I haven't stopped crying for the past thirty minutes. Not only is it unattractive, but it's also disgusting since I forgot to bring (or didn't think I needed to bring) tissues on the plane and I can't stop sniffling (much to the chagrin of the flyer next to me.) My face is leaking. This is what happens when you cry. Which I rarely do in any capacity and I NEVER do in public. For the first time in my life, Christmas only lasted 48 hours. I know this seems like a ridiculous reason to cry. Christmas lasting "only" 48 hours may also seem peculiar to the average plebian.
Christmas lasts two days for most of the world: Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. In my big, uber-Christian, fabulous big-hearted Texan family, the Christmas season begins November 26th and ends January 1st. Hardcore Christmas lasts approximately two weeks. It is a marathon event. In fact, it is almost like camp. Camp Christmas. The day after Thanksgiving, tree, lights and snow village go up. The Old-lady-geared "Neath the Wreath" Christmas craft bazaar is attended. In the week preceding Christmas, we generally have 2 extended family Christmases. The week of Christmas, we do the following: make blankets on my late Grandmother's birthday for people in need (a tradition we began while she was still living because that's the kind of woman she was--one who would rather make gifts for others on her own birthday...if that isn't the Christmas spirit, I don't know what is), attend the Christmas Eve service, watch Muppet Christmas Carol and It's A Wonderful Life (these are the only two mandantory Christmas films), have "little Christmas" of present exchange between me, my mother, and my sister the night of Christmas Eve, have both sides of the family over for Christmas morning brunch made by mom, attend Christmas on my dad's side all day (snacks, stockings, dinner, program/talent show, gifts, games), spend all day at my other Grandmother's for Christmas there (similar regimen), go to Holiday in the Park at Six Flags with my Deaton cousins, take the train down to Spaghetti Warehouse downtown and then Starbucks at Mockingbird Station, and spend several days just hangin' with the fam. We hang, we play games, we go see movies, we eat endlessly, sometimes we venture out, we may visit Northpark Mall (my mothership), but mostly we just enjoy each others' company. It is blissful. Christmas has always been far and away my favorite time of year and I would say if there were a Christmas happiness pie chart, it would contain 80% Grandmama magic, 5% that i wasnt in school (which is now every day...meaning I get a little Christmas every stinkin' day), and 15% my whole family is made of awesome and we do Christmas right.
This year, I was blessed with the burden of adulthood. I was further 'burdened' by immediately finding a job. My job suits me to a 'T'. I love the gypsy lfe. I love traveling. I love performing. For the last 14 weeks, I have lived in beautiful Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Now, if you had told me senior year of high school that in four years I'd be performing for a living in the Northeast, beach, and desert I would have a) laughed in your face and b) kissed you. If I had it my way (and gosh I hope I do), I'd maintain this kind of lifestyle for at least the next five years. The only real detriment is that you don't necessarily get vacations (because, well, your life is like one fabulous vacation...performing and traveling and exploring). This really wouldn't bother me any time besides Christmas. Despite the love of my current life, I can't really think of the last time I was as sad as I was entering DFW airport today having been with my family for just a couple of days and knowing the fun of Camp Christmas was far from over. I briskly instructed my sister and mother not to cry (knowing the second either of them showed any emotion I'd be a goner) and naturally started weeping the second I entered the airport. It was truly awful. And I know it's stupid. To make matters worse, I elected to "borrow" my mother's 5 lb weights (because I stupidly assumed she wouldn't miss them as I have them every time I'm home and she doesn't seem to miss them then) and pack them in a carry-on. Of course, the scanner picks them up in security. I get patted down. My shoes are patted. My bun is patted (this is not the first tme this has happened...what exactly do they think I am hiding in there??). My bag is searched. I am instructed to check a second bag (more money wasted) and go through security again. While sobbing like a stupid mess. It was exhausting and miserable and would probably be a hilarious reality tv show in some schadenfreude kind of way. Anyway, some money and tears and security trips later, I made it in time to board my flight. Still crying like a goon.
And frankly, between seeing old friends from Me and My Girl (the first show I did in Lancaster) and being in 84 degree weather on the beach, I know I will soon be happy as a clam (see? I made an ocean pun. Sad people can be funny). And more frankly, I already kinda miss my beloved Northeast. And it will all be okay.
I welcome this kind of challenge. In the grand scheme of things, I still really couldn't be happier. I can't wait to experience new shows and new theatres and new cities. And if my sister and mother feel led to compulsively visit me (and/or the rest of my big wonderful family...nudge, nudge, wink, wink) that would just be grand. We'll just list this as a slightly painful stretch mark from my seemingly skyrocketing theatrical growth spurt. (Not like my career is skyrocketing--just that I am continuing to learn tons in a stupid amount of time.)
These are good things. Being an adult is a good thing. It can just kinda hurt sometimes.
To my family: I hate to be redundant, but I really do wish I had more time with you. I love you all so much and hope you continue to have a wonderful holiday season!
To my co-workers: how blessed are we to do what we do? I'm so thrilled to continue spreading my wings with you as company.
To my readers: I can't believe you read this. But bless you.
To the rest of you: Merry Christmas!
And to all: a good night.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Blue Christmas
There's nothing terribly magical about Christmas in Dallas. Living in the Northeast over the past few months has taught me a number of things--most notably, perhaps, that we Texans are pretty aesthetically deprived when it comes to scenery. We effectively only have two "seasons": summer, and ugly not-summer. And yet, my favorite time of year since I was very young has been Christmastime. I loved the music and baked goods and presents (of course). I loved Christmas at Northpark mall with the 12 days of Christmas and Scrooge and children's choirs singing holiday music. I loved Advent time because it has the prettiest hymns in the Episcopalian hymnal. I loved Advent Family Sunday. I loved it when Lola Dill (my wonderful piano teacher) let me start playing Christmas music and not just Baroque and Classical. I loved stuffing my face with sand tarts and Grandmother's tea cakes (they are NOT sugar cookies, just so you know.) But most of all I loved the time spent with family. I grew up with (and still have) the best family in the world. There are lots of us (on both sides) and we all enjoy the following: time together, games (especially cards and Monopoly on my mom's side and fun holiday games on my dad's), the Muppet Christmas Carol, (A Christmas Story on my mom's side--though I don't share this love) and food. Lots and lots of food. I love my family's Christmas traditions: the beautiful brass service Christmas Eve at the church, Brunch at our house Christmas morning, and days spent in food-comas from every variety of home-cooked goodness, casseroles, and most importantly mashed potatoes. In later years, I loved the tradition of bringing my best friends from high school (both of whom happened to be Jewish) to family Christmas. Which brings me to the very best part of Christmases past: Grandmama. She pretty much embodied everything wonderful about the holidays. Selflessness, love, charity, and a kind of purity that is unparalleled and I suspect singular to her. She LOVED Christmas--every aspect of it. What it represents, the music, the way it brings people together, and the time spent with family. And she always strove (and succeeded) to make it perfect. So it was. And maybe I was so determined last year to be strong at Christmas without her and simultaneously distracted by having a boyfriend and juggling his Christmas with my own that I couldn't be upset or really let myself miss her. Maybe I felt the need to put on a happy face for the rest of the family. In fact, I'm sure we all did. But this year much more than last year at this time, I find myself thinking about her and wishing I could share with her what I'm doing with my life and how happy I am and how well my sister and I get along now that we're a little older and establishing our own lives (but she knew that would happen) and how I can't wait to be home with her for the holidays and hug her wonderful self and smell perfume from her Christmas vests and go to Northpark for an epic Christmas shopping spree that lasts the whole day. Because the truth is: it will never be the same. I still have the same wonderful family and we all love each other very much and we all share such wonderful memories, but we have to establish a new normal. Which we're capable of. And we will do. And I know Grandmama's daughters will continue the traditions and the magic (after all, she raised them and it's in their blood). And I know that my two newest cousins, Henry and Heidi, are helping heal the hurt and fill in some of that magic that left with Grandmama. And I know I will still have a wonderful Christmas and I can't wait to be home with my family.
And I know that the new normal will be okay.
We will make it so.
And I know that the new normal will be okay.
We will make it so.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Music is the Shorthand of Emotion: The Luxury of Lyric Stage
Lights dim and anticipation builds as I shift excitedly in the plush, velvet seat in enormous Carpenter Hall. God, I hope this is good. A silent prayer for something transformative. For "art," whatever that means. To escape.
A collective sharp inhale as the maestro raises both arms above his head, glistening baton in right, energy in his left. With one forceful whip of the baton, a resplendent cacophany of not just sound, but true music envelops the space. Bernstein's glorious, agitated West Side Story overture has begun, and I've just fallen head over heels in love. As I age and the nagging necessity of responsiblity becomes unaviodable, so do more mundane activities and choices. I am guilty of the common plight of "not living in the moment." It is unfortunately rare to find myself wishing I were nowhere else. Music is my express-lane ticket to ethereal bliss and that night in Carpenter Hall, you could not have paid me or wooed me away from the magic. Were there wonderful performances? Probably. Was there beautiful dancing? Certainly. But oh! that beautiful orchestra. 38 glorious pieces remastering one of the most perfect scores as it was first performed: a luxury that has vanished even from the most commercial, tourist-friendly theatres--those currently on Broadway.
And lo and behold, this wonderful gem of a theater exists in Irving, Texas, of all places. Now, it is probably by some terrible mistake, but my blogger stats tell me I have readers from all over the country as well as some international readers. If you, dear readers, find yourself in Texas or in need of a musical catharsis and/or pilgrimage, do yourself a favor and trek out to Irving for some musical theater magic.
The night I saw West Side Story, I had just decided to attempt pursuing theatre--even though I really had no background in it (outside of fanatic nerddom and quasi-closeted obsession.) About twenty seconds into the overture, I made it my ultimate aim to work at Lyric Stage. It is the marriage of what I love most in theatre: the old school, smartly written, narrative orchestrations that are essentially nonexistent now, an orchestra to parlay that narrative to the audience, a production team invested in the integrity of the work, and even sometimes a collaboration with the composer/original collaborators of the work.
West Side Story was three years ago, so my love affair isn't new by any means, but I find rather than my honeymoon phase waning and fizzling out, I continue discovering further reasons to fall in love with Lyric Stage. In the past couple years, I've had the extreme privelege of performing in six shows at Lyric as well as teaching a couple of classes and choreograhing the kids summer production. (If you have kiddos interested in the arts, consider taking them to the classes throughout the year and definitely get them involved in the summer production--they use the same costumes and set as the professional production and it is a wonderful experience!)
After a couple months away from Dallas and beloved Lyric (as a result of a job I have through a connection I made at Lyric, incidentally), I have to confess I am a little homesick for that orchestra. (And as a result I felt compelled unsolicited and entirely voluntarily to blog about it out of town on my day off. That's gotta be true love, right?) They just did a production of Charles Strouse's Rags, which I heard (and I have no doubt it's true) was glorious. I'm still very much enjoying my current adventure performing 8-10 shows a week in Pennsylvania, but the more I see and experience away from Lyric the more I realize how rare and amazing it is. This morning in New York City (it's my day off!) I had the chance to grab coffee with a wonderful co-worker from Gypsy at Lyric who has worked literally everywhere--Broadway and beyond--and we collectively marvelled over what a luxury an orchestra and a theatre like Lyric Stage is. We are terribly spoiled, Texas. Apparently the love spell isn't exclusively for young enthusiastic novices like me.
All good music resembles something. Good music stirs by its mysterious resemblance to the objects and feelings which motivated it. Jean Cocteau said it, but Lyric Stage exemplifies it. And we get to reap the benefits of some incredible work as a result.
How lucky are we?
A collective sharp inhale as the maestro raises both arms above his head, glistening baton in right, energy in his left. With one forceful whip of the baton, a resplendent cacophany of not just sound, but true music envelops the space. Bernstein's glorious, agitated West Side Story overture has begun, and I've just fallen head over heels in love. As I age and the nagging necessity of responsiblity becomes unaviodable, so do more mundane activities and choices. I am guilty of the common plight of "not living in the moment." It is unfortunately rare to find myself wishing I were nowhere else. Music is my express-lane ticket to ethereal bliss and that night in Carpenter Hall, you could not have paid me or wooed me away from the magic. Were there wonderful performances? Probably. Was there beautiful dancing? Certainly. But oh! that beautiful orchestra. 38 glorious pieces remastering one of the most perfect scores as it was first performed: a luxury that has vanished even from the most commercial, tourist-friendly theatres--those currently on Broadway.
