I have a stupidly busy, hyperactive mind. Most of the time, I'm planning or dreaming or creating. The sad reality is that only a TINY percentage of this in-the-brain creaction actually manifests itself into a physical result or product. I'm wary of New Year's Resolutions singularly because I have never kept them, but I do generally abide by new goals personally. Thus, my new life resolution is to stop fearing imperfection, allow mylf to fail and fail again, and create. Despite the fact that I have never considered myself a dancer (my best friend in high school was a LEGIT stunning modern dancer and I therefore felt like a silly hobbyist) but I have always loved choreographing. I choreograph constantly in my head. I also love films...and though I've never attempted a film project, I also plan thos in my head constantly. Therefore, I'm going to make a dance video. It probably won't be good. In any regard. But I'm going to try not to care--chalk it up to a learning experience and progress from there. Here's a tiny, messy clip from my first day of brainstorming (for the female track) of a dance film I've decided to create.
Behold my delicious failure:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=it9rKA_jiLc&feature=youtube_gdata_player
To be continued..
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Monday, December 26, 2011
And to All a Good Night
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.
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 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.
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