We are the wretched.
When I was nine I told my parents I wanted to be an actor. Why is there a deep part of me that wishes I had evolved past that? I mean, besides nutty buddies and science class and recess, I can't remember much else about being nine. There were babies around. Loads of babies. I suppose I was struggling for autonomy and attention. Was, haha.
But my pops drove me across town for drama classes and was a great science fair partner. I guess I was always more interested in the art aspects of the projects more than science, but they're a right little pair science and art. And he encouraged both. As a student he'd done well in science and math, but having started a family he worked on the railroad (yes, all the livelong day) instead of going to college. Whether it be an excavated dinosaur skeleton (made of excavated chicken bones of course), or a glitter volcano, or a cardboard box spaceship, he was always happy to help.
I'm feelin pretty happy.
I'm 2 glasses of sangria in, and I sit on a precipice.
A ledge I've walked a few times.
As I picked up said sangria at my local South Knoxville Kroger, I witnessed a familiar scene. A young girl in blue lipstick was walking in my direction, "Dad, what are you doing?" I turned to see behind me a fifty year old scruffy white guy was squatting on the wall outside the grocery, clearly inebriated. He mumbled something.
We are the wretched.
I saw in the young girl's face...that embarrassment, that shame, that resigned sigh I have felt all too many times. Not to say my dad would ever be squatting drunk against a public building at 10:30pm on a Thurs. I had to word that sentence slowly, and I still don't know if it's quite true. Not when I was the sensitive age of the girl anyway.
My dad prefers art to science, too (but Bud heavy to sangria). S'probably why we were such a good team. He'll take stories over science. Limited experience over universal truth.
I miss feeling like we're on the same team. I mean, it's been a while, but...
Sorry if this blog is even more scattered than usual...I've got my puppy this week (he's been leavin' town with Jake as we transition back to Louisville, but this week I begged to be bathed in attention...it's a bit much when I have a show every night, but we had Sun-Tues off so Jake somewhat reluctantly left him). And now he's a little stir crazy because we didn't get a walk in on this muddy, rainy day. He beckons me every other paragraph with his metronome-like, paint-tip tail and demands a piece of carrot.
Mythology is what he clings to most. My pops, not the pup. Mythology is one of my favorite art forms too. Theatre is mythology. His fav is the story of the fallen man (clearly because of a woman) so bad, somebody holy had to give their life to redeem 'em. He was that bad. He did the bad stuff. He sinned. The original wretched. But the savior came and redeemed us all so now we can reconcile our badness. Our natural badness. And the sincere remorse we have for it, oh yeah and then the promise to try and never do it again.
Remorse.
Comes from the Latin for "I bite back," or "to bite again."
What's latin for "hair of the dog"? Cause I got a feelin this sangria might bite me back tomorrow. Not that I could ever partake in that hangover cure. My hangovers are a bit...extra. I'm a delicate flower. Snowflake. One might wonder why I come back again and again to this fierce medicine so abusive to my body. I can't say. I teeter on the precipice.
The moon is full.
The pup's asleep. I finally got him to settle down. Where was I?
Promise.
Latin for...well, for promise.
Promise is as old as language.
I promise I might have a point.
A former roommate used to have this book, They Have a Word for It, A Lighthearted Lexicon of Untranslatable Words and Phrases.
Untranslatable.
I love how language weaves us all together, but necessarily accentuates our differences. Love letters n language barriers n all that lies between.
I've come to believe the barriers between my dad's team and mine are sometimes just an accent or dialect. A football field...large enough to retreat to opposing ends, but still in the same game. But some days they feel like a battleground. Sometimes it feels like we're up against...a well-armed militia. I pray for grace. In that first drama class final recital I remember singing "Amazing Grace." I'm sure my dad came in support. Sometimes the remorse I have for the impatience and anger I have towards him makes my heart heavy as lead.
We are the wretched.
If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves. ~Lincoln
My dad is a poet. A dreamer. And sometimes he's a drunk.
But I could choose different language to tell you that. I could say he's Dionysian. He does love to dance and sing. I remember being embarrassed at his gusto for hymns in church, and his antics on the dance floor are indomitable. He's pretty laissez faire...and he'll laissez les bon temps rouler.
We've got a lot in common.
His mother always calls him her diamond in the rough. Because he shines to anyone who can see past the stained, sooty coal-like exterior. But sometimes I fear the pressure that's necessary for coal to be turned into a diamond might crush him. He's often in physical pain. And he struggles. And he's addicted to (comforted by?) Fox News and right wing media. He doesn't loudly sing those hymns anymore. And part of me feels guilty for having ever been embarrassed at the beauty of it.
Actually I just had a memory from about age 9. I went to an all white Catholic school and was taking all the ritual steps of a good young parishoner. I liked it. I believed. All the white dresses and parties and ceremony wonderfully theatrical, and I reveled in it. AMEN. But it was the general consensus that singing hymns softly was "cooler" than really belting them out. This precedent was advocated by the middle school kids with whom we participated in Wednesday morning mass. One week they even went so far as to sing out only on the word "come" in all the hymns. Sister Mary Jane was surely disappointed in the restrictions on corporal punishment that morning. That's when I learned the word "innuendo."
But the memory that just surfaced was one such Wednesday mass when our priest had invited a black gospel choir leader (or perhaps a Baptist preacher?) to lead us all in some gospel songs. We sang "This little light of mine," and the heartfelt, repetitive "Amen." His beautiful, booming voice and pearly white smile encouraged us between the phrases, "Sing it over!" It may have been the first time I actually felt the Holy Spirit in church. I remember shedding the prim, cautious self-conscious mores of quietude and boredom in church and truly praising joy for the first time.
I think something in my dad never quite jived with those mores either. Once we made it through the 8th grade in parochial schools, he gave up pretending to be Catholic. But he still believed. He clung to that redemption. Perhaps because he is no stranger to remorse.
We are the wretched.
My father attempts and succeeds at righteousness on many levels. He is generous beyond his means. He is open and kind hearted and the life of any party. He feels the burden of the system that does not support him. A system that has often not allowed him to make ends meet and turns around and calls him privileged. I think we had a meaningful exchange recently where I was able to point up his privilege being not in monetary wealth or lack of work ethic, but in the way the world views him. The way a cop might not bother to pull him over or search his car (even though he might regularly be driving with a BAC above the legal limit with illegal drugs on his person).
I know my own privilege lies in his presence in my life. And that privilege is enormous beyond measure. If we had darker skin I might be receiving birthday letters from prison instead of phone calls from him and my mom singing to my voicemail. I might miss finding him snoring on the couch (Fox News blaring) anytime I arrive home to their house after 8pm. I might never have been driven across town for drama lessons, and I might never have sung "Amazing Grace" in recital, and I would most certainly be a completely different person.
Having this puppy makes me wonder how I might be a different parent.
Can't say (one of my pop's most used responses, rhyming can't with ain't). He did all the important stuff really well. I can only hope.
My mom sees two equally hard-headed, passionate people and laughs at how often we can't see our similarities. And though he never fully supported Trump's candidacy, he voted for him. It makes me angry and sick and sad. But there's hope for us yet. With grace, I suppose.
Sometimes I get a glimpse of light from that shiny diamond in the rough, but other times I just see a wretch.
Like me.
Friday, March 2, 2018
Saturday, February 17, 2018
Oh hey! 128!
My last blog has been viewed by 128 folks. Or 128 times? I'm not sure. I don't bother pretending I know enough about technology. I am so ignorant. But I know a thing or two about a thing or two. I guess. And I like the number 128.
Who are you internet voyeurs? Nobody comments 'cept my baby sister because I make her. Drop me a line if you dare.
After yet another tragedy, I was temporarily stalled at the keyboard. What can I say that hasn't been bouncing around my echo chamber? What could my heart venture to express that could make one bit of difference?
8 days ago I was baptized by fire.
Not literally.
Although clearly that means nothing anymore in our post-truth world. The upside down.
Close to literally, tho. I actually suffered 1st degree burns from a cup of scalding hot tea that slipped from my fingers and spilled all over my chest. I am fine. It was painful and lonely. Jake's been in KY, and I had an early night at rehearsal. I'd just settled in with my night-time tea and a good book and was ecstatic at the prospect of getting a good 8-10 hr nap in, and it was a chilly night and was aiming to rest it on my bosom over my thick bathrobe and just hit the steam and warm my hands on the mug as I have done thousands (if not, definitely hundreds...literally hundreds) of times.