And lo and behold, this wonderful gem of a theater exists in Irving, Texas, of all places. Now, it is probably by some terrible mistake, but my blogger stats tell me I have readers from all over the country as well as some international readers. If you, dear readers, find yourself in Texas or in need of a musical catharsis and/or pilgrimage, do yourself a favor and trek out to Irving for some musical theater magic.
The night I saw West Side Story, I had just decided to attempt pursuing theatre--even though I really had no background in it (outside of fanatic nerddom and quasi-closeted obsession.) About twenty seconds into the overture, I made it my ultimate aim to work at Lyric Stage. It is the marriage of what I love most in theatre: the old school, smartly written, narrative orchestrations that are essentially nonexistent now, an orchestra to parlay that narrative to the audience, a production team invested in the integrity of the work, and even sometimes a collaboration with the composer/original collaborators of the work.
West Side Story was three years ago, so my love affair isn't new by any means, but I find rather than my honeymoon phase waning and fizzling out, I continue discovering further reasons to fall in love with Lyric Stage. In the past couple years, I've had the extreme privelege of performing in six shows at Lyric as well as teaching a couple of classes and choreograhing the kids summer production. (If you have kiddos interested in the arts, consider taking them to the classes throughout the year and definitely get them involved in the summer production--they use the same costumes and set as the professional production and it is a wonderful experience!)
After a couple months away from Dallas and beloved Lyric (as a result of a job I have through a connection I made at Lyric, incidentally), I have to confess I am a little homesick for that orchestra. (And as a result I felt compelled unsolicited and entirely voluntarily to blog about it out of town on my day off. That's gotta be true love, right?) They just did a production of Charles Strouse's Rags, which I heard (and I have no doubt it's true) was glorious. I'm still very much enjoying my current adventure performing 8-10 shows a week in Pennsylvania, but the more I see and experience away from Lyric the more I realize how rare and amazing it is. This morning in New York City (it's my day off!) I had the chance to grab coffee with a wonderful co-worker from Gypsy at Lyric who has worked literally everywhere--Broadway and beyond--and we collectively marvelled over what a luxury an orchestra and a theatre like Lyric Stage is. We are terribly spoiled, Texas. Apparently the love spell isn't exclusively for young enthusiastic novices like me.
All good music resembles something. Good music stirs by its mysterious resemblance to the objects and feelings which motivated it. Jean Cocteau said it, but Lyric Stage exemplifies it. And we get to reap the benefits of some incredible work as a result.
How lucky are we?
Saturday, November 19, 2011
The Thing Is
The thing is this: I lead the most beautifully charmed life. I am doing exactly what I want to do. I am living in the Northeast, I'm traveling, I am performing, I am housed and fed, I am meeting wonderful people, and I wake up happy every single morning. I couldn't possibly conjure a better first year out of college. I am stupidly grateful for my lifestyle (and particularly grateful to my blood-related family and my theater family) and I can only hope to cntinue to be blessed in this fashion.
Life is good. I am loving it.
Really, that's all you need to know.
Life is good. I am loving it.
Really, that's all you need to know.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
On Winning
"I win!!" A smile breaks out over my sister's infectiously radiant seven year old face. Grandmama smiles warmly, congratulates Abby on her success, and both she and Abby cautiously turn towards me. It's a typical Tuesday night: we're in the game room--me, Grandmama, and Abby. Abby has just won a game of Sorry. Ergo: Katharine has just lost a game of Sorry. ie: Uh oh.
Katie Beth was insisitent that EVERYONE feel her loss. I wish I could use that past tense "was insistent" without feeling like a liar. I'm still not a spectacularly graceful being. With my mischief, glee, and passion for life came an equal magnitude of zone-out, shut down the world, pouting, sore-loser angst.
Losing gracefully has never been one of my stronger skills.
Fortunately, I was raised around two of the loveliest, kindest spirits: Abby (my sister) and Grandmama (Katharine the first.) Though they were always gracious and lovely (well, I don't know that Abigail was ALWAYS gracious and lovely--after all, she was still a little sister) I don't know that their kind spirits necessarily rubbed off on me. At least not in the realm of game-playing.
This isn't to say that I'm a bad person or dislike the fortune of others. It is simply to say that I'm stupidly competitive by nature. And some days--days like today--a cornucopia of tiny, tiny losses (that no one else would even recognize as losses) amount to my feeling like a worthless, unsuccessful, unattractive schmuck when I know full well that's not reality.
The question I pose is this: what degree of drive, competitive nature, and desire for winning constitutes a dangerous or unhealthy attitude? Drive and competition mandates my life. Part of this comes naturally in my profession. But I've not always been an actress and yet I've always been this way. Does this mean I've spent 22 years being painfully insecure and NEEDING success? Or is 'being competitive' a legitimate trait that I've been cursed/blessed with?
Regardless, I think one of my more immediate goals (along with slowing my instinct to overanalyze) is to pace/monitor this competitive drive.
...
Confession: I already know this isn't going to happen. Even as that goal occurred to me and I typed it I knew I won't be able to quell my desire for success--immediate success and lots of it. What is that? Do I have a deficit of some kind in my life? Happiness? Security? Or is that just me? It's always been this way. And maybe I'm jsut being neurotic. I'm talking in Woody Allen-worthy circles. So it's likely.
Maybe I should just accept it. I'm driven. I'm competitive. I'm curious. I want to win. I'm constantly afraid I'll miss something. Sometimes I can't sleep because my adrenaline from dreaming is so frenetic that I feel electric. Like I could actually catapult to whatever ethereal nonexistant dreamland I've concocted where I have everything I want. And then I drive myself crazier still with the realization and paralyzing fear that I'm not skilled enough to make it happen.
Do these thoughts ever occur to you? Am I a bona fide crazy person? Will I ever be satisfied?
Probably. Probably not.
Katie Beth was insisitent that EVERYONE feel her loss. I wish I could use that past tense "was insistent" without feeling like a liar. I'm still not a spectacularly graceful being. With my mischief, glee, and passion for life came an equal magnitude of zone-out, shut down the world, pouting, sore-loser angst.
Losing gracefully has never been one of my stronger skills.
Fortunately, I was raised around two of the loveliest, kindest spirits: Abby (my sister) and Grandmama (Katharine the first.) Though they were always gracious and lovely (well, I don't know that Abigail was ALWAYS gracious and lovely--after all, she was still a little sister) I don't know that their kind spirits necessarily rubbed off on me. At least not in the realm of game-playing.
This isn't to say that I'm a bad person or dislike the fortune of others. It is simply to say that I'm stupidly competitive by nature. And some days--days like today--a cornucopia of tiny, tiny losses (that no one else would even recognize as losses) amount to my feeling like a worthless, unsuccessful, unattractive schmuck when I know full well that's not reality.
The question I pose is this: what degree of drive, competitive nature, and desire for winning constitutes a dangerous or unhealthy attitude? Drive and competition mandates my life. Part of this comes naturally in my profession. But I've not always been an actress and yet I've always been this way. Does this mean I've spent 22 years being painfully insecure and NEEDING success? Or is 'being competitive' a legitimate trait that I've been cursed/blessed with?
Regardless, I think one of my more immediate goals (along with slowing my instinct to overanalyze) is to pace/monitor this competitive drive.
...
Confession: I already know this isn't going to happen. Even as that goal occurred to me and I typed it I knew I won't be able to quell my desire for success--immediate success and lots of it. What is that? Do I have a deficit of some kind in my life? Happiness? Security? Or is that just me? It's always been this way. And maybe I'm jsut being neurotic. I'm talking in Woody Allen-worthy circles. So it's likely.
Maybe I should just accept it. I'm driven. I'm competitive. I'm curious. I want to win. I'm constantly afraid I'll miss something. Sometimes I can't sleep because my adrenaline from dreaming is so frenetic that I feel electric. Like I could actually catapult to whatever ethereal nonexistant dreamland I've concocted where I have everything I want. And then I drive myself crazier still with the realization and paralyzing fear that I'm not skilled enough to make it happen.
Do these thoughts ever occur to you? Am I a bona fide crazy person? Will I ever be satisfied?
Probably. Probably not.
Friday, November 4, 2011
On Fear of Blogging (On Being Silly)
I think about writing daily. In fact, I'm haunted multiple times a day by my cowardice and negligence of this blog. I know it seems silly (and it is) but I'm daunted by the need to write something profound. Yet, when I encounter something beyond my comprehension or an occurance/sensation that I don't quite understand, I run from sorting it out on here. And I can't even bring myself to journal about it privately, even though writing is always my dearest companion and counselor. I'm not sure what this says about me, but here are my vague assertions:
1. I need applause. Figuratively, literally. I need to immediately know that what I've just produced/done/said is acceptable. Appreciated. Correct. A success.
2. Therefore: Please comment.
3. A journal is a blog without comments. But it's also probably a more effective means of sorting out the mess that is my cluttered, overactive mind.
4. There's a lot I'm afraid of. Maybe that's a more worthwhile list to make...
Things I'm Afraid Of:
1. Starting a list title that ends in a preposition. Should it have been "Things of which I have fear"? Dear Elaine Liner: help.
2. Being grammatically incorrect.
3. Being a disappointment.
4. Letting my life be dictated by fear.
5. My tendency to be all-or-nothing. I love you or I hate you. I love my life or hate it. I love my body or hate it. I have faith in myself or I suck. It's exhausting.
6. Being too bold on this blog.
7. Not being bold enough on this blog.
8. Wanting the unattainable.
9. Wasting time and energy on dreams that will never come to fruition.
10. Remaining intellectually stagnant.
11. Remaining artistically stagnant.
12. Being unattractive. Being unwanted. Failing. Falling.
13. Investing in a world in which I do not belong. Pursuing the wrong career. Not being talented enough.
14. Being too honest.
15. Ending this list with an uneventful number like "fourteen."
Things I know:
1. Right now I am happy.
2. It would behoove me to assess my current situation and figure out just what is making me happy. And keep it that way.
3. I'm anxious about Lauren Ambrose being Fanny Brice.
4. I need to stay away from narcissism in myself and others. And similarly to steer clear of negativity.
5. It's my life. Be kind to others, but also do what you need to do for you.
6. I hate sounding like a poorly written self-help tweet.
7. Twitter has replaced self-help books.
8. I'm growing weary of lists.
9. I'm talking in circles.
10. I just got some remarkable shoes from modcloth that are STUNNING and make my world go around.
11. I covet fantastic perfume but I'm allergic to most of it. It's depressing.
12. I'm enamored of jazz music.
13. I wish my heyday occurred in the 1920s or 1940s. This is impractical. And my grandkids will hate me for saying this and wish their heyday had been in the 2000s. Silly kids.
14. This is list is all about me.
15. Am I a narcissist?
16. These are no longer "things I know."
Wearing myself out again. I'm happy, not angsty. I swear. I just do all my soul-searching on here. You should know that by now. Mmkay. Done now. Goodnight. Comment please.
1. I need applause. Figuratively, literally. I need to immediately know that what I've just produced/done/said is acceptable. Appreciated. Correct. A success.
2. Therefore: Please comment.
3. A journal is a blog without comments. But it's also probably a more effective means of sorting out the mess that is my cluttered, overactive mind.
4. There's a lot I'm afraid of. Maybe that's a more worthwhile list to make...
Things I'm Afraid Of:
1. Starting a list title that ends in a preposition. Should it have been "Things of which I have fear"? Dear Elaine Liner: help.
2. Being grammatically incorrect.
3. Being a disappointment.
4. Letting my life be dictated by fear.
5. My tendency to be all-or-nothing. I love you or I hate you. I love my life or hate it. I love my body or hate it. I have faith in myself or I suck. It's exhausting.
6. Being too bold on this blog.
7. Not being bold enough on this blog.
8. Wanting the unattainable.
9. Wasting time and energy on dreams that will never come to fruition.
10. Remaining intellectually stagnant.
11. Remaining artistically stagnant.
12. Being unattractive. Being unwanted. Failing. Falling.
13. Investing in a world in which I do not belong. Pursuing the wrong career. Not being talented enough.
14. Being too honest.
15. Ending this list with an uneventful number like "fourteen."
Things I know:
1. Right now I am happy.
2. It would behoove me to assess my current situation and figure out just what is making me happy. And keep it that way.
3. I'm anxious about Lauren Ambrose being Fanny Brice.
4. I need to stay away from narcissism in myself and others. And similarly to steer clear of negativity.
5. It's my life. Be kind to others, but also do what you need to do for you.
6. I hate sounding like a poorly written self-help tweet.
7. Twitter has replaced self-help books.
8. I'm growing weary of lists.
9. I'm talking in circles.
10. I just got some remarkable shoes from modcloth that are STUNNING and make my world go around.
11. I covet fantastic perfume but I'm allergic to most of it. It's depressing.
12. I'm enamored of jazz music.
13. I wish my heyday occurred in the 1920s or 1940s. This is impractical. And my grandkids will hate me for saying this and wish their heyday had been in the 2000s. Silly kids.
