming up. looming. soon. i felt it. expected it. anticipated it. but the dates hadn't been announced, preparations were still being made. and that was it. my anticipation and this awareness of a vast machine of details coming together in the distance. all the things to be organized, decided, all the people in motion to bring his work to us and to me.

and for the first time i am in touch with a feeling of hope that is starting to eclipse my feeling of failure and paralysis that has kept me here for years. decades even. right inside the scary brink of even venturing out and risking.



*i repeat here again how thom, the lead singer from radiohead, and by far my favorite artist appears in dreams as a symbol for the art i dream to make. the authenticity. the intensity. the honesty about the whole heartbreakingly beautiful spectrum of human existence and beyond. and interestingly enough, i see the path i have to travel to make the art i want to put forth into this world as running parallel, if not superimposed on the path i travel to be in the life-long relation/partnership i envision for myself. it's the same confidence, the same groundedness in spirit and body that is required to enter both authentically. and, the relevance between this belief and this post is that recently i've worked through both themes with dreams about concerts. but distinctly thom and not-thom concerts. the mind is a wonderous thing, no?

in progress {painting}

the sky is emerging, the wave is forming
and the only thing that is missing is the beach, and you.
i wish i had brought my suit that day not knowing
that was our one chance to swim.
yet i can still feel you at the far end of the beach
chest exposed
but heart hidden
and wearing those sunshine yellow swim trunks
i never got to see in real life.

thank you!!!

to each and every person who sent me a birthday wish.

starting with my brother and sister on the 24th, continuing with my parents and their phone call as they spoke back at me from my birthday in austrian time to me on the 25th, pacific time, and on with gchats, an 18 part text message spelling out h-a-p-p-y-b-i-r-t-h-d-a-y-n-a-t-!-smileyface that made me laugh out of sheer delight and the facebook messages, youtube videos, emails and everything in between. oh my!

thank you. it warmed me down to my toes, which is quite a long way.

here i am, heading out to umi as promised, the menu varying only by a caterpillar roll substituted for the avocado roll and continuing on with a few bites of whole foods' cookie which is all my less than sweet tooth {for the first time in my life} could handle.

and here we are, az and i, with az as the stand-in for all the birthday love sent my way yesterday {well, technically two days ago, but i haven't gone to sleep yet, so it's still the 27th in my mind}.

and, a collaborative birthday project yet to come. stay tuned and make sure i have your snail mail address. :}

28

the birthday celebrations have begun.
today it was small, just the two siblings {in town}, some thai food and vegan cupcakes.

tuesday, the day, is umi with az. edamame, chicken yakitori, blackberry lemonade, avocado rolls. yes.

and early in november comes the actual celebration. the invitation of color and flight into my life as i {slightly unwillingly} leave my mid-twenties and welcome the next year of my life in its unfolding.

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another milestone to make note of: my blog turned 600 posts old last week. here we are. you and me and the words make three. thank you for marking with me in my ritual of self-reflection and preservation.

shasta & aslan

i was in the middle of rearranging the furniture to take in all the new finds of the day when, in the middle of sweeping, i was caught red-handed with a thought i knew i to be impossible to fulfill: the desire i find rustling around in me to understand someone else's story. almost immediately this passage was called to mind and since i have referenced it once before on this post, i thought i would put it here in full. for me and perhaps for you.

so here you are, my sweeping stopped mid-stroke to give you a portion of a horse and his boy by c.s. lewis:

and being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks.

what put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. it was pitch dark and he could see nothing. and the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. what he could hear was breathing. his invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale, and shasta got the impression that it was a very large creature. and he had come to notice this breathing so gradually that he had really no idea how long it had been there. it was a horrible shock.

it darted into his mind that he had heard long ago that there were giants in these northern countries. he bit his lip in terror. but now that he really had something to cry about, he stopped crying.

the Thing (unless it was a Person) went on beside him so very quietly that shasta began to hope he had only imagined it. but just as he was becoming quite sure of it, there suddenly came a deep, rich sigh out of the darkness beside him. that couldn't be imagination! anyway, he had felt the hot breath of that sigh on his chilly left hand.

if the horse had been any good--or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse--he would have risked everything on a break away and a wild gallop. but he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop. so he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. at last he could bear it no longer.

"who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper.

"one who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing. its voice was not loud, but very large and deep.

"are you a giant?" asked shasta.

"you might call me a giant," said the Large Voice. "but i am not like the creatures you call giants."