In retrospect, I was too excited.
I'm pretty excitable. I think people like that about me. I don't know. Do people really like me? I mean, 128 people like me enough to at least click on my blog link to make me believe they've read my blog. That's certainly enough for any one small human to need.
THEN WHY AM I SO NEEDY??? Why do I want more than I need? Why do any of us? Where does insecurity come from?
I was about to write "human nature?" when Freeman Lovejoy (my feline familiar) started to scratch at the door. He didn't want to go outside so I deduced he could see the bottom of his bowl. He's a fat cat, but not seriously overweight...I mean he likes to exercise the 4 hours/day he's not snoozing. But he is hopelessly insecure. He won't finish a bowl of food before he'll just drive you crazy with scratching and meowing and his weaving thru your legs threatening to trip you.
I've been his human for 7 years and he's never known true hunger. But his instincts say "Wait!!! This might be all you get!" And turn him into a total asshole. A worry-wort. A greedy fat cat. And I can't say I don't get it. We're all insecure assholes unnecessarily worried and greedy. It seems nature cannot be severed from the human, try as we might.
I mean, the knowledge Eve tricked Adam into gaining made them less ignorant, but they lost the bliss of the garden. Greed is what happens when our collective instincts are skewed by the great forgetting. Maybe this is what the early Semites were exploring with their mythology? They imply that what humans had before we became self conscious was gone after that original sin. Lost. Forgotten. Taken away. Forbidden.
I think if people don't like me it's because I can come of as judgmental. I mean, I can recognize that in my past I have spent a lot of time judging. I think I also just struggle with the difference between simply making a choice and judging. I sit down to stream some tv, and I choose the latest HBO series (which happened to have 3! actresses with whom I have directly worked...it's so close I can taste it) because I judge it to be the best thing happenin right now in that realm and my time is so limited. I read Jill Soloway's Tiny Women in Shiny Pants because I judged it to be a solid recommendation from a genius on how to start my career as an actress and writer. Sheila Callaghan graciously has many more scopes to light my path (which I plan to gorge on post thesis project).
But my baptism from the hot tea has me itchy. And that itch is manifesting itself as this blog of wise meanderings. The wisdom is not my own. I'm just open and finding it coming in waves. Perhaps it's the wave in my mind coming from Ursula K. Le Guin's collection of talks and essays?
Maybe it's Brené Brown's On Being episode this week? She brilliantly addresses the cultural amnesia that's temporarily lifted in moments of great joy or excitement with strangers (like hugging the fan next to you at a sporting event). Host with the most Krista Tippet quotes a line from Brown's latest book that advises "Hold hands. With strangers."
Did I mention I'm in a play called the strangers? I have a whole monologue about this exact topic. It's beautiful, and I'm having a swell time making Christopher Oscar Peña's character come alive. Brown eloquently noted a beautiful sentiment that is the heart of Peña's production, "He or she who chooses comfort--over courage and facilitating real conversations in towns and cities and synagogues and areas who need it; when you choose your own comfort over trying to bring people together, and you're a leader, either a civic leader or a faith leader, your days of relevance are numbered."
I pray for this post-post-truth reawakening with every fiber of my being.
Come hell or high water. Or hot water, as it were.
Before we knew there were judgements to make about one another...before we "knew" of this blaringly relative and subjective "good and evil," we recognized the truth underneath it all. That great capacity for love. It is the true North (while there is still one). It is our gift from Divinity. The apple just fooled us into thinking it was about something else because of our basic capacity for hunger. For more always. And subsequently the capacity for a lack mentality. Insatiable and constant it steers us toward greed more often than we'd like. Or like to admit.
But there. Is. Enough. If we go back to the Judeo-Christian mythology (and why not, it is Lent), Jesus completed the cycle or circle of humanity's damnedness to remind us of what we collectively forgot in the garden. That love is the only key we need to unlock redemption.
My sweet, ever-lovin décolletage may be marred for another good week or more, and I'm hoping it doesn't leave a scar. Though I'm no stranger to 'em. (I guess it could help the haggard/prisoner/trashy/victim trope a little better for my future cameos on OITNB and other hit tv shows.) As I sat down at my alter to meditate this evening, a sacred heart my husband drew at it's center reminded me of a time when I felt most insecure and incomplete.
When I first started to meditate with some regularity (desperate for a partner to love), I kept having recurring visions of this sacred heart. I had seen it depicted in many a picture of Jesus and the Mother Mary growing up Catholic, and I thought it was just a memory stamped in my brain that came up in spiritual stirring. From a teacher in the school of metaphysics, I was given a pdf of a spiritual Taraka Yoga practice entitled "The Keys to Your Heart"and I taught and performed the ritual during the return of Venus (remember when she came between us and the sun back in 2012?) on retreat in Upstate NY. Printed on the pdf was this picture of the sacred heart.
When I found this drawing of my husband's, I got goosebumps. It was his "tag" during a brief exploration with street art. These coincidences bring me joy and literally (not literally) set my heart on fire. If I do have a scar from this foible, it will remind me of the baptism or revelation I've come upon in this dark dark time. That somewhere between my heart and throat sits a fire burning in me...and I will use it to LOVE.
8 days ago I was baptized by fire.
2 days ago, a young man forgot how to love.
1 day at a time, we heal. It's itchy and it may scar forever, but we heal.
Who are you internet voyeurs? Nobody comments 'cept my baby sister because I make her. Drop me a line if you dare.
After yet another tragedy, I was temporarily stalled at the keyboard. What can I say that hasn't been bouncing around my echo chamber? What could my heart venture to express that could make one bit of difference?
8 days ago I was baptized by fire.
Not literally.
Although clearly that means nothing anymore in our post-truth world. The upside down.
Close to literally, tho. I actually suffered 1st degree burns from a cup of scalding hot tea that slipped from my fingers and spilled all over my chest. I am fine. It was painful and lonely. Jake's been in KY, and I had an early night at rehearsal. I'd just settled in with my night-time tea and a good book and was ecstatic at the prospect of getting a good 8-10 hr nap in, and it was a chilly night and was aiming to rest it on my bosom over my thick bathrobe and just hit the steam and warm my hands on the mug as I have done thousands (if not, definitely hundreds...literally hundreds) of times.
In retrospect, I was too excited.
I'm pretty excitable. I think people like that about me. I don't know. Do people really like me? I mean, 128 people like me enough to at least click on my blog link to make me believe they've read my blog. That's certainly enough for any one small human to need.
THEN WHY AM I SO NEEDY??? Why do I want more than I need? Why do any of us? Where does insecurity come from?
I was about to write "human nature?" when Freeman Lovejoy (my feline familiar) started to scratch at the door. He didn't want to go outside so I deduced he could see the bottom of his bowl. He's a fat cat, but not seriously overweight...I mean he likes to exercise the 4 hours/day he's not snoozing. But he is hopelessly insecure. He won't finish a bowl of food before he'll just drive you crazy with scratching and meowing and his weaving thru your legs threatening to trip you.
I've been his human for 7 years and he's never known true hunger. But his instincts say "Wait!!! This might be all you get!" And turn him into a total asshole. A worry-wort. A greedy fat cat. And I can't say I don't get it. We're all insecure assholes unnecessarily worried and greedy. It seems nature cannot be severed from the human, try as we might.
I mean, the knowledge Eve tricked Adam into gaining made them less ignorant, but they lost the bliss of the garden. Greed is what happens when our collective instincts are skewed by the great forgetting. Maybe this is what the early Semites were exploring with their mythology? They imply that what humans had before we became self conscious was gone after that original sin. Lost. Forgotten. Taken away. Forbidden.
I think if people don't like me it's because I can come of as judgmental. I mean, I can recognize that in my past I have spent a lot of time judging. I think I also just struggle with the difference between simply making a choice and judging. I sit down to stream some tv, and I choose the latest HBO series (which happened to have 3! actresses with whom I have directly worked...it's so close I can taste it) because I judge it to be the best thing happenin right now in that realm and my time is so limited. I read Jill Soloway's Tiny Women in Shiny Pants because I judged it to be a solid recommendation from a genius on how to start my career as an actress and writer. Sheila Callaghan graciously has many more scopes to light my path (which I plan to gorge on post thesis project).