14. This is list is all about me.
15. Am I a narcissist?
16. These are no longer "things I know."
Wearing myself out again. I'm happy, not angsty. I swear. I just do all my soul-searching on here. You should know that by now. Mmkay. Done now. Goodnight. Comment please.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Cultivate a Little Grin, and Smile
The reason I haven't posted in months:
I am happy.
And it's a wonderful thing. I'm living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania performing a quaint 1930's musical with the loveliest company of people and I'm frankly enamored of every single day. Am I still constantly anticipating what I will do after this contract? Of course. Do I still lie awake at night (nights like tonight) restless and anxious planning the future? Sure do. But such is the life of the actor. And indeed--the actor's life is the life for me!
I wish I had something remarkably profound and clever to say, but the sad fact is that I am exhausted from working and playing too hard and the best I can do is offer some snapshots of the last month. Bless you if you actually read this after my weeks of neglect and hope everyone is having an equally magical autumn 2011!
Monday, September 19, 2011
What Would Little KB Think?
I think I was a relatively remarkable little kid. I was a total weirdo, not terribly charming or attractive, but smart enough. And creative enough. For instance: I played a game in second grade called "Boy of the Day" where I would line the boys up against the cafeteria wall, spin in a circle with my eyes closed, and whoever I landed on got to eat lunch with me. For an unattractive kid, creating a competition gameshow out of lunch was a pretty swell idea. Another instance: my friend Roseanne and I used to host a talk show in the ladies lounge (code for fancy useless sitting area of the bathroom) in Parrish Hall in elementary school. We discussed all sorts of issues, but most of what I recall had to do with art and boys.
Not much has changed.
Okay, maybe a lot has. But in so many ways, the trajectory of my life is completely predictable and totally unsurprising.
For those of you who don't know (and I haven't the foggiest idea why I am sharing this with you) I went by the nickname "Katie Beth" for the first eighteen years of my life. I utterly abhor this name. Though my mother will argue otherwise, I have loathed this name for as long as I can remember, and started going by my legitimate full name (...Katharine) as soon as humanly possible (college.)
Katie Beth was far more precocious than Katharine. She was also more ambitious. Katie Beth would be utterly depressed by the state 22 year old Katharine has. First of all, being 22 never really occurred to Katie Beth. KB (as she was and is still known by some closest and oldest friends/family) desperately yearned to be older and fabulous, but exceeding 21 wasn't necessarily a part of that plan. KB also would have written a book by now and had way more money than 22 year old Katharine has.
Let's take an inventory of what little KB would think of my current life status, shall we?
Katharine joined a sorority. #kbfail
Katharine left an arts admin scholarship #kbfail
Katharine currently lives at home #kbfail
Katharine is not famous, nor is especially good at any singular thing #kbfail
Katharine thought college was disappointing #kbfail
Katharine tried acting #mediocre
Katharine tried her hand at theater in Dallas #chorusgirlwin
Katharine is still a chorus girl #kbfail
Katharine isn't ballsy enough to move to New York, even though that's been a dream for over a decade #kbfail
Katharine has met amazing people #kbwin
Katharine is single, focused, and driven #kbwin
Katharine leaves Wednesday to do a show in the Northeast #kbwin
Katharine no longer plays boy of the day #growingup
Katharine is doing the best she can #reality
Not much has changed.
Okay, maybe a lot has. But in so many ways, the trajectory of my life is completely predictable and totally unsurprising.
For those of you who don't know (and I haven't the foggiest idea why I am sharing this with you) I went by the nickname "Katie Beth" for the first eighteen years of my life. I utterly abhor this name. Though my mother will argue otherwise, I have loathed this name for as long as I can remember, and started going by my legitimate full name (...Katharine) as soon as humanly possible (college.)
Katie Beth was far more precocious than Katharine. She was also more ambitious. Katie Beth would be utterly depressed by the state 22 year old Katharine has. First of all, being 22 never really occurred to Katie Beth. KB (as she was and is still known by some closest and oldest friends/family) desperately yearned to be older and fabulous, but exceeding 21 wasn't necessarily a part of that plan. KB also would have written a book by now and had way more money than 22 year old Katharine has.
Let's take an inventory of what little KB would think of my current life status, shall we?
Katharine joined a sorority. #kbfail
Katharine left an arts admin scholarship #kbfail
Katharine currently lives at home #kbfail
Katharine is not famous, nor is especially good at any singular thing #kbfail
Katharine thought college was disappointing #kbfail
Katharine tried acting #mediocre
Katharine tried her hand at theater in Dallas #chorusgirlwin
Katharine is still a chorus girl #kbfail
Katharine isn't ballsy enough to move to New York, even though that's been a dream for over a decade #kbfail
Katharine has met amazing people #kbwin
Katharine is single, focused, and driven #kbwin
Katharine leaves Wednesday to do a show in the Northeast #kbwin
Katharine no longer plays boy of the day #growingup
Katharine is doing the best she can #reality
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Joseph L. Mankiewicz Knew a Thing or Two
I was saying that the Theater is nine -tenths hard work. Work done the hard way - by sweat, application and craftsmanship. I’ll agree to this - that to be a good actor, actress, or anything else in the Theater, means wanting to be that more than anything else in the world…
It means concentration of ambition, desire, and sacrifice such as no other profession demands… And I’ll agree that the man or woman who accepts those terms can’t be ordinary, can’t be - just someone. To give so much for almost always so little…”
“So little. So little, did you say? Why, if there’s nothing else - there’s applause. It’s like - like waves of love coming over the footlights and wrapping you up. Imagine…To know, every night, that
different hundreds of people love you… they smile, their eyes shine - you’ve pleased them, they want you, you belong. Just that alone is worth anything…”
It means concentration of ambition, desire, and sacrifice such as no other profession demands… And I’ll agree that the man or woman who accepts those terms can’t be ordinary, can’t be - just someone. To give so much for almost always so little…”
“So little. So little, did you say? Why, if there’s nothing else - there’s applause. It’s like - like waves of love coming over the footlights and wrapping you up. Imagine…To know, every night, that
different hundreds of people love you… they smile, their eyes shine - you’ve pleased them, they want you, you belong. Just that alone is worth anything…”
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
All I Need is One Good Break
It's not that I don't enjoy being a chorus girl. I do, really. In fact, in some shows there's really nothing I'd rather be.
It's just that I'm ready to try something new. Be more integral in the story of a show. To not just perform. To sing. To act. To communicate outside of a smiling ensemble. (To step out of my comfort zone. To be afraid. To be challenged.) I have a theatre degree; why not use it?
What is it that releases you from the duty of paying your dues? Working long hours for minimal/no pay? For schlepping scenery? That gets you out of the chorus? That entitles you to at least a shot?
Is it grad school? Is it more training in general? Is it a better body? Is it ballsiness? Is it getting out of Dallas? Is it hopeless? (If so, I think my chorus girl years..with some exceptions..may be limited.) I'm growing restless. Not turning into a diva. Just feel like I'm kinda stuck in a hamster wheel, you know?
As always, any applicable advice is appreciated. And thanks for continuing to muddy through this angsty, soul-searchy, career-growth-spurt with me.
It's just that I'm ready to try something new. Be more integral in the story of a show. To not just perform. To sing. To act. To communicate outside of a smiling ensemble. (To step out of my comfort zone. To be afraid. To be challenged.) I have a theatre degree; why not use it?
What is it that releases you from the duty of paying your dues? Working long hours for minimal/no pay? For schlepping scenery? That gets you out of the chorus? That entitles you to at least a shot?
Is it grad school? Is it more training in general? Is it a better body? Is it ballsiness? Is it getting out of Dallas? Is it hopeless? (If so, I think my chorus girl years..with some exceptions..may be limited.) I'm growing restless. Not turning into a diva. Just feel like I'm kinda stuck in a hamster wheel, you know?
As always, any applicable advice is appreciated. And thanks for continuing to muddy through this angsty, soul-searchy, career-growth-spurt with me.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Dallas Theater Center's Cabaret is on the New York Times website!
This cramazing article about Dallas Theater Center was on the New York Times website tonight and it just so happens that the attached photo contains my face (and body.) Im the blonde on the right.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/28/us/28ttkelly.html&ct=ga&cad=CAcQARgAIAAoATAAOABArPjl8gRIAVAAWABiBWVuLVVT&cd=LgQSmVNNQ_E&usg=AFQjCNGRl5cLEIgFv-2wi3QBB4BzMcIejA
Kind of awesome!
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/28/us/28ttkelly.html&ct=ga&cad=CAcQARgAIAAoATAAOABArPjl8gRIAVAAWABiBWVuLVVT&cd=LgQSmVNNQ_E&usg=AFQjCNGRl5cLEIgFv-2wi3QBB4BzMcIejA
Kind of awesome!
Sunday, August 21, 2011
On Restlessness
"Restlessness is discontent and discontent is the first necessity of progress. Show me a thoroughly satisfied man and I will show you a failure." - Thomas Edison
I'm grateful Edison has a good track record because I am in dire need of advice from someone. Even a dead someone who wasn't directing advice towards me. Someone legit. Edison seems legit.
I'm hopeful that this period of angst and soul searching will find its solution and direction soon so that I may stop pestering you all with my feelings and be productive/successful already. Even my mother told me I've overburdened you with angst.
Me: "So people keep telling me they read my blog but nobody comments. Except for my sister who takes pity on me and the occasional other people."
Mom: "Well it's so burdensome having to log in to comment. And people just don't know what to say anymore. You just keep being so angsty."
Mom is accurate, but this isn't a helpful or revelatory piece of information. (Love you, mom.)
Oh hey, mom? Where did I come from? (Oh gracious. PLEASE spare me the birds and the bees conversation. I'm pretty sure we successfully avoided that conversation in my pre-adolescence (because I was a relatively self sufficient child and probably googled it. or was given a book. And if we did have that conversation I have succeeded in blocking it from my memory and would like to keep it that way. Please and thank you!) ANYWAY, that is not the topic of conversation. I mean "where did I come from" in a more (yes, angsty), broader, philosophical kind of way. Were you this angsty? How about driven? Was dad? Is my supernatural undirected quotient of drive FROM either of you? (Read: Who do I have to blame for this ambition condition?)
I keep having evenings of not wanting to go to sleep because I feel like I haven't produced anything substantial in the day. Or learned anything. Or done anything significant. I think I have the guts and the energy to hardcore pursue something but I need Dumbledore to drop down from the sky and say "HermiKatharGinnyMuggle, pursue it this way" and I will.
Where is Dumbledore when I need him? Furthermore, why am I not a wizard? Actually, I saw the last Harry Potter film again today and determined it really wouldn't be all that great to be a wizard seeing as they have to deal with Voldemort and death eaters and betrayal and such. Then again, we have to deal with Michelle Bachmann and Kim Kardashian so maybe muggles aren't so well off either.
At any rate, I have managed to dicuss wizardry more thoroughly than I have hashed out the beast of energy/drive/ambition combusting in my chest and therefore am no closer to directing/channeling it and therefore no closer to breakthrough/product.
Sorry for being angsty again, mom. Sorry to everyone else, too. By the way, you can comment anonymously and just sign it. Or not. If you're feeling all cowardly and such. Or lazy. Or don't care enough to comment (in which case I don't blame you.)
Hope you sane normal people are all sleeping tight and have a wonderful start to the week tomorrow (today.) Goodnight and good morning.
I'm grateful Edison has a good track record because I am in dire need of advice from someone. Even a dead someone who wasn't directing advice towards me. Someone legit. Edison seems legit.
I'm hopeful that this period of angst and soul searching will find its solution and direction soon so that I may stop pestering you all with my feelings and be productive/successful already. Even my mother told me I've overburdened you with angst.
Me: "So people keep telling me they read my blog but nobody comments. Except for my sister who takes pity on me and the occasional other people."
Mom: "Well it's so burdensome having to log in to comment. And people just don't know what to say anymore. You just keep being so angsty."
Mom is accurate, but this isn't a helpful or revelatory piece of information. (Love you, mom.)
Oh hey, mom? Where did I come from? (Oh gracious. PLEASE spare me the birds and the bees conversation. I'm pretty sure we successfully avoided that conversation in my pre-adolescence (because I was a relatively self sufficient child and probably googled it. or was given a book. And if we did have that conversation I have succeeded in blocking it from my memory and would like to keep it that way. Please and thank you!) ANYWAY, that is not the topic of conversation. I mean "where did I come from" in a more (yes, angsty), broader, philosophical kind of way. Were you this angsty? How about driven? Was dad? Is my supernatural undirected quotient of drive FROM either of you? (Read: Who do I have to blame for this ambition condition?)
