tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72238614597917143702024-03-13T03:17:08.277-07:00Kickin LighterMiss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-65380826012499063622018-08-26T19:37:00.001-07:002018-08-26T19:37:38.090-07:00Love has taken away my practices I thought leaving an MFA program where each day was full of scheduled obligations and moving home to focus on my career would create a welcomed vacuum of time, and my days would be full of creative writing and inspiration and blogging about said inspiration. I forgot the verity of the adage: if you want something done, ask a busy person.<br />
For the first time in a few years, I've not been busy, and I have very successfully gotten very little done. Each week I've been home, there has been something I have wanted to do in Louisville: free concerts, book readings, food coop meetings, farmer's markets. Somehow I have sabotaged each excursion with poor planning, momentary disinterest, distraction or as is the case is most of the time, sheer forgetfulness.<br />
I've been going to auditions, visiting with family, doin the yogas, biking round town, scouting houses going up for auction, walking the dog and doing the bread work. Literally and figuratively...I inherited a sourdough starter from my sister-in-law and that thing is like a part-time job in and of itself!<br />
In the more figurative sense, Gandhi preached about this concept of bread work and equality. It is a concept I'd like to model in my life (while I simultaneously dream of jobs that pay me more than I need).<br />
Need.<br />
I don't know that I've truly ever <i>needed</i>.<br />
I mean, sure...I've been shy a few hundred bucks a few hundred times. I've had to ask for things from loved ones or request help from Uncle Sam. I've had to borrow from Peter to pay Paul. But true need?<br />
Love.<br />
There was a time when I needed that, I suppose. Romantically, I mean.<br />
Many years of kissing many toads.<br />
But now that need is more than met. Each day I spend with Jake, I love him more. You get it.<br />
There is something to be said about an embarrassment of riches. Perhaps it's embarrassing because you know inherently the inequality of wealth plagues our humanity. Blights our hope for a more just world. And yet, we accept.<br />
We accept our privileges and whine about our struggles. We fill insatiable yearning with stuff and food and booze and smoke and live in lack in want of more. I don't mean to project. I am responsible. I am guilty. I am trying. I say<i> we</i> as Americans. As artists. As tribe members of the New World (Dis)Order.<br />
Though there's nothing new about disparity.<br />
Isn't it funny I've know the word disparity since grade school, but only just learned <i>parity</i> in recent years? Or perhaps I'd heard it for longer, but only just realized the root connection in recent years.<br />
I always thought disparity and despair were more closely related. And it can still feel that way sometimes.<br />
But opposites are often just two sides of the same coin, yeah? Now isn't that hard to swallow? Something as meaningless...no, as <i>precarious </i>as a coin toss decided the fate of whether you are born in light skin or dark, in a male body or female, to parents with money or not, etc, etc, etc.<br />
What if there were a way to forgo any excess if you could be assured no other human being would experience lack? Yeah, yeah, communism in theory...but I'm not talkin politics. Morés not laws. Standards not policies. Action not direction.<br />
What if?<br />
I'm gonna keep imagining it.<br />
Meanwhile, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=petqFm94osQ" target="_blank">time to make the sourdough</a>.Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-2867348450433492142018-08-26T19:30:00.001-07:002018-08-26T19:30:35.127-07:00Walking the moonlit walk or la poursuite de la légèretéThis full moon has me reeling. I recently got a phone upgrade and joined Instagram, and no surprise, I can't figure the shit out. I never had Snap Chat, but clearly Instagram's trying to emulate it with the temporary story stuff, and then I got the Facebook app for the first time, and it's clearly trying to be more like Instagram.<br />
Correct me if I'm wrong here.<br />
You know what, nevermind.<br />
I don't really care.<br />
It's not that I'm against being held accountable. I just signed up for a 5 week Bowspring yoga series that's gonna kick my ass in gear; hold me accountable in ways I desperately need for my body. And I'm happy to say that collaborations with a talented screenwriter are on the horizon, so perhaps I can cultivate a local community that will hold me responsible as a writer. Also, I've come across a new suggestion for writing that I believe will be good daily practice (thanks Jill Solloway...all hail!).<br />