But my baptism from the hot tea has me itchy. And that itch is manifesting itself as this blog of wise meanderings. The wisdom is not my own. I'm just open and finding it coming in waves. Perhaps it's the wave in my mind coming from Ursula K. Le Guin's collection of talks and essays?
Maybe it's Brené Brown's On Being episode this week? She brilliantly addresses the cultural amnesia that's temporarily lifted in moments of great joy or excitement with strangers (like hugging the fan next to you at a sporting event). Host with the most Krista Tippet quotes a line from Brown's latest book that advises "Hold hands. With strangers."
Did I mention I'm in a play called the strangers? I have a whole monologue about this exact topic. It's beautiful, and I'm having a swell time making Christopher Oscar Peña's character come alive. Brown eloquently noted a beautiful sentiment that is the heart of Peña's production, "He or she who chooses comfort--over courage and facilitating real conversations in towns and cities and synagogues and areas who need it; when you choose your own comfort over trying to bring people together, and you're a leader, either a civic leader or a faith leader, your days of relevance are numbered."
I pray for this post-post-truth reawakening with every fiber of my being.
Come hell or high water. Or hot water, as it were.
Before we knew there were judgements to make about one another...before we "knew" of this blaringly relative and subjective "good and evil," we recognized the truth underneath it all. That great capacity for love. It is the true North (while there is still one). It is our gift from Divinity. The apple just fooled us into thinking it was about something else because of our basic capacity for hunger. For more always. And subsequently the capacity for a lack mentality. Insatiable and constant it steers us toward greed more often than we'd like. Or like to admit.
But there. Is. Enough. If we go back to the Judeo-Christian mythology (and why not, it is Lent), Jesus completed the cycle or circle of humanity's damnedness to remind us of what we collectively forgot in the garden. That love is the only key we need to unlock redemption.
My sweet, ever-lovin décolletage may be marred for another good week or more, and I'm hoping it doesn't leave a scar. Though I'm no stranger to 'em. (I guess it could help the haggard/prisoner/trashy/victim trope a little better for my future cameos on OITNB and other hit tv shows.) As I sat down at my alter to meditate this evening, a sacred heart my husband drew at it's center reminded me of a time when I felt most insecure and incomplete.
When I first started to meditate with some regularity (desperate for a partner to love), I kept having recurring visions of this sacred heart. I had seen it depicted in many a picture of Jesus and the Mother Mary growing up Catholic, and I thought it was just a memory stamped in my brain that came up in spiritual stirring. From a teacher in the school of metaphysics, I was given a pdf of a spiritual Taraka Yoga practice entitled "The Keys to Your Heart"and I taught and performed the ritual during the return of Venus (remember when she came between us and the sun back in 2012?) on retreat in Upstate NY. Printed on the pdf was this picture of the sacred heart.
When I found this drawing of my husband's, I got goosebumps. It was his "tag" during a brief exploration with street art. These coincidences bring me joy and literally (not literally) set my heart on fire. If I do have a scar from this foible, it will remind me of the baptism or revelation I've come upon in this dark dark time. That somewhere between my heart and throat sits a fire burning in me...and I will use it to LOVE.
8 days ago I was baptized by fire.
2 days ago, a young man forgot how to love.
1 day at a time, we heal. It's itchy and it may scar forever, but we heal.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
Solar Warrior
A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from the Sierra Club thanking me and giving me the address where I was expected to go to speak at a hearing (or perhaps before at a meeting?) concerning the action being taken against TVA for continuing to dump coal ash into the waters here in Tennessee.
I feel like I am engaged in battles on many fronts these days.
But speaking anywhere in a formal setting on an issue of which I am only peripherally aware (tho clearly against) was not a battle for which I remembered signing up recently. I mean, I'll sign all the petitions guys. I'll make the calls when I can (which I'm pretty sure is how this misled voicemail-leaving Sierra Club volunteer/employee got my number and made the mistake). But I am in grad school, remember?
For a moment it was very much like the actor's nightmare I've had so many times. You're on stage or in the wings about to go on, and you don't know what production it is...
Had I volunteered and forgotten?? I mean, I am vehemently against dumping coal ash into our rivers. But no. I felt pretty confident this kind soul had reached me in error, tryin to reach some other more accomplished activist. One not overwhelmed by and often paralyzed by fear.
One not in his/her/their last year of grad school.
So I called and left a message for the unwitting phone tag opponent, and I suppose she realized her mistake and called the other Emily she was likely trying to reach...but she never called me back.
I bought a domain today to put up my website for school. www.emilykicklighter.org.
.com wasn't available, but I sort of like the responsibility .org implies.
It makes me feel like I'll somehow be held more accountable. More...organized. And I guess that's a comfort zone and a mine field for me simultaneously. Sometimes I question the size of my sense of responsibility. Meaning it can be so large and burdensome, it weighs me down. It slows me. It arrests my action. I can't possibly get it all done so I think I'll just crawl up in this hole with a book (or more often binge watch a tv series...I can always claim research) and ESCAPE from reality. And I question my organizational skills...I mean, do they really even exist?
Because minimizing stress is the best thing you can do for your health, I take great care in identifying and naming stress to weaken n tame it.
I currently have a lot for which I am being held accountable: a thesis project, applications for future writing endeavors (writing labs and internships), audition preparation for a few things coming up, all while rehearsing a brand new play and working with cohorts and our professor to figure out a new digital showcase platform. Mix in relationship maintenances, holiday, travel and a birthday that puts you on the back-side of your 30's, and I think you'll find a little stress to be quite natural. Even necessary.
But the unnecessary stress comes from the overwhelming responsibility I feel to live up to my own ideals. Ideally I'd just like to do no harm, but our infrastructure and cultural mores are unsupportive on this road less traveled. Straws and styrofoam, plastic bags and cutlery, and cars or trucks with noxious exhaust have started to illicit in me a strong physical repulsion or sensation that isn't unlike hearing nails scrape a chalkboard. And I often worry about the fact that most of the people I'm around most of the time don't have any averse reactions to these things.
I happened upon this article a couple of days ago and easily joked with my family about setting up the bunkers and prepping. The article's author, award-winning Canadian science journalist Alanna Mitchell, frighteningly asserts that a magnetic reversal of planet Earth's poles is imminent and natural and nearly due, and all the systems we've built as a modern society do not take this evidence-based hypothesis into account. Technology could be crippled...the Earth could be transformed. Many species may not survive.
I think most people might find this depressing, but there was a deep comfort in it for me. I used to frequent a shaman who would give me the same solace: Pachamama will take care of herself...it's not my personal responsibility to save her. My husband is also a great teacher/neutralizer when I feel burdened or overwhelmed by my aspirations for (and ultimately disappointment in) humankind. But I've said it before and I'll say it again: no one believes they can make a difference, but what if everyone thought they could? Finding the line to walk of accountability and responsibility without stumbling over into self-aggrandizing and false fault is a challenge I'm taking head on.
I thought .org's were only available to registered nonprofit groups and entities, but now I've got my very own. It kind of makes me worry about the validity of things I've read on the web that I assumed to be factual because of their being from .org sites, but mostly it makes me want to tell the truths I know and represent this domain family well.
As I was getting ready to write this, a film director/activist who moonlights as a professional fundraiser called soliciting donations for the Sierra Club. I took the recent snafu as a sign I should contribute to this reputable organization, but I guess there could be a slim chance I just fell prey to a new targeted elaborate marketing ploy to guilt people into contributing by calling them first by "mistake" to remind them of how their physical presence is very much appreciated at this important battle to which they had not actually committed, and then following up with a "would you [at least] like to support us with a financial contribution?" call.
I offered a monthly contribution. Ploy or no, I'll show up when and where I can as the "social justice warrior" I aspire to be. The Sierra Club is a .org afterall! They are on the frontline of many battles against this administration to protect our environment (while we're still lucky enough to be stewards).
That is until the solar flares and radiation win the war.
Gives new meaning to I'm with her.
Leave it to a Trump presidency to make an Armageddon-like prediction seem like relief.
I feel like I am engaged in battles on many fronts these days.
But speaking anywhere in a formal setting on an issue of which I am only peripherally aware (tho clearly against) was not a battle for which I remembered signing up recently. I mean, I'll sign all the petitions guys. I'll make the calls when I can (which I'm pretty sure is how this misled voicemail-leaving Sierra Club volunteer/employee got my number and made the mistake). But I am in grad school, remember?