"i can't see you at all," said shasta, after staring very hard. then (for an even more terrible idea had come into his head) he said, almost in a scream, "you're not--not something dead, are you? oh please--please do go away. what harm have i ever done you? oh, i am the unluckiest person in the world."

once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "there," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost. tell me your sorrows."

shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. and then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. and he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded aravis. and also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.

"i do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice.

"don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said shasta.

"there was only one lion," said the Voice.

"what on earth do you mean? i've just told you there were at least two the first night, and--"

"there was only one: but he was swift of foot."

"how do you know?"

"i was the lion." and as shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "i was the lion who forced you to join with aravis. i was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. i was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. i was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach king lune in time. and i was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."

"then it was you who wounded aravis?"

"it was i."

"but what for?"

"child," said the Voice, "i am telling you your story, not hers. i tell no-one any story but his own."

"who are you?" asked shasta.

"myself," said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again "myself," loud and clear and gay: and then the third time "myself," whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all round you as if the leaves rustled with it.

the nightmares

it's becoming a habit of mine to wake up between the hours of six and seven in the morning. i can almost set my clock by it. the dreams have been vivid. restless and fleeting. flirting with the line of nightmares. usually just a flash or two of disturbing imagery. a feeling or a face.

this morning was no exception except the dreams i am shaking crossed well into the territory of nightmare and were more than a little heavy handed in the symbolism.

i was at a concert. outside. unspecific band {most, perhaps even all concert dreams are about thom or radiohead}. it was a single male performer, but someone newer, not as familiar though still a favorite. we were waiting for him to take stage when a band of musicians came up that had bullied their way in to the full venue. they were reckless, dissonant to the mood and willfully abusing their celebrity status.

their hair was wild. their faces pierced, shadowed and aggressive as they mocked the crowd for even showing up. what fools we were their bodies said and here i had been so happily in my place by the bar. right at the front. just where i like to be. peacefully and expectantly waiting for him to show up.

the four guys then rustled through the us striking outnd scattering the crowd on to the beach we were near. i was part of the group they started herding down the length of the beach pushing us forward with their anger and words. it was terrifying. and the worst part was that eventually our singer did appear. off in the distance i saw him at the far end of the beach both hazy in the distance and also somehow close and a part of the group that was looming over us with their threats of violence. but i could easily distinguish him by the cut of his bare chest, the line of his torso and the sunshine yellow swim shorts he was wearing. so radiant yet blurry with distance. i kept on peering down the length of beach, wondering when he would stop the violence. this was his place of power. his stage. his art. only he had the ability to change the situation and yet he stayed away.

the next section of the dream was a little more obscure and yet the connections still so clear in my head.

i was working on becoming a nanny for this family. we were somehow old friends from the past and there was this expectation that this should have been a safe and welcome place, except that it wasn't. the doorway was rigged to a contraption that only made sense in the dream but served to almost drop me on my bum while entering. the family was chaotic and in a state of disarray and my place within it somehow confusing.

then we sat down to dinner. and my spot at the table was was moved and i was given the worst seat where an additional table stored under the large one we were sitting at threatened to jab at my legs. more discomfort. more confusion.

and then the men from the last dream showed up and this time the whole family was complicit to their presence. the lead man, the tallest and darkest and by far the scariest started selecting out a goat from the herd that was in this pen visible to the whole family {the pen being conveniently attached to the dining room in that way of dreams}. he took this 10 foot long pole and pointed it at the smallest of the herd and just bullied it right out in to the center of this pen. the family rustled their acceptance, even if silently unwilling and somehow i knew that whatever was coming up next would be too horrible to sit through.

i got up from the table and started to flee but not before the beating began. i had to pass the staging area to leave and the man had already begun tearing into the goat. i both feared getting hit by the long arc of his swings and even more the damage to the little, stiff-legged with fear, goat. the look in its face as it had been selected still kills me.

as i neared the edge of the area, away from the threat of the sweeping pole, the beating accelerated and the final blow was made. without looking i felt that soft little body being broken, it's blood spilled and i sank to my knees and let out the most grief stricken wail i have ever heard. grief. powerlessness. grief. and more grief.

the tearing sound as it escaped my throat was still tangible in my mind when i woke up thirty nine minutes ago, shaken, near tears and certain it was between six and seven in the morning.

for now.