I keep having evenings of not wanting to go to sleep because I feel like I haven't produced anything substantial in the day. Or learned anything. Or done anything significant. I think I have the guts and the energy to hardcore pursue something but I need Dumbledore to drop down from the sky and say "HermiKatharGinnyMuggle, pursue it this way" and I will.
Where is Dumbledore when I need him? Furthermore, why am I not a wizard? Actually, I saw the last Harry Potter film again today and determined it really wouldn't be all that great to be a wizard seeing as they have to deal with Voldemort and death eaters and betrayal and such. Then again, we have to deal with Michelle Bachmann and Kim Kardashian so maybe muggles aren't so well off either.
At any rate, I have managed to dicuss wizardry more thoroughly than I have hashed out the beast of energy/drive/ambition combusting in my chest and therefore am no closer to directing/channeling it and therefore no closer to breakthrough/product.
Sorry for being angsty again, mom. Sorry to everyone else, too. By the way, you can comment anonymously and just sign it. Or not. If you're feeling all cowardly and such. Or lazy. Or don't care enough to comment (in which case I don't blame you.)
Hope you sane normal people are all sleeping tight and have a wonderful start to the week tomorrow (today.) Goodnight and good morning.
Friday, August 19, 2011
On playing it safe
On my lack of accurate self evaluation
On whether or not I can do it
On Cabaret
On luck
On being less talented than teenagers
On maybe not being talented at all, just smart
On not being all that smart
On being a nerd
On how being a nerd only gets you so far
On being nice
On how being nice only gets you so far
On taking advantage
On what if
On what next
On self value
On food. On lack of food. On dance. On working out.
On getting lazy
On lacking a specific goal
On unemployment
On old dudes with girlfriends
On irresponsible girlfriends
On angering people
On burning bridges
On trust
On altruism
On being twenty two and how i don't want to be
On wearing makeup on a daily basis for the first time ever
On having attended an all girls school
On feeling stupid and incompetent
On feeling bored and alone
On feeling inspired and motivated, mostly due to competition
On how that's probably not right
On how it wouldn't be an issue if I had won in the first place
On success as revenge
On feeling unimportant and insignificant
On narcissism
On quarter life crises
On a current need for advice. From smart, successful people who genuinely care. Irresponsible, delusional, or hateful people need not apply. Nor strangers. Nor the estranged. Goodnight.
On whether or not I can do it
On Cabaret
On luck
On being less talented than teenagers
On maybe not being talented at all, just smart
On not being all that smart
On being a nerd
On how being a nerd only gets you so far
On being nice
On how being nice only gets you so far
On taking advantage
On what if
On what next
On self value
On food. On lack of food. On dance. On working out.
On getting lazy
On lacking a specific goal
On unemployment
On old dudes with girlfriends
On irresponsible girlfriends
On angering people
On burning bridges
On trust
On altruism
On being twenty two and how i don't want to be
On wearing makeup on a daily basis for the first time ever
On having attended an all girls school
On feeling stupid and incompetent
On feeling bored and alone
On feeling inspired and motivated, mostly due to competition
On how that's probably not right
On how it wouldn't be an issue if I had won in the first place
On success as revenge
On feeling unimportant and insignificant
On narcissism
On quarter life crises
On a current need for advice. From smart, successful people who genuinely care. Irresponsible, delusional, or hateful people need not apply. Nor strangers. Nor the estranged. Goodnight.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Growing Pains
I have become complacent, lazy, and mediocre.
I am boring myself.
I am tired of being a jack of all trades, master of none.
I think the unfortunate time has come to make a choice. I hate making choices. Choices frighten me.
***
My mother likes to say that the world has yet to see what I could do if I singularly channeled all my drive and energy and passion into something. She's probably right. I am a chronic half-asser. I do what it takes to get by. In doing so, I am constantly disappointed in myself, which isn't the best place to be.
I know I'm capable of crazy things. My problem (like every artist) is that I have an gargantuan fear of failure. It terrifies me to the point of paralysis. The scenario has happened repeatedly where I work myself to a position where I could really launch and be brave and work my butt off and either catastrophically fail or gloriously succeed; I have never allowed myself to leave the launch pad. Instead, I take the backseat, amble along, and get by.
I'm tired of being underwhelming. I'm tired of being consumed by my fears.
One of my safeguards from failure is that I over-occupy myself and over-commit myself. I engross myself in ten tasks or projects at once and placate my frustrations with a failure by success in another realm. I have to maintain balance. I fear what shape I would be in if I fully engrossed myself in a project and it flopped. This has happened on smaller scales, and my skin is still so thin that I have to hermit myself away from everything, grieve, and re-emerge afterwards pretending it's all kosher, when really I'm just building frustration and callouses on my heart.
The unfortunate truth of the matter is that I am adult. And as such, it is time to start behaving like one. I have known how to behave as an adult for a long, long time but have allowed myself to use my youth and age as an excuse. I am not permitted these allowances anymore.
The time has come for some self-evaluation, growth, and intense struggle.
What do I want to be when I grow up?
This is a question I cannot and should not avoid any longer. If I could be anything in the universe in the short(ish) term, what would I pursue? The ultimate short term dream would be to be in the ensemble of a Broadway show or national tour.
That just doesn't seem realistic.
I'm not trying to garner pity or "oh no, don't say that"s but I just want to stay honest. I'm a decent dancer, a decent singer, and a decent actor. But I feel a little bit like Harold Hill in this regard--I've just tricked everyone into thinking I'm good enough when really it's all a faux facade and I'm not especially great at any of the three.
This leads to the next quandary/conundrum: do I want this badly enough that I kick my butt into some serious, serious training and set myself up for repeated heartbreak and really give this a go? I mean get my body into crazy shape, take endless lessons, fail, fail, and fail some more and hope that I'm not wasting time?
This is usually the point where my brain says, "Wait! You are moderately successful at so many other things! Why don't you become a writer? Why don't you pursue some business endeavor? Why don't you become an entrepeneur? Why don't you find some stable job that you know you could maintain?" Here is where trouble enters. But these same cyclical issues would probably occur in these other fields as well. I also can't tolerate wasting time. What if I do say, "let's do this. 100% guns a-blazing" and three or five years later I haven't made it?
If I'm being really painfully honest with myself (which is never fun), none of the alternatives could ever satisfy me as wholly as performing. Creating on the other side of the table/teaching and writing serve as close, close seconds (and I am convinced that I could be satisfied enough doing them for a living) but performing is my one true love. It's unfortunate that it's so damn hard.
I haven't found the answer just yet, but I am not procrastinating the search any longer. At least the questions and honest perseptive is out there as well as I know how at the moment.
I apologize to my family for having two swear words in this article. This isn't the kind of language you enjoy and I hope you'll forgive me for being ineloquent. I apologize to my readers for being boring as of late, and for being self-deprecating (albeit more honest than I have been lately) in this post. Lastly, I apologize to myself. Step it up, Gentsch. I know you can.
I am boring myself.
I am tired of being a jack of all trades, master of none.
I think the unfortunate time has come to make a choice. I hate making choices. Choices frighten me.
***
My mother likes to say that the world has yet to see what I could do if I singularly channeled all my drive and energy and passion into something. She's probably right. I am a chronic half-asser. I do what it takes to get by. In doing so, I am constantly disappointed in myself, which isn't the best place to be.
I know I'm capable of crazy things. My problem (like every artist) is that I have an gargantuan fear of failure. It terrifies me to the point of paralysis. The scenario has happened repeatedly where I work myself to a position where I could really launch and be brave and work my butt off and either catastrophically fail or gloriously succeed; I have never allowed myself to leave the launch pad. Instead, I take the backseat, amble along, and get by.
I'm tired of being underwhelming. I'm tired of being consumed by my fears.
One of my safeguards from failure is that I over-occupy myself and over-commit myself. I engross myself in ten tasks or projects at once and placate my frustrations with a failure by success in another realm. I have to maintain balance. I fear what shape I would be in if I fully engrossed myself in a project and it flopped. This has happened on smaller scales, and my skin is still so thin that I have to hermit myself away from everything, grieve, and re-emerge afterwards pretending it's all kosher, when really I'm just building frustration and callouses on my heart.
The unfortunate truth of the matter is that I am adult. And as such, it is time to start behaving like one. I have known how to behave as an adult for a long, long time but have allowed myself to use my youth and age as an excuse. I am not permitted these allowances anymore.
The time has come for some self-evaluation, growth, and intense struggle.
What do I want to be when I grow up?
This is a question I cannot and should not avoid any longer. If I could be anything in the universe in the short(ish) term, what would I pursue? The ultimate short term dream would be to be in the ensemble of a Broadway show or national tour.
That just doesn't seem realistic.
I'm not trying to garner pity or "oh no, don't say that"s but I just want to stay honest. I'm a decent dancer, a decent singer, and a decent actor. But I feel a little bit like Harold Hill in this regard--I've just tricked everyone into thinking I'm good enough when really it's all a faux facade and I'm not especially great at any of the three.
This leads to the next quandary/conundrum: do I want this badly enough that I kick my butt into some serious, serious training and set myself up for repeated heartbreak and really give this a go? I mean get my body into crazy shape, take endless lessons, fail, fail, and fail some more and hope that I'm not wasting time?
This is usually the point where my brain says, "Wait! You are moderately successful at so many other things! Why don't you become a writer? Why don't you pursue some business endeavor? Why don't you become an entrepeneur? Why don't you find some stable job that you know you could maintain?" Here is where trouble enters. But these same cyclical issues would probably occur in these other fields as well. I also can't tolerate wasting time. What if I do say, "let's do this. 100% guns a-blazing" and three or five years later I haven't made it?
If I'm being really painfully honest with myself (which is never fun), none of the alternatives could ever satisfy me as wholly as performing. Creating on the other side of the table/teaching and writing serve as close, close seconds (and I am convinced that I could be satisfied enough doing them for a living) but performing is my one true love. It's unfortunate that it's so damn hard.
I haven't found the answer just yet, but I am not procrastinating the search any longer. At least the questions and honest perseptive is out there as well as I know how at the moment.
I apologize to my family for having two swear words in this article. This isn't the kind of language you enjoy and I hope you'll forgive me for being ineloquent. I apologize to my readers for being boring as of late, and for being self-deprecating (albeit more honest than I have been lately) in this post. Lastly, I apologize to myself. Step it up, Gentsch. I know you can.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
And WHY isn't my life a Nancy Meyers film?
Confession: Despite the fact that It's Complicated (like most Nancy Meyers films) is a totally mediocre film, I raptly watch it every time it is available--like now, for instance. I have no real explanation for this, outside of the fact that if Nancy Meyers (or Nora Ephron) are attached to a film, it's love. Generally. Meyers is like the cinematic equivalent of Elizabeth Berg. Everything is so cozy in that world. Women in Nancy Meyers films have lush gardens, great relationships/men (at every age), fabulous clothes, amazing girlfriends, and perfect gorgeous cozy homes. And nice kitchens. Always. Money is never a struggle for the Nancy Meyers women.
This slightly silly, out of reach, lifestyle is something I think I secretly aspire to. Is that vain and stupid stupid?
I have no interest in playing Susie Homemaker, but I love entertaining and hostessing. At this point in my life, however, I can't even fathom what it must be like to own a house. It sounds preposterous. I can't even imagine having my own apartment again. Thanks to tour I won't need one thru April and then who knows?
You know what I wonder? I wonder what I'll do after tour is over. Will I live in Dallas? Will another opportunity present itself? Will I suddenly become hyper-ballsy and try New York?
...I don't think I'm ready for that yet. Wonder if I'll ever be.
You know what is disappointing about the way I've handled my life thus far? I've had such crazy ambitions and dreams since I was...well, for as long as I can remember, and I feel like I'm still moving at a glacial pace. Nothing has happened. I mean, I'm working. But have I been lazy? Could I have worked harder and been some entrepreneurial billionaire right now?
I have an intense craving to write something significant. I don't mean that I want to write anything deep or epic necessarily--but something lengthy. A book, or a screenplay, or something... I'm about to (strangely enough) have enough time on my hands where I could absolutely pool my excess energy into a big project. But what should it be?
I think the real issue is that as soon as life slows down for a minute, I start panicking over the way I'm managing it. I've just finished a stretch of 40 days straight of 10+ hours of work and suddenly (though I'm still teaching this week) I have time on my hands and a little anxious about the future.
Alright, time to start pondering my big project. Until then, we'll just take life one day at a time...
This slightly silly, out of reach, lifestyle is something I think I secretly aspire to. Is that vain and stupid stupid?