For a moment it was very much like the actor's nightmare I've had so many times. You're on stage or in the wings about to go on, and you don't know what production it is...
Had I volunteered and forgotten?? I mean, I am vehemently against dumping coal ash into our rivers. But no. I felt pretty confident this kind soul had reached me in error, tryin to reach some other more accomplished activist. One not overwhelmed by and often paralyzed by fear.
One not in his/her/their last year of grad school.
So I called and left a message for the unwitting phone tag opponent, and I suppose she realized her mistake and called the other Emily she was likely trying to reach...but she never called me back.
I bought a domain today to put up my website for school. www.emilykicklighter.org.
.com wasn't available, but I sort of like the responsibility .org implies.
It makes me feel like I'll somehow be held more accountable. More...organized. And I guess that's a comfort zone and a mine field for me simultaneously. Sometimes I question the size of my sense of responsibility. Meaning it can be so large and burdensome, it weighs me down. It slows me. It arrests my action. I can't possibly get it all done so I think I'll just crawl up in this hole with a book (or more often binge watch a tv series...I can always claim research) and ESCAPE from reality. And I question my organizational skills...I mean, do they really even exist?
Because minimizing stress is the best thing you can do for your health, I take great care in identifying and naming stress to weaken n tame it.
I currently have a lot for which I am being held accountable: a thesis project, applications for future writing endeavors (writing labs and internships), audition preparation for a few things coming up, all while rehearsing a brand new play and working with cohorts and our professor to figure out a new digital showcase platform. Mix in relationship maintenances, holiday, travel and a birthday that puts you on the back-side of your 30's, and I think you'll find a little stress to be quite natural. Even necessary.
But the unnecessary stress comes from the overwhelming responsibility I feel to live up to my own ideals. Ideally I'd just like to do no harm, but our infrastructure and cultural mores are unsupportive on this road less traveled. Straws and styrofoam, plastic bags and cutlery, and cars or trucks with noxious exhaust have started to illicit in me a strong physical repulsion or sensation that isn't unlike hearing nails scrape a chalkboard. And I often worry about the fact that most of the people I'm around most of the time don't have any averse reactions to these things.
I happened upon this article a couple of days ago and easily joked with my family about setting up the bunkers and prepping. The article's author, award-winning Canadian science journalist Alanna Mitchell, frighteningly asserts that a magnetic reversal of planet Earth's poles is imminent and natural and nearly due, and all the systems we've built as a modern society do not take this evidence-based hypothesis into account. Technology could be crippled...the Earth could be transformed. Many species may not survive.
I think most people might find this depressing, but there was a deep comfort in it for me. I used to frequent a shaman who would give me the same solace: Pachamama will take care of herself...it's not my personal responsibility to save her. My husband is also a great teacher/neutralizer when I feel burdened or overwhelmed by my aspirations for (and ultimately disappointment in) humankind. But I've said it before and I'll say it again: no one believes they can make a difference, but what if everyone thought they could? Finding the line to walk of accountability and responsibility without stumbling over into self-aggrandizing and false fault is a challenge I'm taking head on.
I thought .org's were only available to registered nonprofit groups and entities, but now I've got my very own. It kind of makes me worry about the validity of things I've read on the web that I assumed to be factual because of their being from .org sites, but mostly it makes me want to tell the truths I know and represent this domain family well.
As I was getting ready to write this, a film director/activist who moonlights as a professional fundraiser called soliciting donations for the Sierra Club. I took the recent snafu as a sign I should contribute to this reputable organization, but I guess there could be a slim chance I just fell prey to a new targeted elaborate marketing ploy to guilt people into contributing by calling them first by "mistake" to remind them of how their physical presence is very much appreciated at this important battle to which they had not actually committed, and then following up with a "would you [at least] like to support us with a financial contribution?" call.
I offered a monthly contribution. Ploy or no, I'll show up when and where I can as the "social justice warrior" I aspire to be. The Sierra Club is a .org afterall! They are on the frontline of many battles against this administration to protect our environment (while we're still lucky enough to be stewards).
That is until the solar flares and radiation win the war.
Gives new meaning to I'm with her.
Leave it to a Trump presidency to make an Armageddon-like prediction seem like relief.
Saturday, January 20, 2018
The World is Falling Down
Damnit. This is why I didn't want a website. Somehow now that I've declared "writer" to be part of the stamp of my brand, I feel beholden to this blog. As I should I suppose. I mean, I feel so inspired and can't wait for the creative vacuum that just might ensue post-grad-school. But considering I'm working on a lot of different projects simultaneously while juggling classes and have started submitting for professional gigs, carving out time to sit down and write to keep the world abreast of blogworthy revalations is...difficult to say the life.
Wahwahwah! Life is so hard when you're living the dream.
I guess I can always change it. I mean, it just as easily could have been permaculture enthusiast or bicycling advocate or educator or meditation/yoga teacher. Maybe it will change.
But for now.
I've also had some other writing assignments this week from my therapist.
Processing grad school can be tough, but processing MPVFT disorder can be even harder. I was diagnosed with My Parents Voted For Trump disorder over Christmas break, when my mom confessed to me in a moment of exasperated guilt and ignorance.
Isn't it weird to think of how much you've changed throughout your life, and yet you are always yourself?
I'd like to take this moment to thank my siblings (all of whom did NOT vote for Trump, btw...so glad I raised 'em right). As the oldest, I tested out every kind of meanness on them. And they survived. And then they became my greatest teachers.
I spoke to both my sisters this morning on the phone. Yeah. It was that kind of morning. My salt of the earth sister...she's my righteous barometer. And she was feeling crippled and depressed. Over how her neighbors treat their dogs and her inability to speak up about it. But instinctively I know it's about more. New moon in Capricorn? Or...
The world is falling down.
Hold my hand.
Part of the abuses my siblings have suffered is that I immediately texted them after my mom's confessional. Part of me was just so angry she had lied. But mostly it was to call in the troops. I felt the ground beneath me had disappeared.
The election of Ronald McDonald to our highest office was one of the worst things I've ever felt. And I understand that there is privilege in that statement...and perhaps some hyperbole and dramatics. But "one of" is entirely true. And not like Trump true...which is actually false. They're real easy to get mixed up these days. But stay with me.
I started crying when it became evident it would be a tight race.
I didn't think it was possible.
Insert my echo chamber guilt here.
I didn't stop crying for the next 12 hrs, until the results were in and I sobbed myself to sleep like a baby.
Perhaps I could have said more. Did she not know anything about this man???? She never even said "I voted for Trump."
She said, "I couldn't vote for Hillary."
She works in arguably one of the worst public schools in a depressed area in Louisville, KY. 8 years of Obama hadn't changed anything. She sees kids suffering from terrible home lives, illiteracy, anger, mental illness, lack of health care to treat said illnesses, and apathy. Her job is to keep them in school.
With the promise of what? Working factory jobs at Riverport for minimum wage that doesn't cover the cost of living?
She voted for Obama. She was ready for change. She had the hope he inspires.
But she became impatient. She doesn't know how to help. But she thought drastic change in the opposite direction might just help matters. The powers that be could use an outsider to shake things up. Drain the swamp.
The thing is, I think the America First slogan really got to her. We have so much to work on...and we should probably do that ASAP, right?
The world is falling down.
Hold my hand.
I don't know. I mean, I guess she's just ignorant and tired and embittered and probably got a lot of Facebook ads about all the stupid shit the Clintons have been involved in.
How she missed the glaring racism (hello, Central Park 5 + his rental stipulations in his buildings + oh, I don't know...all the bullshit that comes out the hole in his head, aka: the shithole) is very much beyond me. Or maybe she's racist?
Harsh. She's ignorant and has loads of implicit bias and is a product of her environment. Her environment and her role in it both suck. She's marginalized like any woman over 50. Not as marginalized as most of the students she encounters everyday. But struggling, nonetheless.
To one another the other may as well be from Mars. The contempt is palpable. This is not entirely my mom's fault. The system is broken.
The irony is this: it's hard not to turn it into a defense of my mom.
In 2011, I was a teacher in the public schools in Louisville. I had to call the security the day I subbed at Iroquois High School.
