Black vinyl flooring greets my boots, all specked with city dust
Containing flecks of concrete, stone, dirt, grime, and gritty rust:
But only a little bit of grit sticks upon my shoe,
And I track it through the gridded streets, off to somewhere new.
The soles of my feet carry a record of time and place
That keeps me grounded, so to speak, in this liminal space.
I’ve been learning German lately, and something that I found fun was writing a poem, then immediately translating it to a German version that captures the same form and feeling.
Sometimes, I feel I can do little else,
But I can give my hair to the birds.
I brush out my undyed brown strands
And waft them aloft, above.
I hope they'll be part of
Some hidden, warm nest
Of the birds I
Hear at night,
When I
Rest.
Manchmal, ich denke nichts kann ich machen,
Aber, mein Haar ist für die Vögel.
Ich bürste meine Haare und
Hebe es in den Himmel.
Ich hoffe sie werden
Eine kleine Nest
Für die Vögel
Ich höre
In der
Nacht.
(In my draft, I switched to red ink when I had to look up translating help.)
I’ll definitely be doing this again. It gave me the chance to sort of re-compose and re-examine the poem, giving it more context to be understood, albeit only for those who have access to both languages.
I think more of these will be forthcoming!
I love rocks. Anyone who knows me can tell you this. I have loved them since I was a small child, poring over the geology pages of my children’s encyclopedia, lingering over the glossy images of fluorite, quartz, and sapphire. I remember studying field guides for fun, and effortlessly acing my science quizzes on volcanoes and tectonics. As an adult, I have a tiny gem collection of my own, and have become a bit of a connoisseur of gem and mineral displays of both the educational and commercial variety. I have seen the Smithsonian’s dazzling array, looked at every booth at the Denver Gem & Rock Show, combed Oregon beaches for loose agates, devotedly searched for a rare color-change garnet suitable for my engagement ring, and more. I always enjoy a gem & mineral display, but at this point it takes some real oomph to stand out.
The new Mignone Halls of Gems and Minerals at the American Museum of Natural History did not disappoint.
I and my partner chose to visit on April 22, 2022, which happened to be Earth Day—a fact we’d forgotten would mean attending the museum with dozens of school field trips and science-minded families. The added crowd turned out to be pleasant, however, as we got to see how people of all ages, particularly impressionable ages, interacted with the new exhibit. I couldn’t help but grin at each child’s reverent ”ooooooh,” uttered upon seeing a spectacular sparkle. Gems, ever fascinating, were very popular on Earth Day.
When you enter the exhibit as it currently stands, you’re immediately greeted by a colossal pair of amethyst geodes, cracked open and glittering deep violet. It’s a charming photo opportunity and serves as a bold welcome, showing visitors what is to be expected ahead.
After the geode entrance display, we turned to the left, and it’s there that my great opinion began to form; the Mignone Halls are the only exhibit I have seen to include the concept of Mineral Evolution, which describes the changes through time from the Big Bang to now that chemically allowed new minerals to form. This provides a fantastic context for understanding what minerals really are and how they came to be, and I haven’t seen it so clearly laid out in any other setting.
The exhibit is also sure to point out the necessity of minerals to the existence of life, and how some minerals only exist because of life. I have rarely seen the vitality of minerals demonstrated so concisely, and of course accompanied by twinkling specimens and memorable anecdotes.
Further, the Halls outline the industrial, historical, and cultural importance of minerals and gems. Rocks and minerals are inseparable from human history, and gems have been objects of desire and fascination since before recorded history. Something I admired was that these displays professed the importance of function and form equally; self-adornment has held just as much value, culturally, as making tools.
Throughout the Halls, we learn enough for a college course in geology; I would know, I took one. This includes but is not limited to: chemical classification of minerals, how to identify different minerals in the field, crystal growth & structure, social & environmental costs of gem mining, erosion & weathering, fluorescence, organic & synthetic gems, light & refraction, minerals local to the NYC area, Moh’s hardness, history of salt and its uses, plate tectonics, etc. This is all delightfully accessorized with enormous specimens, some of which we are even encouraged to touch. Interactive displays help to cement the day’s learning and add a playful element to it, and seemed to be enjoyed by kids and adults alike. Lastly, we are treated to a fully-stocked jewel-box alcove simply clustered with some of the finest gemstones ever found and faceted.