I have no interest in playing Susie Homemaker, but I love entertaining and hostessing. At this point in my life, however, I can't even fathom what it must be like to own a house. It sounds preposterous. I can't even imagine having my own apartment again. Thanks to tour I won't need one thru April and then who knows?
You know what I wonder? I wonder what I'll do after tour is over. Will I live in Dallas? Will another opportunity present itself? Will I suddenly become hyper-ballsy and try New York?
...I don't think I'm ready for that yet. Wonder if I'll ever be.
You know what is disappointing about the way I've handled my life thus far? I've had such crazy ambitions and dreams since I was...well, for as long as I can remember, and I feel like I'm still moving at a glacial pace. Nothing has happened. I mean, I'm working. But have I been lazy? Could I have worked harder and been some entrepreneurial billionaire right now?
I have an intense craving to write something significant. I don't mean that I want to write anything deep or epic necessarily--but something lengthy. A book, or a screenplay, or something... I'm about to (strangely enough) have enough time on my hands where I could absolutely pool my excess energy into a big project. But what should it be?
I think the real issue is that as soon as life slows down for a minute, I start panicking over the way I'm managing it. I've just finished a stretch of 40 days straight of 10+ hours of work and suddenly (though I'm still teaching this week) I have time on my hands and a little anxious about the future.
Alright, time to start pondering my big project. Until then, we'll just take life one day at a time...
Saturday, July 9, 2011
My last month and how I'm about to be old
Hi friends. I apologize for neglecting the blog. Here is a very brief update on the crazy that has occurred over the past month.
1. The Wiz opens this coming Friday. It has been a challenging but hugely informative learning experience and it has only further secure my love for doing theatre "on the other side of the table."
2. Through happenstance/magic, I booked a show that will perform in Lancaster, PA September-November, (come home for the holidays), Ft Myers, Florida January-February, and Mesa, Arizona March-April. I am excited beyond belief. It combines my two greatest passions: theater and travel!!
3. Before that show happens, I will be performing in/dance captaining Gypsy at Lyric Stage.
4. Between June 6 and this coming Friday, I will have worked 40 days straight (minus the 4th of July) with 10+ hours of work every day. In that span of time I will have also opened 3 shows. Wonderfully, I love my job(s) so I happily accept exhaustion to pursue my passions!
5. I choreographed my first full musical this last month. I choreographed Oliver for Lyric Stage Performing School Of the Arts. I adore choreographing and teaching stupid amounts, and hope to pursue both of these jobs forever.
6. In the midst of opening the Wiz, I am choreographing Guys and Dolls for Genesis Theater. It has been another wonderful choreographing/teaching experience.
7. I teach a musical theatre class over the next two weeks at the dance studio I attended/did tap company in in high school. Full circle. These things I love.
...I think that is mostly everything. Needless to say, it has been a whirlwind month but wonderful one in which I have learned copious amounts. Life is good, y'all.
PS I turn 22 on Tuesday. How did THAT happen?!!
1. The Wiz opens this coming Friday. It has been a challenging but hugely informative learning experience and it has only further secure my love for doing theatre "on the other side of the table."
2. Through happenstance/magic, I booked a show that will perform in Lancaster, PA September-November, (come home for the holidays), Ft Myers, Florida January-February, and Mesa, Arizona March-April. I am excited beyond belief. It combines my two greatest passions: theater and travel!!
3. Before that show happens, I will be performing in/dance captaining Gypsy at Lyric Stage.
4. Between June 6 and this coming Friday, I will have worked 40 days straight (minus the 4th of July) with 10+ hours of work every day. In that span of time I will have also opened 3 shows. Wonderfully, I love my job(s) so I happily accept exhaustion to pursue my passions!
5. I choreographed my first full musical this last month. I choreographed Oliver for Lyric Stage Performing School Of the Arts. I adore choreographing and teaching stupid amounts, and hope to pursue both of these jobs forever.
6. In the midst of opening the Wiz, I am choreographing Guys and Dolls for Genesis Theater. It has been another wonderful choreographing/teaching experience.
7. I teach a musical theatre class over the next two weeks at the dance studio I attended/did tap company in in high school. Full circle. These things I love.
...I think that is mostly everything. Needless to say, it has been a whirlwind month but wonderful one in which I have learned copious amounts. Life is good, y'all.
PS I turn 22 on Tuesday. How did THAT happen?!!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The Pursuit of Happiness and a Meaningful Life
Note: This is my response to an article my mother emailed me from the NYTimes. Here's the link.
Mr. Brooks:
What a dreary, clinical portrait you conjure of the world in which I am about to enter. Two weeks ago, I received my BFA in Theatre; I have essentially set myself up for the least lucrative or "sensible" career available and I couldn't be more excited. I have waited two decades to throw myself into the maelstrom of adulthood and have it promptly and repeatedly kick my entitled behind; I am ecstatic. You say every sensible middle aged person would kill to go back to being 22--this may be the case. (Anytime I bemoan some menial college woe, my mother sings "I Wish I Could Go Back to College" from Avenue Q loudly and pointedly.) Given your tsk-tsk condescension for the typical 20-something wide-eyed idealism and "selfishness," I can't imagine what you find appealing about returning to the age of seemingly endless opportunity and exploration.
I think a return to college would provide quite a shock to the baby boomers. For my mother, "going to college" meant leaving suburban Texas for the broader, more diverse excitement of a college campus. For me, "going to college" entailed narrowing my metropolitan world to a bizarre, false reality of trust-fund babies and largely bored professors. Has college prepared me for life? Possibly, but certainly not in the ways my tuition-paying parents envisioned. My college experience has most significantly taught me that passion fuels progress. What did I learn from my tenured professors who were too jaded to challenge their pupils? That if I ever find life that dull, I'm doing a disservice to everyone around me and I need a change of career immediately. It is my suspicion that these professors became professors because they followed your ideology of doing the "sensible" thing. Unfortunately, their "sensibility" has squandered all sensitivity towards what education should be. The problem with eliminating passion from one's career is that it hinders not only what is produced but also the progress of those collaborating.
The generation that has raised us preaches theology that hasn't even necessarily led them to successful and fulfilling lives. Why follow the "sensible" or expected path if it hasn't fulfilled our elders? Selfishness is innate (and is often a means to a collectively positive end) and that is no more apparent than in a newly independent college graduate. I'm mostly confused about where you suppose "doing the expected thing" will get us. Why not pursue life as an artist (like yourself) or librarian or elephant trainer? Someone has to do these things; it may as well be someone who loves doing them. I recently had a childhood friend pass away in the tornado in Tuscaloosa; this has been a monumental reminder that we 20-somethings are not as invincible as we think we are. Our life could very well end as abruptly anyone else's. Why not enjoy the time we have? Why not enjoy the minimal responsibility we carry at the start of adulthood--without spouses or children or the need to take care of our elders. Why not travel? Why not experience the world? Why not share art? I know dozens of people in my parents' generation who did the right and expected thing and are no happier for it. A steady, selfless job (is there such a thing?) will not stop the world from throwing curveballs and catastrophes.
You say successful young people are summoned by problems. I am called by a solution; does that make my life less meaningful? Twyla Tharp said, "Art is the only way to run away without leaving home." Art often provides an elucidating or illuminating lens through which one may appreciate or learn about life. Most importantly, however, art provides an escape. And in a time such as ours, couldn't we all use some clarity and a chance to escape?
I, too, love reading biographies of people far more impressive than I, but what you and I find impressive seems to be diametrically different. I admire people who pursue what they love--oftentimes, this does indeed mean a more arduous life. Choosing passion over practicality is scarier and much more difficult than doing the expected thing. Do I admire excellence first? Yes. But excellence stems from passion, passion from pleasure, and pleasure from happiness.
It seems to me, Mr. Brooks, that you argue for a passionless, scared generation of young adults. Despite your advice, I anticipate working as hard as possible to ensure that is not the case. I choose passion, and I think it will be both in my best interest and to the benefit of others with whom I may share that passion that I do so.
Mr. Brooks:
What a dreary, clinical portrait you conjure of the world in which I am about to enter. Two weeks ago, I received my BFA in Theatre; I have essentially set myself up for the least lucrative or "sensible" career available and I couldn't be more excited. I have waited two decades to throw myself into the maelstrom of adulthood and have it promptly and repeatedly kick my entitled behind; I am ecstatic. You say every sensible middle aged person would kill to go back to being 22--this may be the case. (Anytime I bemoan some menial college woe, my mother sings "I Wish I Could Go Back to College" from Avenue Q loudly and pointedly.) Given your tsk-tsk condescension for the typical 20-something wide-eyed idealism and "selfishness," I can't imagine what you find appealing about returning to the age of seemingly endless opportunity and exploration.
I think a return to college would provide quite a shock to the baby boomers. For my mother, "going to college" meant leaving suburban Texas for the broader, more diverse excitement of a college campus. For me, "going to college" entailed narrowing my metropolitan world to a bizarre, false reality of trust-fund babies and largely bored professors. Has college prepared me for life? Possibly, but certainly not in the ways my tuition-paying parents envisioned. My college experience has most significantly taught me that passion fuels progress. What did I learn from my tenured professors who were too jaded to challenge their pupils? That if I ever find life that dull, I'm doing a disservice to everyone around me and I need a change of career immediately. It is my suspicion that these professors became professors because they followed your ideology of doing the "sensible" thing. Unfortunately, their "sensibility" has squandered all sensitivity towards what education should be. The problem with eliminating passion from one's career is that it hinders not only what is produced but also the progress of those collaborating.
The generation that has raised us preaches theology that hasn't even necessarily led them to successful and fulfilling lives. Why follow the "sensible" or expected path if it hasn't fulfilled our elders? Selfishness is innate (and is often a means to a collectively positive end) and that is no more apparent than in a newly independent college graduate. I'm mostly confused about where you suppose "doing the expected thing" will get us. Why not pursue life as an artist (like yourself) or librarian or elephant trainer? Someone has to do these things; it may as well be someone who loves doing them. I recently had a childhood friend pass away in the tornado in Tuscaloosa; this has been a monumental reminder that we 20-somethings are not as invincible as we think we are. Our life could very well end as abruptly anyone else's. Why not enjoy the time we have? Why not enjoy the minimal responsibility we carry at the start of adulthood--without spouses or children or the need to take care of our elders. Why not travel? Why not experience the world? Why not share art? I know dozens of people in my parents' generation who did the right and expected thing and are no happier for it. A steady, selfless job (is there such a thing?) will not stop the world from throwing curveballs and catastrophes.
You say successful young people are summoned by problems. I am called by a solution; does that make my life less meaningful? Twyla Tharp said, "Art is the only way to run away without leaving home." Art often provides an elucidating or illuminating lens through which one may appreciate or learn about life. Most importantly, however, art provides an escape. And in a time such as ours, couldn't we all use some clarity and a chance to escape?
I, too, love reading biographies of people far more impressive than I, but what you and I find impressive seems to be diametrically different. I admire people who pursue what they love--oftentimes, this does indeed mean a more arduous life. Choosing passion over practicality is scarier and much more difficult than doing the expected thing. Do I admire excellence first? Yes. But excellence stems from passion, passion from pleasure, and pleasure from happiness.
It seems to me, Mr. Brooks, that you argue for a passionless, scared generation of young adults. Despite your advice, I anticipate working as hard as possible to ensure that is not the case. I choose passion, and I think it will be both in my best interest and to the benefit of others with whom I may share that passion that I do so.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Choose Your Own Adventure
Grandmama's house was magical. She made sure it was stocked with anything we could possibly want every time we came over. If she didn't have it, we went out and found it. This isn't to say that I required anything other than her company; her company was all I ever needed. Regardless, she typically had a stock of Hot Tamales (my favorite candy), pringles, mashed potatoes whenever possible, my favorite Disney movies, and books. Of the books, my favorites were always the Choose Your Own Adventure. Spontaneity and I are in love—we have been for quite some time. Thus, the Choose Your Own Adventure books were the best. You are in control of your plot. You have options every step of the way. Anything can happen.
There is nothing more thrilling to me than traveling without an agenda. I still find myself giddy over getting on a plane, bus, or train to a new place with no plans and minimal funds. (Okay, maybe I would be okay with a little more funds.) I need to find a way to travel and experience culture professionally. I could be like Anthony Bourdain—but with the arts and less scruff and snark.