And it's not that I'm against social media.<br />
Instagram actually saved the life of a loved one yesterday.<br />
No thanks to me...but a life was saved, nonetheless.<br />
So it's serving a purpose. Or many purposes. Some of which I can get behind.<br />
Watery pisces has me on the hunt once again for buoyancy. For levity in what feels like a downpour. Or a breath during waterboarding.<br />
I came across this reading which brought me some hope:<br />
<em style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans"; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Pisces is the ultimate healer, the ruler of our subconscious where our stored memories, habits and beliefs live. During this Full Moon we will awaken what has been laying underneath the fear, what has been keeping us stuck and allow our inner shaman to heal us. This is a time to call back our soul from places where it has been forgotten and to return back to our wholeness.” -Nicole O'Byrne </em><br />
Truthfully tho, traditional astrology is less appealing to me than the social contracts and markers of the passing of time. Our relationship to the shifting seasons and our progression from moon to moon, or month to month. The waves and ebb and flow of synchronicity and direction and grace. Ya know, how <i>we </i>move through time relative to one another (rather than the alignment of the planets and constellations).<br />
The August moon was called many things by different cultures. For early Americans, it was the <i>Dog Day's Moon</i>. My broken heart (from said near-loss-experience of a dear one and their cry for help on Instagram) was soothed last night by taking <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2I_lWgrzqwc" target="_blank">Prince</a> to the dog park. It helped that my amazing husband finds beauty wherever he roams, and by the end of the stroll, I had a bouquet of nature's treasures: reminding me of our vows to build this life together in that very park 5 years ago this November and filling me with gratitude.<br />
Our flaneusing thru Cherokee Park prompted me to research what the August full moon was for this native tribe who once nurtured this section of the world: <i>The Fruit Moon</i>. A serendipitous reminder to hunt for pawpaws soon. It's a tragedy that I only learned about this indigenous fruit in recent years, as I'm 7th generation Kentuckian. It makes ya wonder just what gets passed along and why. Every other white person in the Southeast region inappropriately claims Cherokee heritage...and yet we know so little of it. I'm guilty of it myself, and recently discovered my only verified Cherokee ancestor was actually a slave to the tribe and likely of African decent.<br />
Another tribe, the Choctaw, called it the <i>Women's Moon</i>. Wouldn't hurt us all to embrace a little more feminine these days. The devastating and traumatic personal events of a life nearly lost were (in my best estimate) the result of toxic masculinity and substance abuse. Our society forces men into a corner with their choices for processing with emotion. Hence the substance abuse. Hence the repression. Hence the violent tendencies. Crying is necessary. Emoting is human. Let this watery moon break the damn and let them flow.<br />
For the Chinese, the August moon the <i>Harvest Moon, </i>and for the Dakota Sioux, the <i>Moon When All Things Ripen</i>. You reap what you sow is inarguably true (maybe even with a capital T), but how much has been sown on a cellular, subconscious, generational level? How much of our crop was inherited? Our free will seems to come with a caveat: disparity. Perhaps that's where the ego can gain disproportionate strength? Because we're forced to live in and inequitable world, a part of our brains cannot fathom equality? The Instagram incident was like a horrific, R-rated version of <i>The Boy Who Cried Wolf</i>. Sadly, a harvest that is a wake-up call to just how destructive and harmful repeated actions and words can be for credibility.<br />
And for the Celtic peoples this was called the <i>Dispute Moon</i>. W<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">hich seems most fitting for the events that played out in my circle these past 38 hours or so. Dispute, <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> from </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">dis-</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">‘apart’ + </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">putare</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> ‘reckon.’ A reckoning of the highest order. A sharp, rocky bottom, from which we all hope to rise. </span></span><br />