Entrance to the Mignone Halls of Gems and Minerals is included with general admission to the museum, and I highly recommend a visit. We wandered the space for about three hours, having fun admiring the specimens and trying to guess what they were before checking their information on the placards below. The whole exhibit is thick with information, some of it easier to absorb if you’ve had prior introduction to scientific concepts, particularly chemistry. A visitor can easily spend hours reading up on rocks, or enjoy a gleaming stroll through the treasure hoard; if gemstones happen to hypnotize you, you’ll be a happy visitor indeed.
I got new headshots from Ricky Gee Photo recently, and I’m just sharing them here because I’m totally delighted with them!
What do these “say” to you, when you look at them? What are your first impressions of each and/or all? I am always seeking outsider input as to how I’m perceived; it’s vital research to do in the entertainment business!
It’s come to my attention that some of my energy may have been being misused. Or, if not misused, then frustrated. Frustrated by my own self-imposed rules and regulations.
I am a fairly methodical person who enjoys science and statistics, particularly when it comes to organizing my own life. I like to track what I’ve done, when, and how often; I regularly accessorize my journal with little grids peppered with check marks, to track things like my skincare, exercise, Italian language practice, caffeine intake, and more. This year, I set myself the challenge to submit applications/auditions/etc. to 100 opportunities, so naturally I started a tracking system to calculate what works out and what does not.
However, the last three weeks or so, I have been caught up in an unplanned gig which interrupted my meticulous tracking, and forced me to consider the question: is it better to go back and fix my lapse in recording, or to forge onward with submissions without looking back? Is the proof of the effort more important than dedication to the cause?
Simultaneously, I had recently said ”yes” to an opportunity I had a negative feeling about, and of course ended up somewhat regretting it. As someone who is so often a confident consult on friends’ life decisions, I’ve noticed a certain uncertainty about navigating my own, specifically about following my gut/heart/instinct in any given moment (as opposed to bending to outsider opinions or some misguided sense of ”strategy”). I freeze and question my inspirations, constantly needing to ascertain whether or not my idea is “worth” following before making a move… when I could instead simply use that energy to go ahead and find out in reality. Does every move have to be the “best” in order to be worth making?
There comes a time when calculation is just procrastination. Though it goes against my nature and habits, I think I will find my answers by choosing to recklessly pursue my own goals. Moving forward, this looks like not second-guessing when I feel like writing instead of practicing. This looks like saying “no” to opportunities even when, on the surface, there doesn’t seem to be a ”good enough” reason. This looks like releasing prior plans when they no longer suit me. This looks like posting more silly content on social media and here on this blog, regardless of who may or may not see it.
Part of it, too, will look unhinged. A career in the arts already reflects some inconsistency; reckless pursuit adds a new level of observable chaos. This new approach challenges me to take actions without caring what others think of them. In fact, it challenges me to take actions without prematurely judging them myself.
For the foreseeable future, my aim is to release routine, excise expectation, and plunge headlong into every actionable whim. I hope to remove self-set restraints, and retrain my self-trust. I intend to convert every bit of frustrated energy into forward momentum.
I’m so curious to see what will happen next.
”Commit to the bit,” right?
“Finally.” I found myself internally muttering this word several times, in several tones, over the past few weeks. And, honestly, I hope to be saying it again sooner rather than later; waiting is not a skill I have enjoyed cultivating.
After two years of tense precaution and the struggle to enforce boundaries, I finally caught COVID-19. That pernicious Omicron variant flew through the cast of Nana Does Vegas via a single entry point in one weekend, shutting us down only halfway through the run. It was the weekend of my 28th birthday, no less. At this writing, 8 of the 11 cast members have tested positive, and luckily all are in the recovery stage (thank you, MRNA vaccines). It seems a wryly fitting end to a show already delayed for a year; I had been cast in May of 2019, expecting January 2021 performances… well, we know what happened instead. I am simply grateful we performed at all.