Looking back, I made an ignorant comment. It was not conscious. It was more of a Southern witticism that short circuited out of my mouth...perhaps in an attempt to sound funny and lighten up, but mostly to arrest a situation. A situation I didn't know how to handle. I witnessed a young 16 year-old black man straight-up smack a young black woman across the face. Hard. Like harder than mean girl Tiffany Whatsherface slapped me after basketball practice in the 7th grade, when we were having some basic white girl bitch fight because of raging hormones, familiarity's contempt, and well...basic bitchiness. (I'm not just protecting her anonymity, btw. I genuinely don't remember her last name.)
Anyway, it was distressing. And I said, "Excuse me?! Sir. I don't think so. Step away from her. Didn't your momma ever teach..."
Before I got "you" out, the kid was on me. Coming at me, hitting his chest, "You talkin 'bout my momma."
The world is falling down.
Hold my hand.
It was a really stupid thing to say. I see that. I've worked in childcare a lot, and this was soon after the leap into the education world. It's a joke or leveler I've said to lots of unruly kids whose mommas signed my paychecks. Mostly to reinforce momma's rules. Which in my experience thus far had been consistently against slapping people in the face. I've said this to kids of many races...but kids with enough privilege to have parents possibly overpaying for my services via Care.com.
This young man clearly had no such privilege.
My mom is in this school all day.
There is little to no humor in such an environment. It is no laughing matter.
My mom loves to laugh.
There is angst. And after 8 years of hoping and nothing in her micro-environment changing, she got distracted by a clown.
Like a child.
But she gave me life, and loves me and has been an awesome mom.
Hence the therapy.
Luckily I get to work on a show about civil rights. About our country. Based on Our Town.
When I get to be in the room where it happens with playwrights like Christopher Oscar Peña, I feel like I'm doing something. (And yes, I threw in that Hamilton quote for my mom who knows every word to the musical...she's a conundrum folks). Being a part of something provocative makes me feel redeemed. Like I'm a part of the movement.
I happened upon a Facebook live video of Jim James promoting his new "Tribute to 2" album, and he covered civil rights activist Abbey Lincoln's The World is Falling Down. The lyrics could've been taken out of the script we're diggin into, and this song's had me crying for 2 days as I navigate my writing assignments from my therapist (Dear mom, I may never send you this, but...), and a script where I vacillate between my basic bitch teenage "self" based on Abigail Fisher and a homeless woman who may or may not suffer from mental illness.
I'm grateful to my friends of color who have been there for me through the years...who have held my hand (even when it wasn't there job) and helped me along in my path from basic-ness to greater compassion and understanding.
I'm sorry that somehow my demographic, my own mother, had a hand in electing this madman to power.
I will speak all the truth I know to this power.
Truth trumps Trump "truth."
But part of that truth is that I'm also grateful to my mom...who has been there for me through the years...who has held my hand (even when it wasn't her job) and helped me along in my path from basic-ness to greater compassion and understanding.
The world is falling down. But I'm glad I have you.
Wahwahwah! Life is so hard when you're living the dream.
I guess I can always change it. I mean, it just as easily could have been permaculture enthusiast or bicycling advocate or educator or meditation/yoga teacher. Maybe it will change.
But for now.
I've also had some other writing assignments this week from my therapist.
Processing grad school can be tough, but processing MPVFT disorder can be even harder. I was diagnosed with My Parents Voted For Trump disorder over Christmas break, when my mom confessed to me in a moment of exasperated guilt and ignorance.
Isn't it weird to think of how much you've changed throughout your life, and yet you are always yourself?
I'd like to take this moment to thank my siblings (all of whom did NOT vote for Trump, btw...so glad I raised 'em right). As the oldest, I tested out every kind of meanness on them. And they survived. And then they became my greatest teachers.
I spoke to both my sisters this morning on the phone. Yeah. It was that kind of morning. My salt of the earth sister...she's my righteous barometer. And she was feeling crippled and depressed. Over how her neighbors treat their dogs and her inability to speak up about it. But instinctively I know it's about more. New moon in Capricorn? Or...
The world is falling down.
Hold my hand.
Part of the abuses my siblings have suffered is that I immediately texted them after my mom's confessional. Part of me was just so angry she had lied. But mostly it was to call in the troops. I felt the ground beneath me had disappeared.
The election of Ronald McDonald to our highest office was one of the worst things I've ever felt. And I understand that there is privilege in that statement...and perhaps some hyperbole and dramatics. But "one of" is entirely true. And not like Trump true...which is actually false. They're real easy to get mixed up these days. But stay with me.
I started crying when it became evident it would be a tight race.
I didn't think it was possible.
Insert my echo chamber guilt here.
I didn't stop crying for the next 12 hrs, until the results were in and I sobbed myself to sleep like a baby.
Perhaps I could have said more. Did she not know anything about this man???? She never even said "I voted for Trump."
She said, "I couldn't vote for Hillary."
She works in arguably one of the worst public schools in a depressed area in Louisville, KY. 8 years of Obama hadn't changed anything. She sees kids suffering from terrible home lives, illiteracy, anger, mental illness, lack of health care to treat said illnesses, and apathy. Her job is to keep them in school.
With the promise of what? Working factory jobs at Riverport for minimum wage that doesn't cover the cost of living?
She voted for Obama. She was ready for change. She had the hope he inspires.
But she became impatient. She doesn't know how to help. But she thought drastic change in the opposite direction might just help matters. The powers that be could use an outsider to shake things up. Drain the swamp.
The thing is, I think the America First slogan really got to her. We have so much to work on...and we should probably do that ASAP, right?
The world is falling down.
Hold my hand.
I don't know. I mean, I guess she's just ignorant and tired and embittered and probably got a lot of Facebook ads about all the stupid shit the Clintons have been involved in.
How she missed the glaring racism (hello, Central Park 5 + his rental stipulations in his buildings + oh, I don't know...all the bullshit that comes out the hole in his head, aka: the shithole) is very much beyond me. Or maybe she's racist?
Harsh. She's ignorant and has loads of implicit bias and is a product of her environment. Her environment and her role in it both suck. She's marginalized like any woman over 50. Not as marginalized as most of the students she encounters everyday. But struggling, nonetheless.
To one another the other may as well be from Mars. The contempt is palpable. This is not entirely my mom's fault. The system is broken.
The irony is this: it's hard not to turn it into a defense of my mom.
In 2011, I was a teacher in the public schools in Louisville. I had to call the security the day I subbed at Iroquois High School.
Looking back, I made an ignorant comment. It was not conscious. It was more of a Southern witticism that short circuited out of my mouth...perhaps in an attempt to sound funny and lighten up, but mostly to arrest a situation. A situation I didn't know how to handle. I witnessed a young 16 year-old black man straight-up smack a young black woman across the face. Hard. Like harder than mean girl Tiffany Whatsherface slapped me after basketball practice in the 7th grade, when we were having some basic white girl bitch fight because of raging hormones, familiarity's contempt, and well...basic bitchiness. (I'm not just protecting her anonymity, btw. I genuinely don't remember her last name.)
Anyway, it was distressing. And I said, "Excuse me?! Sir. I don't think so. Step away from her. Didn't your momma ever teach..."
Before I got "you" out, the kid was on me. Coming at me, hitting his chest, "You talkin 'bout my momma."
The world is falling down.
Hold my hand.
It was a really stupid thing to say. I see that. I've worked in childcare a lot, and this was soon after the leap into the education world. It's a joke or leveler I've said to lots of unruly kids whose mommas signed my paychecks. Mostly to reinforce momma's rules. Which in my experience thus far had been consistently against slapping people in the face. I've said this to kids of many races...but kids with enough privilege to have parents possibly overpaying for my services via Care.com.
This young man clearly had no such privilege.
My mom is in this school all day.
There is little to no humor in such an environment. It is no laughing matter.
My mom loves to laugh.
There is angst. And after 8 years of hoping and nothing in her micro-environment changing, she got distracted by a clown.
Like a child.
But she gave me life, and loves me and has been an awesome mom.
Hence the therapy.
Luckily I get to work on a show about civil rights. About our country. Based on Our Town.
When I get to be in the room where it happens with playwrights like Christopher Oscar Peña, I feel like I'm doing something. (And yes, I threw in that Hamilton quote for my mom who knows every word to the musical...she's a conundrum folks). Being a part of something provocative makes me feel redeemed. Like I'm a part of the movement.