I've had an overwhelming need to blog over the past couple of days, but have had absolutely no time...until now. Let me bring you up to speed on what I've been up to. Cabaret closed on Sunday night (which now seems like an eternity ago.) I start working from 9am-11pm everyday all summer in two weeks. I just graduated from college. All of these things added up in my head to vacation. Due to my incessant vicarious online traveling searches, I learned of a program AirTran has for people ages 18-22 where you can fly standby one-way for $70. Not bad, right? The three places you can get to from Dallas for $70 are Atlanta, Baltimore/Washington, and Orlando. Since Atlanta isn't terribly appealing, I don't have enough money to go to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando, and I'd never been to Washington D.C., I figured now was the time. It also happens that several of my idols (Bernadette Peters, Jan Maxwell, and Elaine Paige) were in a production of Sondheim's Follies at the Kennedy Center. Why wouldn't I try to go to D.C.? I texted my pal Truett (whom I've known since birth but who happened to be in the same theatre program I attended at SMU) to see if she might want to be my traveling companion. She, too, had never been to Washington D.C. (she was supposed to go the year of 9/11 with school; I transferred the year to Hockaday the year after they went and the year before St. John's went.) She had also not taken a vacation since junior year of high school. We were both concerned about funds, but through the graciousness of my mother, the travel-budgeting-smarts she instilled in me at a very young age, some determination, and some graduation money, we made it work. We packed Monday night, took a brief nap, and headed to DFW airport at 3am in the morning. The first flight to Baltimore was booked, and our AirTran attendant informed us that all flights to Baltimore were oversold—as were those getting to Atlanta. She didn't seem to understand that I was going to go on this trip. Do not mess with me and my mischievous plans. After some negotiating, she begrudgingly put us on standby for a 7:00am flight to Atlanta and then a 10am flight to Dulles International.
We made both flights.
9 hours later, very tuckered but excited Truett and Katharine trekked into D.C. and took the metro to Columbia Heights where a high school friend's cousin lives. (Yep, we'll use any avenue possible.) I wish I had blogged about D.C. as we arrived—or shortly thereafter. I haven't felt as jazzed about a city as I did D.C. in a long, long while. I loved Quebec City (and would like to vacation there indefinitely) and I loved San Francisco (and have no doubt that I will return), but I now want to move to Washington D.C. It is perfect. It is the lovechild of New York City and San Francisco. For some reason, I had this strange impression that D.C. was this super corporate, distant, formal place. I was an idiot. D.C. is beautiful. Somebody up there must have wanted us to have a perfect adventure because the weather in DC was glorious. It seems like every neighborhood we visited in D.C. was more perfect than the last and I found myself wanting to live in every one of them. The city is pedestrian, accessible, diverse, friendly, but to the point. It is eclectic and artsy and not at all as serious as I had imagined. There are dogs everywhere. Ladies are either wearing jogging attire or sundresses. (I fit right in.)
After quickly settling into our basement apartment in Columbia Heights (which was adorable...and oh, wait! across from the National Zoo...) we walked to the Kennedy Center. I love walking in cities, but I occasionally pay the price. Thanks to some super cute but unfortunately uncomfortable flats Truett let me borrow, I earned the blisters of the century. They were totally worth it. And thanks to an 8 buck Payless purchase, they are happily freed in my new, kinda ugly flip flops.
The Kennedy Center is stunning. It is enormous, grand, and lavish. There are a million performance spaces, fountains, and quotes everywhere of famous people discussing how wonderful art is. I was both in awe and at home. Follies was beautiful—but it was mostly so phenomenal to be in the space and be seeing that many Broadway legends on one stage. Pretty phenomenal.
The next day, Truett and I walked the city. (There isn't a better way to acquaint yourself with a city than by walking it, you know?) We had entirely too much fun. We went to the eastern market and grabbed some farmers-markety lunch, strolled around that gorgeous neighborhood, walked to the Capitol and National Mall, did some cartwheels, and headed to the bus station.
I'm actually kind of glad I didn't visit D.C. as a 6th or 8th grader—I wouldn't have nearly the same kind of appreciation as I do now. Goodness knows I would've been preoccupied with flirting with some boy or feeling awkward about my outfit and not at all paying attention to the city that runs our nation. As a 21 year old who has actually now been able to vote and care about who resides in these buildings, I was quite in awe of them.
After our tour of the monuments/buildings/neighborhoods of D.C., we headed to the bus station. For the first time ever, I was sad to be going to New York City. I have never had that feeling before. The bus was quite an experience. We only paid $20, and let me tell you: we got what we paid for. Our bus driver was truly bizarre and most unhappy to be doing his job. He got especially perturbed by traffic. After getting lost a couple of times, some weird detours, and 6 hours, we arrived in the Big Bad Apple. (As we got off the bus, he exclaimed to us, “Man! That was pretty good, right? You wouldn't even have known I had never driven a bus before!”)
….jaw drops. And it suddenly all makes sense.
In NYC, we met up with my dear friend who is letting us stay with them, went out, came home, and got some much needed sleep. The next day (yesterday), we met up with my friend Kristin. We went to Whole Foods, packed ourselves picnics, and laid out in the grass in Sheep's Meadow in Central Park. It was beautiful. We then waited in line for three hours for Book of Mormon standing room tickets, lost, and split up in a mad frenzy to find cheap tickets to a show with only 30 minutes before shows started. Normal Heart? No go. How to Succeed? No go. Jerusalem? No go. Sister Act? General Rush. Done. Was it silly and stupid? Yes. Did I enjoy myself ridiculous amounts? Absolutely. It was a total blast and Patina Miller is so talented it's stupid. And Victoria Clark....I mean, isn't she always brilliant?
I then met up with my high school bestie, Bayla, one of her Jew crew buddies Marcus, and Kavitha, another high school friend. We explored the Lower East Side and had a magical time. After introducing Truett to the wonder of cheap, delicious Amadeus pizza, we called it a night.
So, here I am now, sitting alone on the B train downtown towards Brighton Beach listening to “I Guess the Lord Must Be in New York City.” I am surrounded by people who look nothing like me all headed to a hundred wonderful places around this island. I am so incredibly happy.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
On Magic, Kate Wetherhead, and Dragons
I'm watching How to Train Your Dragon for the umpteenth time. This is indicative of two things:
1. I have graduated from college and am so petrified of adulthood that I am moving in retrograde towards infancy--like Benjamin Button, except less hot than Brad Pitt--and...
2. The movies I watch repeatedly are not necessarily brilliant (although this one is pretty great.) The movies I watch repeatedly are the ones that have the best scores. A good plot is helpful; a brilliant score is imperative. This score is perfect. No, really.
You know how I keep fixating on the transcendent? The score of How to Train Your Dragon is transcendent. Download "Test Drive" on iTunes right now. Then, watch this video:
I'm not a huge figure skating fanatic or anything, but I was in a very mellow, soul-searchy place today and "Claire de Lune" is always a go-to either to play on piano or listen to and this video came up. Yu-na Kim floats when she skates. It is balletic and gorgeous and perfect. She transcends.
For the past month, I feel I have been a part of a work of theatre that is that ethereal and other worldly. Joel Ferrell managed to re-conceptualize Cabaret in potentially the most accurate and compelling fashion ever, and I feel overwhelming gratitude to be a small part of it and complete admiration/awe over its manifestation.
You know who else is a genius? I'll give you one guess. If you've been following my blog, you know I'm ever so slightly enamored of Kate Wetherhead. I want to be her when I grow up. She is generous, she is stupid talented, and she is so smart it's ridiculous. Sally Bowles is an icon, and I'd rather watch Kate as Sally than anyone else in the world. She has re-invented Sally. But you want to know her most endearing quality? I suspect she is as in love with what she does as I am--perhaps moreso. Granted, she's way cooler about her musical theatre affair than I am, but it's totally there. She writes (and stars in) a webseries called "Submissions Only" about actors in New York trying to make it. Youtube it now; it's pretty hilarious (and the guest stars are phenomenal.)
Tonight, in the talkback following the show, a friend of mine got choked up asking Kate to discuss Joel's brilliant choice to have Sally stop singing in "Cabaret." Kate began to respond, and as she started to articulate her thoughts, she became choked up herself. "I'm sorry," she said. "I have to return to New York in a week and I won't necessarily get to do things like this there." As Kate elegantly re-composed herself, I felt an energy shift in the room. Joel is always talking about "feelers" and "receptors" and feeding off of audience energy; it's imperative for the Kit Kat kids. As a result, I feel like I'm way more receptive to the energy of an ensemble at any given point. At the point when Kate started to cry, I immediately felt two things 1. the instinct to hug her and 2. that this instinct was shared among the entire cast sitting onstage. Kate and my co-actors are as in love with their jobs and this transient magic we're sharing as I have been. They are as grateful to be apart of this as I am. This cast, guys...
The artist's job is tricky. I think regardless of whatever becomes of artists over time--whether we become jaded and cynical and over it or ultimately do it strictly commercially (and at some point, you have to consider finances/your livelihood, right?) we're tasked with creating magic because at one time or another we became enchanted by it on the other side. Honestly, creating anything is intimidating. This show hasn't merely been about people doing their job. This show has been a gift in every way: from the writers, through Joel's lens, to the cast, then back to the audience. A shared experience. A blessing.
“You can throw away the privilege of acting, but that would be such a shame. The tribe has elected you to tell its story. You are the shaman/healer, that's what the storyteller is, and I think it's important for actors to appreciate that. Too often actors think it's all about them, when in reality it's all about the audience being able to recognize themselves in you. The more you pull away from the public, the less power you have.”
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
A Novelist? You will be most famous!
The human race may be compared to a writer. At the outset a writer has often only a vague general notion of the plan of his work, and of the thought he intends to elaborate. As he proceeds, penetrating his material, laboring to express himself fitly, he lays a firmer grasp on his thought; he finds himself. So the human race is writing its story, finding itself, discovering its own underlying purpose, revising, recasting a tale pathetic often, yet none the less sublime. - Felix Adler
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Why The People Working Cabaret are Awesome
Here is why the people I work with are amazing. This is what I came to in my dressing room--framed Carousel vinyl and two cards from my dresser and her daughter.
Behold: the greatest card I have ever received.
Then, my roommates introduced me to the joys of "I wanna sexx you up" and Heavy D and the Boyz.
Best job ever. Best graduation ever.
PS Lee Trull (Cliff) and Mattie (my dresser) have a radio show called "Jane Austen: the Early Years." I received a command performance of the show yesterday. Mattie was brilliant. Lee Trull requested to be in my blog.
Friday, May 13, 2011
In here, Life is Beautiful
“Are you a good playwright?”
“Well, um...I don't really know. I love writing. I'm a good writer. But I think my writing style would lend itself more to screenwriting.”
Fancy Theatre Man stares quizzically for a moment, then launches another question. He's been interrogating nonstop for five minutes straight already. The second I begin to answer a question, I watch the wheels start spinning in his brain preparing the next question. I think it would be exhausting to have his brain. I mean, I exhaust myself often—my overactive brain and lazier impulses are in conflict with one another on a regular basis. I think Fancy Theater Man's brain works about five times as hard as mine does. It's pretty remarkable. He's like the energizer bunny (and I know I'm not the first person to have said this about him.) Fancy Theatre Man resides 5 floors above the performance hall in the Wyly. I've come to believe that building serves as the best educational facility and church I've ever attended. (Deacon Fancy Man does have a nice ring to it...)
Last night in the show (5 floors below Fancy Man), mid-Entr'Acte, I see this glorious smiling face on a golden-years-woman and I realize it is my 6th grade teacher, Trigger Butler. Trigger Butler was the best. She made every moment of every class theatrical. She loved teaching. She was the first person to ever put me onstage and make me "act" and a decade later she saw me in the biggest professional production I've been in. How freaking cool is that? I also had two girls from Hockaday (who I haven't spoken to in years) come see the show last night and we caught up and had a blast afterwards. I have had people from elementary, middle, and high school come see this show. It is the coolest thing and it makes me so grateful to have such remarkable people in my life.
The show closes in a week. I am beyond devastated. This experience has been perfect—and that's not a word I use liberally. There isn't a single second I would have changed and there hasn't been a single moment I haven't been thrilled to be exactly where I was. I know I keep talking about it (and I'm sure you're sick of hearing it) but it just blows my mind how flawless the experience has been. I had such enormous hopes for this process and this show and they have been superseded in every possible way. I only hope I have the luxury of even a comparable experience in the future. I'm sucking it all up like a sponge—a very enthusiastic sponge. (Can sponges be enthusiastic?) This theatrical adventure I've been on the past couple of years has been an enormous learning experience; I've learned so much in a condensed period of time. However, pre-Cabaret, I felt like the train was beginning to slow down. I was learning exponentially less with every experience because there really wasn't much variety in each experience I was having. I now feel like I've picked up so much momentum it's more like a rollercoaster going downhill at warp speed.