This gratitude and lack of expectation has led me to see this closure/illness with humor; I have to admit an unhinged cackle escaped me when I read the “bad news” email, and I accepted my positive result with positive cheer. Being right, in this instance, is not a pleasant experience, but it is a validating one. Once Omicron began shutting down Broadway venues, I knew it was only a matter of time before it happened to our cast outside of Detroit, MI. I had premonitions even before our first rehearsal, and I was frankly amazed we made it to opening. By the time I got to perform a two-show day on my birthday, I was relishing every minute, having fully accepted I would never know which performance would be our last… and it just so happened to be the very next day, though we wouldn’t know for certain until later that week.
I couldn’t even tell if I really had COVID until my PCR result a week later, confirming my tiny sniffle was in fact not psychosomatic. And as much as I feared catching it, my feelings upon the actual catch are neutral, almost relieved… at least I got it now, at least I’m vaxxed and boosted, at least it’s so mild. I have spent so long anticipating these events I’ve correctly predicted that there is no adjustment period in my mind. I felt no need to grieve for the show closing. I have already accepted that my two-year-avoidance-streak is over. We had a good run. I know I did my best, and didn’t take a second for granted.
That show was everything I hoped it would be. It was a chance to create in a safe space, a chance to get back onstage with people I enjoy and admire, and it was even my first AEA contract. It was fun, and it provided a bridge from the past to now, a way to reconnect with a part of me that has been withering over the course of the pandemic, sustained only by lonely self-tapes and long drives with Channel 77 “On Broadway” on Sirius XM Radio.
…And, simultaneously, this contract has been hanging over my head for two years and seven months, feeling like loose shoelaces slowly fraying against the concrete with every step. I have been longing to tie these loose ends for so long, so that I can finally sprint ahead. There is an ache of impatience that is finally subsiding… perhaps it’s callous of me to be privately glad it’s fading sooner than planned, but so I feel. Our original closing date is still three days away, and I couldn’t be happier to be sitting in my Bronx living room instead, writing this on gifted time.
Now, staring at an open expanse of unplanned possibility, I feel a thrilling, terrifying potential… but even now, my old friend Impatience hovers, invading my personal space. I am trying to enjoy the freedom and clarity, but I also just want to know what happens next. What’s next? It’s suddenly a question that arrived sooner than I expected, forcing me to act, to choose, to do.
I hope to finally know what’s next again, soon.
My last post was “On Moving:” which is so apt, because we have now moved yet again. I don’t consider it an “excuse” for not writing, but it is a reason; I wanted to write many times, but the language was not forthcoming, nor were the topics. My brain was unsettled, unable to sit on one thought (other than… moving) for long enough to break it in.
We’ve relocated to NYC. It’s been a long time coming, perhaps an inevitability. Ever since I visited the city for the first time—a heady 24 hours or so in 2011—each subsequent stay has gotten longer and more intimate. It’s easy for an actor to express this, of course; NYC functions as a potent gravitational center for the theatre industry as a whole, and even more so for the musical theatre subsect. I am one of many who have made this specific pilgrimage, memorialized succinctly by “The Star” in Annie:
N-Y-C! Just got here this morning!
Three bucks, two bags, one me!
N-Y-C! I give you fair warning:
Up there, in lights, I’ll be!
Annie
Moving to the city hot on the heels of a devastating pandemic, however, is a little unusual.
I like to operate on strategy, and for the last near-two-years the prevailing strategy has been to rest, “hunker down,” and avoid spending energy or money. There were some bursts of action, but they were plodding and measured, usually with an end in sight.
Now, this is the end in sight. The pandemic is far from over, but innovations have ended the necessity for stillness. In tandem with the world’s timing, this NYC move has triggered a hurtling trajectory into the kind of activity we left in the before times. It’s an expected shift, one we anticipated, dreaded, and begged to arrive sooner. And still, it has hit like a swallowing wave… there was no adequately preparing; there is only the surf.