I happened upon a Facebook live video of Jim James promoting his new "Tribute to 2" album, and he covered civil rights activist Abbey Lincoln's The World is Falling Down. The lyrics could've been taken out of the script we're diggin into, and this song's had me crying for 2 days as I navigate my writing assignments from my therapist (Dear mom, I may never send you this, but...), and a script where I vacillate between my basic bitch teenage "self" based on Abigail Fisher and a homeless woman who may or may not suffer from mental illness.
I'm grateful to my friends of color who have been there for me through the years...who have held my hand (even when it wasn't there job) and helped me along in my path from basic-ness to greater compassion and understanding.
I'm sorry that somehow my demographic, my own mother, had a hand in electing this madman to power.
I will speak all the truth I know to this power.
Truth trumps Trump "truth."
But part of that truth is that I'm also grateful to my mom...who has been there for me through the years...who has held my hand (even when it wasn't her job) and helped me along in my path from basic-ness to greater compassion and understanding.
The world is falling down. But I'm glad I have you.
Friday, January 5, 2018
La Flâneuse
My final Christmas break from grad school was chocked full of unexpected opportunities for networking. Inspired by one initial encounter during the mad rush of holiday shopping, I found myself at a Staples makin my very first business cards...
now, lots of actor business cards include a cheesin headshot or the occasionally-less-obnoxious commercial/editorial photo, but the thought of my face being in some stranger's wallet made me feel weird and gross. And I have enough trouble keeping my headshots up-to-date as it is; I didn't want to add yet another thing to alter every time I change my hair. Afterall, I have a website now, just brimming with photos of me...the truly curious can have a ball by tuning in there.
The idea of the photo on the business card isn't a bad one. I mean, we are selling ourselves as actors, and our physical appearance has a lot to do with it. It's one of those things where I'd probably be better off to follow suit, but something in me (oppositional defiance anyone?) urged me not to comply. It probably has a lot to do with the commodification and unrealistic standards of women in media which I wrote about last month, and the subsequent frustration with photographs of myself, but I also want my "brand" to transcend my exterior attributes. I want to be a part of and create work that challenges and inspires people not to comply, and frankly my appearance has very little to do with it.
Be the change you wanna see, right?
I added the title Flâneuse to the brand line on the cards and as it turns out, it's a great conversation starter.
The poor amount of French I can actually speak from my time abroad in Paris may entice one to view this self-given label as your run-of-the-mill basic white girl Francophilia/cultural appropriation, but there's truly no better word that encompasses who I am and what I have to offer as an artist. It was also part of the original web address I chose for my first foray in the blog world, which was a wildly popular effort (ha!) to keep friends and family Stateside abreast of my exploits studying abroad.
The flâneur existed in 20th century pop culture as the man of leisure promenading the wide boulevards of Paris. The observer or urban explorer. At it's root is the Norse word for wandering aimlessly...which incidentally is exactly how my grandmother described my blog posts. (At least somebody's reading this thing.) So there ya are.
Flâneuse is the feminine form of the word which was less popular and altogether unlikely when the flâneur became the "emblematic archetype of urban, modern experience." Mainly because the modern woman didn't exist yet. I referenced a great book review I mistook for social commentary in an earlier post, and now I look forward to reading the Lauren Elkin book that expounds upon the notion "that the flâneuse is any determined, resourceful individual keenly attuned to the creative potential of the city, and the liberating possibilities of a good walk."
To me, it's inherently feminist and deeply personal. Walking the streets of NYC helped me healthily mourn the death of my longest, closest friend. From there I went to Paris and Berlin to do more of the same. Hitting the pavement helped me process an incredibly difficult break-up and deliberate the most confusing life circumstances. The first play I ever wrote was about a woman walking the streets in this way. The catharsis and necessity of the physical expression of literally moving on.
The Elkin book review acknowledged the somewhat dichotomous conundrum (great band name btw) of this flâneuse character being at once immersed in culture and removed from it altogether. I find myself similarly drawn to be a part of it all and somehow simultaneously have no part of it. I am extremely moved by and attracted to the human race, but I also get easily exasperated by our mutual limitations and flaws. Hence the move from NYC to a tiny town of 700 people outside Asheville, NC. And the return to the profession of acting but the life commitment to a man who wouldn't dream of living in a big city. And the attempts at blogging but refusal to participate fully in the gamut of social media like Instagram and Twitter (guys I can barely keep up on Facebook and I already hate how much time I spend scrolling). It's the desire to connect but also the fear that maybe the connection won't be enough or isn't what I'm looking for after all.
Too bad this bomb cyclone might ruin my desire to walk the streets of New York City next week. I know it ages me to prefer strolling to scrolling, but so be it. I'll be 36 in 5 days, and weather permitting I'll spend a good portion of my birthday flâneusing Brooklyn or Manhattan.
In short, flâneuse is the most concise way to say blogger/feminist/pedestrian/yogi/luddite/creative.
Because that wouldn't fit on a business card.
now, lots of actor business cards include a cheesin headshot or the occasionally-less-obnoxious commercial/editorial photo, but the thought of my face being in some stranger's wallet made me feel weird and gross. And I have enough trouble keeping my headshots up-to-date as it is; I didn't want to add yet another thing to alter every time I change my hair. Afterall, I have a website now, just brimming with photos of me...the truly curious can have a ball by tuning in there.
The idea of the photo on the business card isn't a bad one. I mean, we are selling ourselves as actors, and our physical appearance has a lot to do with it. It's one of those things where I'd probably be better off to follow suit, but something in me (oppositional defiance anyone?) urged me not to comply. It probably has a lot to do with the commodification and unrealistic standards of women in media which I wrote about last month, and the subsequent frustration with photographs of myself, but I also want my "brand" to transcend my exterior attributes. I want to be a part of and create work that challenges and inspires people not to comply, and frankly my appearance has very little to do with it.
Be the change you wanna see, right?
I added the title Flâneuse to the brand line on the cards and as it turns out, it's a great conversation starter.
The poor amount of French I can actually speak from my time abroad in Paris may entice one to view this self-given label as your run-of-the-mill basic white girl Francophilia/cultural appropriation, but there's truly no better word that encompasses who I am and what I have to offer as an artist. It was also part of the original web address I chose for my first foray in the blog world, which was a wildly popular effort (ha!) to keep friends and family Stateside abreast of my exploits studying abroad.
The flâneur existed in 20th century pop culture as the man of leisure promenading the wide boulevards of Paris. The observer or urban explorer. At it's root is the Norse word for wandering aimlessly...which incidentally is exactly how my grandmother described my blog posts. (At least somebody's reading this thing.) So there ya are.
Flâneuse is the feminine form of the word which was less popular and altogether unlikely when the flâneur became the "emblematic archetype of urban, modern experience." Mainly because the modern woman didn't exist yet. I referenced a great book review I mistook for social commentary in an earlier post, and now I look forward to reading the Lauren Elkin book that expounds upon the notion "that the flâneuse is any determined, resourceful individual keenly attuned to the creative potential of the city, and the liberating possibilities of a good walk."
To me, it's inherently feminist and deeply personal. Walking the streets of NYC helped me healthily mourn the death of my longest, closest friend. From there I went to Paris and Berlin to do more of the same. Hitting the pavement helped me process an incredibly difficult break-up and deliberate the most confusing life circumstances. The first play I ever wrote was about a woman walking the streets in this way. The catharsis and necessity of the physical expression of literally moving on.
The Elkin book review acknowledged the somewhat dichotomous conundrum (great band name btw) of this flâneuse character being at once immersed in culture and removed from it altogether. I find myself similarly drawn to be a part of it all and somehow simultaneously have no part of it. I am extremely moved by and attracted to the human race, but I also get easily exasperated by our mutual limitations and flaws. Hence the move from NYC to a tiny town of 700 people outside Asheville, NC. And the return to the profession of acting but the life commitment to a man who wouldn't dream of living in a big city. And the attempts at blogging but refusal to participate fully in the gamut of social media like Instagram and Twitter (guys I can barely keep up on Facebook and I already hate how much time I spend scrolling). It's the desire to connect but also the fear that maybe the connection won't be enough or isn't what I'm looking for after all.
Too bad this bomb cyclone might ruin my desire to walk the streets of New York City next week. I know it ages me to prefer strolling to scrolling, but so be it. I'll be 36 in 5 days, and weather permitting I'll spend a good portion of my birthday flâneusing Brooklyn or Manhattan.