A month ago, I couldn't fathom a single thing that would remedy my imminent post-show depression. It then occurred to me that the only thing that would save my I-miss-the-Wyly sadness would be to stay there. Thus, I had a new mission. After an email requesting to be coffee-runner/nerd-with-a-laptop/can-I-just-pop-in-on-rehearsals? I got a response asking me to be assistant director.
….um....heck yes.
My sequence of reactive emotions was similar to those following the Cabaret callback:
- YES! YES YES YES! (I cried. I bounced. It was happy.)
- OH GOOD GRACIOUS I AM UNDERQUALIFIED.
- WHAT IF I SUCK??
- WHAT HAVE I DONE?
I met with Fancy Man yesterday about the show, hoping that it would ease my fear a bit; It did not. My responsibilities are even greater than I imagined and the show is insanely ambitious. I am so excited I could puke. I am getting to work. I get to be challenged. I get to be terrified in the best way possible. I can't wait. (Okay, maybe I can. It means Cabaret will be over.)
I've also (as those who have been following know) been trying to figure out what to do with my life over the past month or so. (I'm still taking suggestions, by the way...) I've decided to apply to grad school (for next year.) I've applied for a fellowship outside of Dallas (which I won't get.) Beyond that, I have no clue what to do with myself. As Fancy Man told me yesterday, it's almost a burden to have such diverse possibilities as pursuing an MBA, acting, or teaching in children's theatre. It is both a terrifying and thrilling time.
All this goes to say...
- I am having the time of my life
- I seem to be into numbering things today
- I super-heart working with people as passionate about what they do as I am
- I always want to be challenged and stimulated; I know that happens here
- You should probably tell me what to do with my life in the fall.
And on a super unrelated note...My mom got me an iPad for graduation!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OH! Yes. Which means, more importantly (I suppose)...
I GRADUATE TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, I'm not walking. I can't actually attend graduation. I will be busy bouncing around with my favorite people half-naked in the Wyly Theater. But...
I WILL HAVE MY BFA!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In here, life is beautiful.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Jane Austen Lied
Dear Jane Austen,
You are a liar. You too, Charlotte Bronte. You sinister witches connived millions of women into thinking that Darcy/Rochester-esque males exist in the world. They do not.
Here are the characteristics of a Darchester (Darcy/Rochester):
1. Seems like an arrogant arse
2. Is remarkably intelligent.
3. Broods regularly
4. Is emotionally unavailable
5. Handsome in an unconventional way
6. Then, in a shocking turn of events, reveals his affection for the plain, smart girl who he has pretended to have not given a thought about/pretended to dislike. Said girl is shocked, then pleased because (of course) she has been in love with him all along. Then they kiss outdoors beneath an enormous Tim Burton-esque tree in the English countryside. It then inevitably starts to rain. The maids are shocked. The siblings are shocked. The aunt disapproves. They marry anyway and live happily in love ever after.
This is not real life.
I had a girls night in with one of my favorites tonight. We painted our nails, gabbed, and watched BBC's Jane Eyre (so good, and so much better than the recent film.) I fell in love with Rochester. Bewitched by Bronte's/Masterpiece Theater's magic, I swooningly verbalized "I love boys" and released a giddy sigh. I then came to--such silly thoughts are unlike me (and if I have them I never say them)--and unleashed a whirlwind of thoughts toward my unassuming friend. I felt betrayed. Tricked, even.
Stupid Charlotte Bronte, Rochester doesn't exist! In real life, Rochester would totally choose Blanche Ingram. Or, more likely, would be a homosexual. No straight man would invest that much time in his perfectly coiffed hair.
Here's the thing. The first 5 traits of Darcys/Rochesters do exist in the real world. There is absolutely an abundance of the tall, sarcastic, oddly attractive pompous man who pretends not to care about anything. However, there does not come a point where they reveal their affection and/or insecurities/vulnerability and then a couple enters marital bliss. It is always the case that either a) real-world-Darcy is incredibly insecure and turns into a puddle of feelings and needs you or b) real-world-Darcy is just not that into you. Either way, stupid Jane Austen is responsible for deluding the smart, plain girl (read: me) into thinking that these pompous poopheads are valuable human beings that secretly care for us. Unfortunately, they're just a waste of time.
So fie on you, Jane. You too, Charlotte. Saucy minx.
PS: Jane Eyre is an idiot. If I started nannying in a castle and learned that there was a crazy Caribbean lady trapped in the attic trying to kill us all, I would run far, far away. I would not protect the pompous Rochester, despite his wildly attractive manner/face. At least Elizabeth Bennett would be more sensible than to do something like that...
You are a liar. You too, Charlotte Bronte. You sinister witches connived millions of women into thinking that Darcy/Rochester-esque males exist in the world. They do not.
Here are the characteristics of a Darchester (Darcy/Rochester):
1. Seems like an arrogant arse
2. Is remarkably intelligent.
3. Broods regularly
4. Is emotionally unavailable
5. Handsome in an unconventional way
6. Then, in a shocking turn of events, reveals his affection for the plain, smart girl who he has pretended to have not given a thought about/pretended to dislike. Said girl is shocked, then pleased because (of course) she has been in love with him all along. Then they kiss outdoors beneath an enormous Tim Burton-esque tree in the English countryside. It then inevitably starts to rain. The maids are shocked. The siblings are shocked. The aunt disapproves. They marry anyway and live happily in love ever after.
This is not real life.
I had a girls night in with one of my favorites tonight. We painted our nails, gabbed, and watched BBC's Jane Eyre (so good, and so much better than the recent film.) I fell in love with Rochester. Bewitched by Bronte's/Masterpiece Theater's magic, I swooningly verbalized "I love boys" and released a giddy sigh. I then came to--such silly thoughts are unlike me (and if I have them I never say them)--and unleashed a whirlwind of thoughts toward my unassuming friend. I felt betrayed. Tricked, even.
Stupid Charlotte Bronte, Rochester doesn't exist! In real life, Rochester would totally choose Blanche Ingram. Or, more likely, would be a homosexual. No straight man would invest that much time in his perfectly coiffed hair.
Here's the thing. The first 5 traits of Darcys/Rochesters do exist in the real world. There is absolutely an abundance of the tall, sarcastic, oddly attractive pompous man who pretends not to care about anything. However, there does not come a point where they reveal their affection and/or insecurities/vulnerability and then a couple enters marital bliss. It is always the case that either a) real-world-Darcy is incredibly insecure and turns into a puddle of feelings and needs you or b) real-world-Darcy is just not that into you. Either way, stupid Jane Austen is responsible for deluding the smart, plain girl (read: me) into thinking that these pompous poopheads are valuable human beings that secretly care for us. Unfortunately, they're just a waste of time.
So fie on you, Jane. You too, Charlotte. Saucy minx.
PS: Jane Eyre is an idiot. If I started nannying in a castle and learned that there was a crazy Caribbean lady trapped in the attic trying to kill us all, I would run far, far away. I would not protect the pompous Rochester, despite his wildly attractive manner/face. At least Elizabeth Bennett would be more sensible than to do something like that...
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Where Do I Go?
I finished college today. I get my diploma a week from today.
Let's take a second to enjoy how profound and wonderful this is. I am done. Done.
Now the question is: what the heck do I do with my life?
I went out for a wee bit after the show tonight with some castmates/our director to see a friend's band play at Jack's Backyard. (PS Go. Go to Jack's Backyard. They have oversized jenga, twinkle lights, and an eclectic demographic. More Austin, less Dallas. Really cool.) Director asked, "So, Katharine, you're done with college. What do you want to do? Do you want to stay in Dallas?" It was loud and smoky and hectic and without thought, I said something along the lines of, "I want to get out for a while." But you know what? I don't know how I feel about that. The problem with saying what I want to do in a year is that...I feel like that almost limits me. I want to do everything. The mantra of my career/life has been "everything happens for a reason." It has always worked out exactly as it needed to. I hope this will continue to be the case.
Do I want to leave town and explore EVERYTHING? Yes.
Do I want to entertain going to grad school for arts admin? Yes.
Am I totally in love with my city and committed to bettering Dallas through art? Am I so excited about Dallas blossoming as an arts community? Yes, yes, and yes.
So what, then? Do I just apply to everything and audition for everything? Do I move to LA? New York? Chicago? Portland? Seattle? Boston? London? Stay here?
I'm faced with the most wonderful problem: I have endless possibilities. Come September, I am sans-commitment. It is at once terrifying and gloriously thrilling and liberating.
New York scares me. I've dreamed of living there for over a decade now...but I really don't know if it's right for me. I'm watching You've Got Mail now for the probably 500th time and yearning for the magical depicted New York lifestyle. I want to be Meg Ryan, own a charming bookstore in the wealthier (though fashionably tragic) late 1990s, live on the Upper West Side (sigh), and fall in love with Tom Hanks via email. Instead, if I pursued this, I would end up a penniless hobo crying outside an Upper West Side apartment and then get stalked and killed by the creeper I innocently tried to befriend online. It's a scary world.
You know what else? New York weather is terrifying. I need sunshine. I need sundresses. What is this thing called snow? And in a town that is entirely pedestrian? How does one survive?
Here's another question. How can you possibly leave consistent work in one city for a waitressing gig and constant rejection in another? I fear theatrical unemployment. It hasn't happened to me for the entire 2.5 years I've been pursuing it (knock on wood) and it would be the end of me if it happened.
If I pursue an Arts Admin masters, will I still be able to perform? Is it a cop out? Is it a brilliant idea?
If I pursue an internship/fellowship in another city, am I screwing myself out of valuable acting gigs?
Why doesn't glitter come off in the shower?
Help, y'all. Were you me, what would you do with your life? Do I move? Do I stay? Do I apply? Do I audition?
All sage advice/comments welcome. Please and thank you.
Let's take a second to enjoy how profound and wonderful this is. I am done. Done.
Now the question is: what the heck do I do with my life?
I went out for a wee bit after the show tonight with some castmates/our director to see a friend's band play at Jack's Backyard. (PS Go. Go to Jack's Backyard. They have oversized jenga, twinkle lights, and an eclectic demographic. More Austin, less Dallas. Really cool.) Director asked, "So, Katharine, you're done with college. What do you want to do? Do you want to stay in Dallas?" It was loud and smoky and hectic and without thought, I said something along the lines of, "I want to get out for a while." But you know what? I don't know how I feel about that. The problem with saying what I want to do in a year is that...I feel like that almost limits me. I want to do everything. The mantra of my career/life has been "everything happens for a reason." It has always worked out exactly as it needed to. I hope this will continue to be the case.
Do I want to leave town and explore EVERYTHING? Yes.
Do I want to entertain going to grad school for arts admin? Yes.
Am I totally in love with my city and committed to bettering Dallas through art? Am I so excited about Dallas blossoming as an arts community? Yes, yes, and yes.
So what, then? Do I just apply to everything and audition for everything? Do I move to LA? New York? Chicago? Portland? Seattle? Boston? London? Stay here?
I'm faced with the most wonderful problem: I have endless possibilities. Come September, I am sans-commitment. It is at once terrifying and gloriously thrilling and liberating.
New York scares me. I've dreamed of living there for over a decade now...but I really don't know if it's right for me. I'm watching You've Got Mail now for the probably 500th time and yearning for the magical depicted New York lifestyle. I want to be Meg Ryan, own a charming bookstore in the wealthier (though fashionably tragic) late 1990s, live on the Upper West Side (sigh), and fall in love with Tom Hanks via email. Instead, if I pursued this, I would end up a penniless hobo crying outside an Upper West Side apartment and then get stalked and killed by the creeper I innocently tried to befriend online. It's a scary world.
You know what else? New York weather is terrifying. I need sunshine. I need sundresses. What is this thing called snow? And in a town that is entirely pedestrian? How does one survive?
Here's another question. How can you possibly leave consistent work in one city for a waitressing gig and constant rejection in another? I fear theatrical unemployment. It hasn't happened to me for the entire 2.5 years I've been pursuing it (knock on wood) and it would be the end of me if it happened.
If I pursue an Arts Admin masters, will I still be able to perform? Is it a cop out? Is it a brilliant idea?
If I pursue an internship/fellowship in another city, am I screwing myself out of valuable acting gigs?
Why doesn't glitter come off in the shower?
Help, y'all. Were you me, what would you do with your life? Do I move? Do I stay? Do I apply? Do I audition?
All sage advice/comments welcome. Please and thank you.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
This is glory on earth, and it is yours nightly.