I’m fortunate to have a built-in period of flexibility right now, like wearing a scuba suit in a tsunami. I have a contract set for the winter, which means a month or so of nesting and wrenching my schedule back to daylight hours. I can afford to breathe, allow the waters to take me where they will, and bubble up to the surface later. Meanwhile, I get a unique view into the swirling chaos that is the transition: what will it be like in a few months? Which currents lead to dry land?
So, while it is an energetic shock, we get a buffer against the most difficult parts. And still, we’ll use that leeway to unpack, to meet our new neighborhood, to negotiate ourselves into new habits. We are revving our engines, much like the traffic on our street, to test what driving will feel like again.
We just moved yesterday.
Well, that’s not totally accurate. We just arrived at our newest location yesterday; moving is a process that takes weeks, months. Moving is constant. Even when we are stationary, we are in the process of unpacking, putting away, cleaning, negotiating space. At this point in my life, I have lived in a more than a half dozen cities and nearly a half dozen states… with much more to come, I’m certain.
I lived in Salisbury, MD until I was eight, when we moved to Kalamazoo, MI. At age 10, it was off to Muskegon, MI. For college, Adrian, MI: I moved 8 times in college, to various dwellings on and off campus related to my jobs or sorority involvement. After that, I had the privilege to move in with the love of my life in Ann Arbor, MI… since then, our work has led us to Portland, OR; Denver, CO; Detroit, Interlochen, and Traverse City, MI; and most recently, Santa Fe, NM. Now we are back in Traverse City, but already eyeing our next move, the next place we’ll go, the next locale we’ll absorb into our story.
I’ll admit, it’s tiring. Moving is physically exhausting, sure, but also mentally taxing in a unique way. For me, the organizational aspect comes naturally, but the fact that I have to “put off” my other goals and tasks in favor of the logistics of a move drives me absolutely wild. The artificial-yet-necessary delay to pursuing my personal goals both maddens me with impatience and reinvigorates me in my pursuit. If I feel too stagnant, moving is a sure way to remind me that there is nothing I would rather do than what I felt stagnant doing; I just needed a shake-up, a moment of reflection, which usually comes as I’m 3D-Tetris-ing items into boxes.
The effect of change, welcomed change, is powerful. As I type, I am fully feeling the gentle elation that comes from completing one phase of life and embarking on another (even though I haven’t unpacked at all). Moving is a clean break, a fresh start, the chance to redecorate without buying new furniture. Moving is an easy delineation between significant eras of life, which otherwise might pass unnoticed. Moving is a chance to assess, debrief, discuss the roses and thorns of a certain period, and prune away what no longer serves.
(I also think it helps when moving comes about during this transformational time of year; the sun is still strong, but there’s a shifting crispness in the air. The light turns rich instead of bright, and if you look closely, the leaves are already tinged with gold. When the seasons change, we are ripe for change as well.)
Depending on your living situation, your next move begins before you’ve even finished your current move. If there’s a deadline to your stay, such as a lease or rental agreement, every action is considered a part of moving. You may eagerly usher your boxes in on day one of the lease, but even then you’re contributing to and calculating the work you’ll need to do to remove them again. Is it really worth it to unpack that vase? Well, if not, why do we have it anyway? Let’s get rid of it. Let’s remove it. But… isn’t that still a form of moving?
Remove: “re-move:” not the opposite of move, but the repetition of it, the continuation of a state of movement, which we are all in, in perpetuity. Homes are not ours—just as land is not ours—rather, we belong to our homes, as residents and caretakers, for an amount of time. Even those of us who have lived in the same houses since birth (and how many have, really?) are inherently transient, happily shifting bits of our lives in and out, using verbiage like “shopping,” “donations,” “trash,” “gifts,” “supplies,” “excess,” as our reasons for change. We are used to being afraid of change, resistant to it; we rarely realize just how often we actively seek it out.
Moving is a permanent state of being, and those who think otherwise have an inaccurate perception of their own longevity on earth. Even the earth is moving, hurtling through space in such a way that we are never in the same place as we were before.