In short, flâneuse is the most concise way to say blogger/feminist/pedestrian/yogi/luddite/creative.
Because that wouldn't fit on a business card.
Saturday, December 9, 2017
That double life
Being an actress is weird, y'all. One of the first chapter books I read, checked out from St. Helen's library in the 3rd or 4th grade was about a young girl who books a suntan lotion commercial because she has a long braid and can blow really big bubbles with bubble gum. It was sort of about the attention and allowance she got...2 things that were probably scarce at that time in my household. Even though my mom was a stay-at-home mom, I was the oldest of 4. So needless to say, it sounded appealing.
I also remember an episode of Full House where Stephanie booked a commercial DJ wanted, or something similar with a sibling rivalry theme. I've always been pragmatic, and it seemed like this commercial career would be a good initiative to get us that elusive dime (If I had a nickel for every time my parents said "I don't have a dime," I'd be twice as rich?)...and prove I was just as cute as my siblings.
Once I had the opportunity to be involved in theatre (the closest thing to a commercial career a 10 year-old can endeavor in Southwest Louisville, KY in 1992), my hypothesis was affirmed. Yes! All these kids are from wealthy families! Clearly, the cause and effect of said demographic was not all that apparent to my young brain.
Later I got to join an improv team that was created expressly to mix up the demographic in the youth theatre scene: the JACKY (Jewish, African-American, Christian Kentucky Youth) Royal Teen Theatre Company. It was there I realized how powerful the art form was...human beings are all the same even if our stories (our mythologies, our histories, our families, our personal experiences) are infinitely varied. Sharing those stories is what unites us. What teaches us about each other. What inspires empathy. What could eventually lead to WORLD PEACE. I was in deep, y'all.
I left the theatre for many reasons, but mostly because I found myself distorting my self-worth with "success." I found yoga did the opposite and switched courses. And I was happy. Until I wasn't. This pull to tell stories is the simultaneous desire to seek truth and indulge in fantasy. It's a double life, and sometimes it wears on ya.
So I came back! But a few things have come to light.
Sidenote: Light was my first word. Though I was told this story when I was young, I recently asked my mom or dad about it and they couldn't recall it. They've done a lot of livin' in the meantime. Apparently my Papa was holding me, pointing to the light near his chair. I miss that knucklehead like crazy sometimes...there were always cherry cordials next to said chair, and somebody had some in the green room last night. He was a light.
Anyway, many less pleasant things have come to light in our world lately. I heard the analogy that Trump's rise to power was like lifting up a large rock on the forest floor...there's all kinds of squirmy hidden creatures that live in darkness avoiding light underneath. Believe me, as a biology lover with very few squeamish girly tendencies (blood being a major exception...which is a crying shame because doctor would have been a much more direct path to said wealth I craved in my youth), I see these creatures as necessary and fascinating and innocuous. So this no longer seems an apt nor sufficient analogy.
Taking it back to biology, maybe the misogyny (and all the other nasty things we're contending...I know the list is long, but this is the soap box I stumbled upon today) is more invisible and insidious. Like a virus. Spread through us all like a cold in the cast of a Christmas play where everybody has to kiss each other and hold hands.
Or a disease. Dis ease.
I was feeling a little uneasy last night, and I thought I might be coming down with something. We recently had "Vanity Fair"-like photos taken for promotional purposes. And I get it. The media is a big glossy terrible animal that has a very narrow vision of what a woman "should" look like. I had reservations about all the photoshop talk, but took it in stride because feminist fatigue is real. I've already had to deal with gender bias and a dollop of sexual harassment in the educational institution these last 3 years. And they chose a group photo where I was makin a funny face, and I was told they could take a better option, and that didn't feel like a complete compromise of the thin (see what I did there) principles I'm allowed to have as an actress.
Now that I think about it, there was mention from our business teacher that he would take out the eye circles and blemishes (ok with those because they're not really permanent and consistent), and trim the waists and arms and such, "whatever we wanted." Well, all I wanted was to not be makin a funny face, and didn't necessarily think I needed the trimming. I mean, I weigh more than I ever have and sure I'd like to be healthier, or gain weight more in my ass than my midsection, but give me a break. I'm not ashamed of myself. Nor should I be.
So last night when I changed my profile photo, I just downloaded the finished photos without comparison. But then I got up today and was interested in the before and after of both our group photo and my own. It was weird that my waist and butt were slightly...interchanged without my consent. And pretty humorous that my classic self-delusion prevented me from noticing. It felt very poetic. And not surprising. But consent is important. And I will stand for women and our freedom from this limiting, oppressive, impossible standard that WE ALL continue to allow to be the norm.
I was at least somewhat reassured by my classmates reaction to the final product. The photographer went a little too far, and tho we were impressed and excited by the originals, the fully airbrushed version struck us all dumb. You could have heard a pin drop. Everybody agreed that if he could perhaps make us less...plastic, we'd like it more. But the photographer's great at his job, and if you're told the theme is Vanity Fair, you are certainly going to paint the picture your client wants.
And to be fair, my own vanity was certainly indulged by all the responses on Facebook. It feels good to be admired. But I'd rather take credit or be admired for things that are true about me, so I felt the need to write this. I get that Facebook in and of itself helps us edit so much of ourselves that it can feel like a big ol' lie, too. But it is the true friends that always pull me back, wanting more. The connections and inspiration and babies to keep up with are generally true so I can't quit you, Facebook...but I won't let ya make a liar outta me.
If you haven't watched Miss Representation, please do yourself a favor and catch it on Youtube or Netflix. And people, the message is relatively simple...if you are gonna touch (or retouch) a woman's ass, get permission (from HER).
I also remember an episode of Full House where Stephanie booked a commercial DJ wanted, or something similar with a sibling rivalry theme. I've always been pragmatic, and it seemed like this commercial career would be a good initiative to get us that elusive dime (If I had a nickel for every time my parents said "I don't have a dime," I'd be twice as rich?)...and prove I was just as cute as my siblings.
Once I had the opportunity to be involved in theatre (the closest thing to a commercial career a 10 year-old can endeavor in Southwest Louisville, KY in 1992), my hypothesis was affirmed. Yes! All these kids are from wealthy families! Clearly, the cause and effect of said demographic was not all that apparent to my young brain.
Later I got to join an improv team that was created expressly to mix up the demographic in the youth theatre scene: the JACKY (Jewish, African-American, Christian Kentucky Youth) Royal Teen Theatre Company. It was there I realized how powerful the art form was...human beings are all the same even if our stories (our mythologies, our histories, our families, our personal experiences) are infinitely varied. Sharing those stories is what unites us. What teaches us about each other. What inspires empathy. What could eventually lead to WORLD PEACE. I was in deep, y'all.
I left the theatre for many reasons, but mostly because I found myself distorting my self-worth with "success." I found yoga did the opposite and switched courses. And I was happy. Until I wasn't. This pull to tell stories is the simultaneous desire to seek truth and indulge in fantasy. It's a double life, and sometimes it wears on ya.
So I came back! But a few things have come to light.
Sidenote: Light was my first word. Though I was told this story when I was young, I recently asked my mom or dad about it and they couldn't recall it. They've done a lot of livin' in the meantime. Apparently my Papa was holding me, pointing to the light near his chair. I miss that knucklehead like crazy sometimes...there were always cherry cordials next to said chair, and somebody had some in the green room last night. He was a light.
Anyway, many less pleasant things have come to light in our world lately. I heard the analogy that Trump's rise to power was like lifting up a large rock on the forest floor...there's all kinds of squirmy hidden creatures that live in darkness avoiding light underneath. Believe me, as a biology lover with very few squeamish girly tendencies (blood being a major exception...which is a crying shame because doctor would have been a much more direct path to said wealth I craved in my youth), I see these creatures as necessary and fascinating and innocuous. So this no longer seems an apt nor sufficient analogy.
Taking it back to biology, maybe the misogyny (and all the other nasty things we're contending...I know the list is long, but this is the soap box I stumbled upon today) is more invisible and insidious. Like a virus. Spread through us all like a cold in the cast of a Christmas play where everybody has to kiss each other and hold hands.
Or a disease. Dis ease.