During our performance last night, an actor who I love and respect stopped in me in the hall before I headed upstairs to do the final scene of the show. "Katharine--I just have to tell you something. I learn so much watching you in this show." (Blushing begins.) "No really, it's been an incredible lesson for me. Because when you're onstage you just have this enormous smile on your face that isn't fake or cheesy--you just look like the happiest person in the world. Like there's no where else you'd rather be. And when you're watching an ensemble of people, you can't help but immediately be drawn to that. So thank you." Feeling much like Fraulein Schneider having received a pineapple as a token of affection from Herr Schultz, I was overwhelmed. I inadequately thanked him, ran upstairs, got ready for end-of-show-naked-time, watched Kate Wetherhead be brilliant in the final moments of the show. It was another "Wow. How freaking lucky am I to do what I do?" moment. Those moments happen daily in my current environment.
I never want those moments to stop. I never want to be onstage and not look like I'm having the time of my life (when the role can use that, that is.) The second I look bored or over it onstage, slap me in the face. I'm not kidding. I've recently had the experience of spending a great deal of time with someone who is so disgustingly jaded and over her career; it kills my soul every time she opens her mouth. Me to actor: "Aren't you excited for opening night?" Actor: "I'm excited not to have to (insert expletive here) rehearse anymore." Okay, I feel that you're tired and we've been working hard...but really? It's constant rain on my very emphatic parade and I've had quite enough of it. Regardless, the point isn't to bash said actor. The point is that if I ever become that cynical and jaded, just kill me. Or tell me to find another career.
I am obsessed with what I do.
Literally, I have been spending the last hour watching musical theatre dance videos online studying what people waaaaay more talented than I am are doing to look so remarkably transcendent when they perform. A lot of people just "do" their job. You watch them, they're satisfactory, and the scene's over. Other people transcend the work and morph it into something incredibly unique and truly unearthly. I feel this way about Wade's emcee or anytime I watch Jeremy Dumont dance. I wish to be this way. Receiving that compliment from a co-actor was like the most enormous cookie anyone could possibly give to me. When I'm onstage, there is truly nowhere else I'd rather be. Ever. If I can parlay that sentiment I feel to the audience and help them feel a fraction of the glory I do, then I have done my job.
I went out with a couple of my favorite people last night who'd seen the show and we were discussing life issues etc. and I explained my feelings about romance and the theater. "There will never be a man who supersedes my passion for theatre. It's just a fact. It's nothing personal, but there will never be a human being that I could love more than I love theatre, music, and dance." The ladies chuckled and made remarks about how I hadn't met the right guy and I was young and blah, blah blah. Granted, they're four decades my senior and probably know infinitely more about love and life than I do. Still, I can't imagine feeling more passionately (or even equally as passionately) about a person as I do about performing. I never feel more alive (I know it sounds stupid and cliche but it is so, so true) than I do when I am onstage.
The easiest place for me to enter the transcendent is dance. It just happens the most naturally. I'm technically not the best dancer--not even a great one. My body isn't built for dance. My feet are horrible. These are things that cannot be remedied. This is why musical theatre dancing was such an enormous epiphany for me when I discovered it. The first time I sort of experienced it was junior year in high school with Anything Goes. Lots of tapping. Totally my thing. (I'm a musician first; dancer second. Tap is about rhythm and music and translating that to an audience--not about lines or how high you can kick your leg. My feet have always just known what to do.) But the epiphany hadn't hit. I was still just smiling and tapping. Senior year, I was Bonnie Jean in Brigadoon. Featured role, but a dancing one. She has a solo to "Come to me, Bend to me." (It's a shame Brigadoon is so stupid, the music is so stunning. Oh, Lerner and Loewe.) Anyway, it's more lyrical/ballet (which scares the bejesus out of me) and I remember rehearsing on my own in the dance balcony just feeling so silly and lackluster. I felt very strongly about the music and had significant musical impulses inside, but it hadn't occurred to me that I could transfer those into my body. Then, I played the music again, stopped scrutinizing myself in the mirror, and allowed my body to do the steps as they pleased. The music dictated my movement. And suddenly--the dancing was like breathing. It had life. It wasn't responding to the music--it was communicating through it. It felt almost gratuitous--it was just so easy and natural. But when I came back to rehearsal and saw my teacher's face after we ran the number, I knew what I'd learned wasn't silly; it was right. I love to move my body, but I love music even more--and the ability to express music through dancing is truly ethereal.
The thing that's wonderful about (most) musical theatre dancing is that it's story/character-driven (when done right.) God bless Joel Ferrell; he is a master of this. Agnes De Mille is the mother of this. She didn't have the build or body to be a ballerina. But there is no choreography more gorgeous than hers. I want to take her Carousel ballet behind the bleachers and get it pregnant. I'm becoming way too old to play Louise, but that is a role that calls for more dancing as communication/joie de vivre than any other. Anybodys in West Side is another. (Jerome Robbins is a more contemporary example of perfect musical theatre choreo. That man was just a genius. Ooh, and Gower Champion. 42nd Street ballet....sighhhh.) I digress.
I'm still learning how to communicate that musicality through singing and that inclination to tell a story through acting. Singing still terrifies me. I know it's something I need to work on. I'm not confident enough with my abilities yet to allow those impulses to dictate the sound. My scenework has improved...and I have fallen much more in love with a desire to storytell...but I still feel like my feelings about scenework serve as sloppy seconds to music and dance. Which isn't fair. And is ultimately counterproductive. ...things I'm working on.
It feels almost silly how fulfilling Cabaret has been--how much I get to learn from my castmates on a daily basis. Kit Kat Kids have the luxury of watching many of the scenes/principal songs from our "voyeur" stations onstage. I completely drop my Kit Kat demeanor (don't tell Joel) watching Julie (our Frau Schneider) sing "So What?" to Cliff. I can't help but be turned into an audience member. I've seen it dozens of times and it is still fresh and new and so vocally stunning that I just turn into another audience member in awe. I watch Kate (Sally Bowles) sing Maybe This Time from far upstage and a similar scenario unfolds. I try against all odds not to turn into a great overindulgent puddle of a human being (and thanks to a curtain in front of me/dim and hazy lighting, it's hopefully/most likely not even noticeable) but it is a constant battle. The magical saxophone in that number is so darn seductive and soulful and stupid Kate Wetherhead is so talented and magical and vulnerable that it's a losing battle for me to attempt to maintain any semblance of normalcy. I digress again. (Big surprise.) Point being, I love this job. Dear Dallas Theater Center, please make us a permanent fixture or take us on tour. I'm not sure that any experience could possibly top this and I'm only 21. I am thoroughly spoiled and dreading May 22nd more than you know. In the meantime, I'll be the chorus girl downstairs silly giddy about her job.
I'll close with my favorite quote of all time from one of my favorite people...
What a privilege to pursue a career in which this is the task. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.
I never want those moments to stop. I never want to be onstage and not look like I'm having the time of my life (when the role can use that, that is.) The second I look bored or over it onstage, slap me in the face. I'm not kidding. I've recently had the experience of spending a great deal of time with someone who is so disgustingly jaded and over her career; it kills my soul every time she opens her mouth. Me to actor: "Aren't you excited for opening night?" Actor: "I'm excited not to have to (insert expletive here) rehearse anymore." Okay, I feel that you're tired and we've been working hard...but really? It's constant rain on my very emphatic parade and I've had quite enough of it. Regardless, the point isn't to bash said actor. The point is that if I ever become that cynical and jaded, just kill me. Or tell me to find another career.
I am obsessed with what I do.
Literally, I have been spending the last hour watching musical theatre dance videos online studying what people waaaaay more talented than I am are doing to look so remarkably transcendent when they perform. A lot of people just "do" their job. You watch them, they're satisfactory, and the scene's over. Other people transcend the work and morph it into something incredibly unique and truly unearthly. I feel this way about Wade's emcee or anytime I watch Jeremy Dumont dance. I wish to be this way. Receiving that compliment from a co-actor was like the most enormous cookie anyone could possibly give to me. When I'm onstage, there is truly nowhere else I'd rather be. Ever. If I can parlay that sentiment I feel to the audience and help them feel a fraction of the glory I do, then I have done my job.
I went out with a couple of my favorite people last night who'd seen the show and we were discussing life issues etc. and I explained my feelings about romance and the theater. "There will never be a man who supersedes my passion for theatre. It's just a fact. It's nothing personal, but there will never be a human being that I could love more than I love theatre, music, and dance." The ladies chuckled and made remarks about how I hadn't met the right guy and I was young and blah, blah blah. Granted, they're four decades my senior and probably know infinitely more about love and life than I do. Still, I can't imagine feeling more passionately (or even equally as passionately) about a person as I do about performing. I never feel more alive (I know it sounds stupid and cliche but it is so, so true) than I do when I am onstage.
The easiest place for me to enter the transcendent is dance. It just happens the most naturally. I'm technically not the best dancer--not even a great one. My body isn't built for dance. My feet are horrible. These are things that cannot be remedied. This is why musical theatre dancing was such an enormous epiphany for me when I discovered it. The first time I sort of experienced it was junior year in high school with Anything Goes. Lots of tapping. Totally my thing. (I'm a musician first; dancer second. Tap is about rhythm and music and translating that to an audience--not about lines or how high you can kick your leg. My feet have always just known what to do.) But the epiphany hadn't hit. I was still just smiling and tapping. Senior year, I was Bonnie Jean in Brigadoon. Featured role, but a dancing one. She has a solo to "Come to me, Bend to me." (It's a shame Brigadoon is so stupid, the music is so stunning. Oh, Lerner and Loewe.) Anyway, it's more lyrical/ballet (which scares the bejesus out of me) and I remember rehearsing on my own in the dance balcony just feeling so silly and lackluster. I felt very strongly about the music and had significant musical impulses inside, but it hadn't occurred to me that I could transfer those into my body. Then, I played the music again, stopped scrutinizing myself in the mirror, and allowed my body to do the steps as they pleased. The music dictated my movement. And suddenly--the dancing was like breathing. It had life. It wasn't responding to the music--it was communicating through it. It felt almost gratuitous--it was just so easy and natural. But when I came back to rehearsal and saw my teacher's face after we ran the number, I knew what I'd learned wasn't silly; it was right. I love to move my body, but I love music even more--and the ability to express music through dancing is truly ethereal.
The thing that's wonderful about (most) musical theatre dancing is that it's story/character-driven (when done right.) God bless Joel Ferrell; he is a master of this. Agnes De Mille is the mother of this. She didn't have the build or body to be a ballerina. But there is no choreography more gorgeous than hers. I want to take her Carousel ballet behind the bleachers and get it pregnant. I'm becoming way too old to play Louise, but that is a role that calls for more dancing as communication/joie de vivre than any other. Anybodys in West Side is another. (Jerome Robbins is a more contemporary example of perfect musical theatre choreo. That man was just a genius. Ooh, and Gower Champion. 42nd Street ballet....sighhhh.) I digress.
I'm still learning how to communicate that musicality through singing and that inclination to tell a story through acting. Singing still terrifies me. I know it's something I need to work on. I'm not confident enough with my abilities yet to allow those impulses to dictate the sound. My scenework has improved...and I have fallen much more in love with a desire to storytell...but I still feel like my feelings about scenework serve as sloppy seconds to music and dance. Which isn't fair. And is ultimately counterproductive. ...things I'm working on.
It feels almost silly how fulfilling Cabaret has been--how much I get to learn from my castmates on a daily basis. Kit Kat Kids have the luxury of watching many of the scenes/principal songs from our "voyeur" stations onstage. I completely drop my Kit Kat demeanor (don't tell Joel) watching Julie (our Frau Schneider) sing "So What?" to Cliff. I can't help but be turned into an audience member. I've seen it dozens of times and it is still fresh and new and so vocally stunning that I just turn into another audience member in awe. I watch Kate (Sally Bowles) sing Maybe This Time from far upstage and a similar scenario unfolds. I try against all odds not to turn into a great overindulgent puddle of a human being (and thanks to a curtain in front of me/dim and hazy lighting, it's hopefully/most likely not even noticeable) but it is a constant battle. The magical saxophone in that number is so darn seductive and soulful and stupid Kate Wetherhead is so talented and magical and vulnerable that it's a losing battle for me to attempt to maintain any semblance of normalcy. I digress again. (Big surprise.) Point being, I love this job. Dear Dallas Theater Center, please make us a permanent fixture or take us on tour. I'm not sure that any experience could possibly top this and I'm only 21. I am thoroughly spoiled and dreading May 22nd more than you know. In the meantime, I'll be the chorus girl downstairs silly giddy about her job.
I'll close with my favorite quote of all time from one of my favorite people...
“When you perform you are out of yourself- larger and more potent, more beautiful. You are for minutes heroic. This is power. This is glory on earth. And it is yours nightly.” - Agnes De Mille
What a privilege to pursue a career in which this is the task. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.
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