Despite the tedium and effort of keeping track of belongings, the benefits of embracing moving are unparalleled. Because of moving, I am more worldly, and I have been through so much that can only be communicated through personal experience. I know where to find the best food. I know where the traffic is insane, and why. I know where to find otherworldly experiences, and where to seek community. I know how to meet new people, whether they are nameless coffee shop acquaintances or budding new friendships. I’ve seen the tallest trees and the most brilliant sunsets. I know how to make a graceful exit from any situation. I know what I deserve, and how to say goodbye to anything less.
To quote my favorite musical, at a moment when the protagonist is receiving advice from his muse:
“Move on. Stop worrying where you’re going; move on. If you can know where you’re going, you’ve gone. Just keep moving on.”
–Sunday in the Park with George
As I rest and ponder where to place my bookshelves, I know their position is only temporary, and I do not resent this fact. Things change, and that is what makes experiences worthwhile. Just like in theatre, the transience of life is what makes it beautiful and, unexpectedly, enduring. It becomes easier to make choices, knowing this. Perhaps I’m near a lake this month, but maybe I can be on top of a mountain next time.
As a child, I was a witch, and I was powerful then;
I brewed potions out of soaps, and wished for my own garden.
I learned to tell the flowers apart, and could untie any knot;
But somewhere along the way, there’s some magic I forgot.
I sang spells at thunderstorms, made lighting crack through the clouds.
I used my voice, unthinking whether or not to be “loud.”
Known not to care, I’d never let someone take up my space,
Nor of myself, dreams, desires, allow anyone erase.
As I grow, I’ve learned to glance backward, at who I was;
She knew more than I do now, and of late, it gives me pause.
Recently, I’ve been trying to be less “precious” about using my hoard of art supplies. I don’t really have much squirreled away, but what I do have includes some interesting fossils from previous eras: stained watercolor paper from college, a stockpile of fractured drawing utensils of all kinds, even a few sparsely filled sketchbooks dating back to high school.
There was a moment in July—after spending painstaking hours on the details of a meticulous, perfectly-composed painting—when I was looking through my stash, wondering what to create next… and the thought struck me: all these supplies do me no good on a shelf. I don’t need to plan something perfect; creating anything will be better than letting these tools (and myself) languish, unused.
I know why I’ve let them accumulate. Like many kids who grew up with money anxieties, art supplies were like rare jewels. I’ve long held an obsession with the inherent potential in blank pages, new notebooks, and empty canvas; for almost as long, I’ve feared this potential, holding an iron grip on my self-control, knowing that $10 here and there really does add up, and thinking that I needed a “good enough reason” to use what I had. I was afraid of “waste,” and so I unconsciously wasted time and the opportunity to gain experience instead. (Why yes, I am a recovering perfectionist.)
But, these days, art is part of my living. It isn’t a luxury; it’s a life. Not only does it allow me to express myself, but it also allows me to eat. Everything I put into art has an official name now: investment. Moreover, the one who determines the return on my investment is… me! Through using the tools I have given myself!
Doing nothing is the worst thing I could do. So, why hesitate?
This thought process led to a burst of creation. I painted abstracts. I painted figures. I painted terrible works, mediocre works, commercial works, avant-garde works, and maybe even a good work or two. I often had three or four in simultaneous rotation, so I would never be stuck waiting for paint to dry, because I could pick up something else. It felt wonderful.
This post’s image is perhaps my favorite of these creations, and certainly the most personal. It is watercolor and colored pencil, only about 6” by 7”, and is based on a photo I took of myself in summer of 2017; this was when I had just started taking commissions, a year after being gifted my first oil painting supplies. Now, four years later, I look almost the same, but nearly every other aspect of my life has changed.
I had no aspirations for this as I was creating it. It was free to be another bit of bad art, but I kept liking where my hand led the brush. What began as a modest sketch kept growing until, hours later, I glowed with pride and recognition. With this painting, I reach back through the years between my current self and who I was, and give her a glimpse of what’s to come. Painting is an apt metaphor for the passage of time; layer after layer, we build ourselves up—highlighting this and obscuring that, refining details and smoothing edges—until we decide that, for the moment, this is who I think I am.
The Franifesto 