words are not coming tonight. caught up in a paradox that tastes too similar to so many i have known. am i too much. i am not enough. i am too much. i am not enough. and whether or not i am enough of either to overcome someone else's challenges, well, that's not up for me to decide. so i'll go back to pretending i want to learn caution because life is a hell of a lot safer that way.

but a little less colorful.

and let the record reflect, i liked your colors. including the murkier ones and the ones you barely let me see.

now i'll have to ask you to disappear completely. walk away and take with you all those things you put out into the space before me. not that you were cruel, but only that hope is a scary thing too and i was willing to risk it in the face of what i now should start expecting to be almost certain disappointment.

reckoner morning

you can't take it with you.

indian summers make me lonesome

how to reappear completely

while still working on all the details of your reappearance all i can say is i'm so grateful. so gently and peacefully grateful. grateful you defied the pattern. grateful you stepped up and showed up into the space where so many haven't. grateful you are you which includes delighting in me being me and vice versa.

so there you are and here i am and that's all we need to know.

good morning

this is one for the good days

i already know how it ends

i gave myself permission to desire today.
like sails set to wind, my heart opened up for the space of one city block
unfurled itself
and beat a fluttering rhythm of hope.

through the leaves

the indian summer continues.

trust. pt 2. {i do not trust}

an exercise in purging:

i do not trust myself.*
i do not trust my body.
i do not trust my mind.
i do not trust my heart. my heart. my heart.
i do not trust men. even the most trustworthy of all i have known was subject to inquisitions he never warranted {though i bless him and his confidence in putting up with my fears he didn't help create but had to suffer the consequences of, daily}.
i do not trust money.
i do not trust my art.
i do not trust my instincts.
i do not trust my life.
i do not trust my acting skills.
i do not trust my dreams.
i do not trust my self.
i do not trust my life.
i do not trust my self.
i do not trust my fate.
i do not trust my self.
i do not trust my self.
i do not trust my self.
i do not trust god.


*i should specify that i do in fact have trust for all these things, and in some cases a generous bounty, but i also harbor a nagging lack of trust for the exact same things. ah, the complexities and paradoxes of the human brain.

trust. pt 1.

last week i snapped at my mom. and by snapped, i mean, slammed the caps lock key down on my keyboard and bombarded the online chat we were having with big letters and loud words then abruptly closed my browser window after a hasty and huffy i have to go. good night. neither i nor my high school self i was channeling is proud of this moment*, but i've been mulling over the peace offering my mom sent to me later on that evening {while i was staying up way past my bedtime consoling myself with a rare browse through thom yorke youtube videos. normally watching video of him live is too evocative, to the point of slightly painful, so i just ignore the wealth of amazing videos to be found. that night i was prodding bruises i guess}.

but i digress.

the peace offering was an essay on trust. self trust. and specifically the concept of absolute self trust. unlike a lot of things my mom sends me, i read this one in full {sorry mom, i skim a lot of them....} and have kept it in my inbox to be opened up on occasion. even just a glance at a few sentences gives me strength and allows me live for a few lines in the possibility of absolute trust.

trust in self. absolute trust in myself.

it's a scary thing. terrifying. and one that i so desire to step into but i find that i'm faced with a push/pull between my own sense of mediocrity and safety that battles a deep seated desire for vibrancy and transcendence in my life. but i doubt myself. i doubt. i doubt. and i doubt some more for good measure. and i don't exactly know how to end this parasitic relationship i have with my doubt.

but, even so, i know the words are slowly working their way down my system as i feel the weight of my own inertia suddenly stirring in the forward momentum that i see manifesting in my life.



*in my defense, my mom and i have been working on a new way of communicating, which doesn't involve her getting up on a pulpit and switching to a preaching voice {pulpit=joke, preaching voice=totally serious}. it's been a learning experience for us both and a way for me to connect to her wisdom and care without having to filter out the ego/love-mask/whathaveyou that likes to step in and take over her truth.

10.10.10

i woke up from a vivid dream this morning and one i pray that is prophetic. i was outside in a storm. no shelter. no escape. the storm swooped up quickly, but i still had time to sense its coming and brace myself. dark, murky greys, pale rain pulled by horizontal winds, the storm was epic in scale and i was suspended in the center. waiting. weathering. until the skies parted, the clouds dissolved and i had made it. in remembering back, i am surprised to note that there wasn't any dread of anticipation or relief at being on the other side of it all, just calm acceptance. the storm needed to come, but i always knew it would go again.

looking forward to some sunnier skies.



currently listening to: hoppipolla & glósóli -- sigur rós.