Each culture had their reasoning behind their moon nomenclature, but I find them all helpful and relevant. On the calendar I follow, we are in a time of questioning, fearlessness and intelligence. Not intellect. There's an important distinction between the two. Intelligence represents deeper understanding on a subconscious level. We are also in a year that is the conclusion of a 13 year cycle about purity, flow and Universal Water.<br />
May we all continue to seek healthier, cleaner more buoyant bodies and minds by continuing to question our world views with fearlessness and digging deep to reveal our own intelligence.<br />
Walk in the moonlight.<br />
Hug your loved ones tight.<br />
Be there for each other.<br />
And never, ever give up.<br />
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<br />Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-76559334034011516352018-05-24T12:43:00.000-07:002018-05-24T12:43:31.693-07:00UNCLE!My husband is the best at uncling. He's a professional. He's been doing it a lot longer than I've been aunting. I know I drive him crazy sometimes. As the oldest of 4, I can be a bit...directive. Luckily he's the youngest of 3 and is patient and accepting.<br />
Most of the time.<br />I know I can be a...lot. Energetically. I also know I'm a real lucky lady.<br />
He's been helping me balance some intense excitement and insecurities lately.<br />They pushed back the notification date for the episodic lab at <a href="http://www.orchardproject.com/" target="_blank">The Orchard Project</a>, where my pilot is being considered. And I feel a bit like I'm being tortured. It would be such an incredible experience, and I've got nothing definite on the horizon to look forward to.<br />It's exciting and terrifying to be back in pursuit of work again. This field is fickle and fierce and the work fleeting. I remember the relentless rejection and my reasons for the hiatus pre-grad school, but I feel very hopeful and motivated to work and confident in the opportunities to come.<br />
In one way or another.<br />
I've been babysitting again. And still on the fence about makin my own.<br />
Jake (the husband) is the best at practicing non-attachment.<br />I am...learning.<br />
The only thing I want or can think about is getting this writing opportunity. It is so close, I can taste it. I may just enter another competition if this one doesn't come through. I actually had an acquaintance win the Comedy Series screenwriting competition for the <a href="https://www.itvfest.com/submit" target="_blank">ITVFest</a>. A friend on the Facebooks who seems like just the kindred spirit I'll need to reach out to when I get the news either way. Inspired to enter this contest if I'm an Orchard reject, anyway, so it was a comforting consolation to come across her <a href="https://www.itvfest.com/news/script-contest-win" target="_blank">blog</a> today.<br />
That's what we do.<br />Relentless action against rejection.<br />
Feels Sisyphean. Like the battle to be waste free in the presence of those who are not concerned. Or eat well in the presence of those who make different decisions.<br />
But Sisyphus was happy, no?<br />
That's how it ends.<br />
You live and then ya die. You try until ya don't.<br />
So I guess a Masters of Fine Art has made me a professional waiter. No, not like a restaurant server. (Though you never know what kind of side gig I'll get.) Like one who waits. Professionally. Perpetually. It's hard for folks to accept this as a profession. My grandma and sisters and parents ask after every audition, "So, when will you hear?"<br />
That is a great question.<br />
The answer is always maybe soon and probably never so hopefully they'll outgrow the constant inquiry.<br />
Luckily, my husband is not one of those folks. He believes in me, but remains unattached to any ideal life or high hope I have in mind. I've been to yoga nearly everyday for 2 weeks, mindfully breathing deep and moving my body, and practicing contentment, but he just has it. He strives to do his best, and he's cool with just that.<br />But I want to do better.<br />
I know it can be exhausting. I can be exhausting. But if I want to sleep at night, I have to do the very best I can. Which is a moving target.<br />
Because I believe it should be.<br />
But knowing when to let go? To just <i>be</i> instead of do? I have trouble. I get that it's important. It's why I need to practice yoga. It's far less about the action than it is about the inaction of the practice.<br />