I was feeling a little uneasy last night, and I thought I might be coming down with something. We recently had "Vanity Fair"-like photos taken for promotional purposes. And I get it. The media is a big glossy terrible animal that has a very narrow vision of what a woman "should" look like. I had reservations about all the photoshop talk, but took it in stride because feminist fatigue is real. I've already had to deal with gender bias and a dollop of sexual harassment in the educational institution these last 3 years. And they chose a group photo where I was makin a funny face, and I was told they could take a better option, and that didn't feel like a complete compromise of the thin (see what I did there) principles I'm allowed to have as an actress.
Now that I think about it, there was mention from our business teacher that he would take out the eye circles and blemishes (ok with those because they're not really permanent and consistent), and trim the waists and arms and such, "whatever we wanted." Well, all I wanted was to not be makin a funny face, and didn't necessarily think I needed the trimming. I mean, I weigh more than I ever have and sure I'd like to be healthier, or gain weight more in my ass than my midsection, but give me a break. I'm not ashamed of myself. Nor should I be.
So last night when I changed my profile photo, I just downloaded the finished photos without comparison. But then I got up today and was interested in the before and after of both our group photo and my own. It was weird that my waist and butt were slightly...interchanged without my consent. And pretty humorous that my classic self-delusion prevented me from noticing. It felt very poetic. And not surprising. But consent is important. And I will stand for women and our freedom from this limiting, oppressive, impossible standard that WE ALL continue to allow to be the norm.
I was at least somewhat reassured by my classmates reaction to the final product. The photographer went a little too far, and tho we were impressed and excited by the originals, the fully airbrushed version struck us all dumb. You could have heard a pin drop. Everybody agreed that if he could perhaps make us less...plastic, we'd like it more. But the photographer's great at his job, and if you're told the theme is Vanity Fair, you are certainly going to paint the picture your client wants.
And to be fair, my own vanity was certainly indulged by all the responses on Facebook. It feels good to be admired. But I'd rather take credit or be admired for things that are true about me, so I felt the need to write this. I get that Facebook in and of itself helps us edit so much of ourselves that it can feel like a big ol' lie, too. But it is the true friends that always pull me back, wanting more. The connections and inspiration and babies to keep up with are generally true so I can't quit you, Facebook...but I won't let ya make a liar outta me.
If you haven't watched Miss Representation, please do yourself a favor and catch it on Youtube or Netflix. And people, the message is relatively simple...if you are gonna touch (or retouch) a woman's ass, get permission (from HER).
Saturday, December 2, 2017
Graduation
Graduation looms like a full paper white moon in the sky. So pregnant with promise! How tinged with transmutation!
And so, I'm driven towards this medium once again. Encouraged by my moon sister. Moved by the tides.
My maternal grandma (affectionately Mawmaw) interjects "and so" parenthetically in her speech so often, she'll even throw it in when you're talking. I remember Vonnegut touching some similar, weird deep human acquiescence with his "so it goes," and Slaughterhouse-five subsequently climbing the ranks in my favorite books list. I also remember my French language teacher at the Sorbonne often used "so" as an interjection, and "donc..." remains a favorite go-to when my much-forgotten French runs out.
Ça va.
I took a trip down memory lane reading some old blog entries, and it reminded me of how much I've grown, and how much I've gained and it made me nostalgic and sad and grateful and angry and hopeless and self-conscious and confident and dreamy and damnit...maybe it's the moon.
Perhaps it's the asshats in Washington bringing me down? Nah. But they don't help. They're this ugly, glaring reminder of my own shadows...a recurring ineptitude to invoke deep change and personal responsibility and righteous action and self care.
It's also this inevitable great life change approaching that's got me feelin all the feels. Folks keep asking where I'm going after graduation, and I simultaneously know and have no idea.
I know that I've been made an honest woman by the most honest of men. An inspiring, balancing, loving craftsman is starting a business in my old hometown of Louisville, KY, and I will follow him to the ends of the Earth. Luckily, he's open to vacationing in the ends, but his heart is with our family, and they just made a considerable commitment to 279 acres outside Daniel Boone National Forest in the foothills of Appalachia near Red River Gorge.
My brother and sister and mother-in-law have an inspiring goal of creating an eco-friendly climbing hostel similar to one they've visited in Ecuador. I hope to continue to work as an actress/writer anywhere, but I'd also like to start to plant deep roots on this family land. It's tough to want two nearly completely different things equally, but I'm imagining a cake that I can eat, too. I'll share it witcha! I imagine a retreat center for actors/artists/yogis/climbers/bikers/healers/hopers and a learning permaculture/organic farm homestead.
For grad school, we've been advised to make actor websites for promotion. And I've had mixed feelings about acting being my sole offering into the ether...I mean, it's my main thang and all, but I can't stop writing and after pulling up a photo from my time in Paris (to be a place-holder until I can get some new headshots), I realized that my aesthetic as a story-teller has grown out of this dichotomy of urban pedestrian and rural dweller, and I settled on the label flâneuse. There was also this great tribute post from The Guardian last year that you should read here: https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2016/jul/29/female-flaneur-women-reclaim-streets.
Donc, perhaps the website I had to make (ahem, or the illustrious Brian Gligor so graciously made for me) will just keep growing, and I can add tabs without having to take any away. Because I enjoy working as an actress and pray I can keep doing it for a long, long time. I hope work will have me walking around many cities and kickin' lighter in KY with my boo, too.
I want to tell the stories, be it around a fire or on a stage or page. So gather 'round, y'all. I can't promise happy endings, but I can start once upon a time. And so...it goes.
And so, I'm driven towards this medium once again. Encouraged by my moon sister. Moved by the tides.
My maternal grandma (affectionately Mawmaw) interjects "and so" parenthetically in her speech so often, she'll even throw it in when you're talking. I remember Vonnegut touching some similar, weird deep human acquiescence with his "so it goes," and Slaughterhouse-five subsequently climbing the ranks in my favorite books list. I also remember my French language teacher at the Sorbonne often used "so" as an interjection, and "donc..." remains a favorite go-to when my much-forgotten French runs out.
Ça va.
I took a trip down memory lane reading some old blog entries, and it reminded me of how much I've grown, and how much I've gained and it made me nostalgic and sad and grateful and angry and hopeless and self-conscious and confident and dreamy and damnit...maybe it's the moon.
Perhaps it's the asshats in Washington bringing me down? Nah. But they don't help. They're this ugly, glaring reminder of my own shadows...a recurring ineptitude to invoke deep change and personal responsibility and righteous action and self care.
It's also this inevitable great life change approaching that's got me feelin all the feels. Folks keep asking where I'm going after graduation, and I simultaneously know and have no idea.
I know that I've been made an honest woman by the most honest of men. An inspiring, balancing, loving craftsman is starting a business in my old hometown of Louisville, KY, and I will follow him to the ends of the Earth. Luckily, he's open to vacationing in the ends, but his heart is with our family, and they just made a considerable commitment to 279 acres outside Daniel Boone National Forest in the foothills of Appalachia near Red River Gorge.
My brother and sister and mother-in-law have an inspiring goal of creating an eco-friendly climbing hostel similar to one they've visited in Ecuador. I hope to continue to work as an actress/writer anywhere, but I'd also like to start to plant deep roots on this family land. It's tough to want two nearly completely different things equally, but I'm imagining a cake that I can eat, too. I'll share it witcha! I imagine a retreat center for actors/artists/yogis/climbers/bikers/healers/hopers and a learning permaculture/organic farm homestead.
For grad school, we've been advised to make actor websites for promotion. And I've had mixed feelings about acting being my sole offering into the ether...I mean, it's my main thang and all, but I can't stop writing and after pulling up a photo from my time in Paris (to be a place-holder until I can get some new headshots), I realized that my aesthetic as a story-teller has grown out of this dichotomy of urban pedestrian and rural dweller, and I settled on the label flâneuse. There was also this great tribute post from The Guardian last year that you should read here: https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2016/jul/29/female-flaneur-women-reclaim-streets.
Donc, perhaps the website I had to make (ahem, or the illustrious Brian Gligor so graciously made for me) will just keep growing, and I can add tabs without having to take any away. Because I enjoy working as an actress and pray I can keep doing it for a long, long time. I hope work will have me walking around many cities and kickin' lighter in KY with my boo, too.
I want to tell the stories, be it around a fire or on a stage or page. So gather 'round, y'all. I can't promise happy endings, but I can start once upon a time. And so...it goes.
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