Walking with our 2 year-old niece today in the park was so sweet. I found contentment easy then, but now as she naps and we TCB online, the ol' ache is back.<br />
The fantasizing. The chase. The hunt. The waiting.<br />
UNCLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-24695938294288446882018-05-17T00:01:00.001-07:002018-05-18T13:27:46.025-07:00Free fallin or the luck o the Irish or Happy Belated Mother's DayMy mom has a song for any occasion. I, too, think in lyrics sometimes. Or worse, misheard lyrics. We're both pretty bad about that. Like they say, I am my mother's daughter. And by they, I mean my mom.<br />
She's a dreamy one, Ag. My sisters and I are fond of calling her by this truncated first name familiar because she's the cool mom. She was the one who bought you the real makeup kit you wanted when you were 4 or took you to get your belly button pierced your 8th grade summer. She was young and fun. Most friends coming over growing up genuinely liked her and thought she was a hoot. Even if she wasn't always the most...responsible?<br />
No.<br />
Reliable?<br />
No.<br />
Organized.<br />
Yeah, I can easily say she was never the most organized (yet again, another trait I get honestly). She's as scattered as her daughter's<a href="https://goo.gl/images/cLhbUJ" target="_blank"> blogs</a>. We attempt to reign her in from her farflung theories or pontifications or hypotheses, but she sometimes makes a hell of a good point. She's rarely on time, but knows how to have a good time when she finally arrives, and she's always good for a laugh.<br />
Well, maybe not always. The <a href="https://emilaflaneuse.blogspot.com/2018/04/conscious-incompetence.html" target="_blank">sharp shards</a> of grandma's heart made for some sensitive edges in her daughters. Rough edges that don't attempt to be anything but.<br />
Because my grandma lost her mom so early, the adult mother-daughter relationship is uncharted territory for her, and often a little strained because of this mapless maternal line. My mom, in turn, slips up sometimes and behaves badly towards my siblings and me. Not that we don't turn around and do it right back to her, but it's a cycle we're working on breaking.<br />
And we had a breakthrough on Mother's Day. I was doubly grateful this year. Not only did my mom give me life. She showed me this weekend she's willing to put in the work to break a negative, self-fulfilling cycle of anger, even when provoked by yours truly at my worst. I know it's corny, but she inspired me.<br />
There are things at work in each of us. Patterns. Cellular memories and proliferation so complex and ancient we can't even begin to understand. Momentum of our ancestors that we either get swept up in like a snowball rolling down hill or that we harness and rechannel like an irrigation system. To cultivate our own goodness. Or at least better.<br />
Come on guys, like the<a href="https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-childlike-strangeness-of-melania-trumps-be-best-campaign" target="_blank"> FLOTUS</a> so eloquently encourages: BE BEST.<br />
But we get this beautiful opportunity of choice every single day we wake up.<br />
Or do we?<br />
I woke up absolutely shaken this morning by the nightmare I had last night. It was so bad that in my dream I actually thought "I don't want to go to sleep because I'm probably going to have nightmares about this." I wish I were evolved enough to lucid dream, but I'm a deep dreamer. All up in layers that leave me with a morning contemplation that's like deciphering another language.<br />
I like trying to dig in, though. They're great teachers, dreams.<br />
This is quite possibly the worst dream I've ever had. And I'm going to share it here so I guess I really am an exhibitionist.<br />
Kind of a dirty word.<br />
But essentially what I think the dream was about so it's fitting.<br />
I was at some big festival somewhere, though I feel like there were Russian undertones or accents or names, I don't know exactly what kind of festival it was. Sort of like the air of a music festival without the music? Not important. I had an intimate moment with this man (which was not something I felt immediately able to confess to my husband or mother-in-law this morning for obvious reasons in my first confession of this bizarre subconscious emission) and I was immediately ashamed and broken hearted about the breach of my marriage. The mystery man was then murdered in my presence (which was almost a relief because of my shame and fear of Jake discovering this horrible infidelity). but then I was an unwittingaccomplice so in order to cover my tracks, I had to chop up (with a large meat clever) and eat the body.<br />
I know.<br />
I must be really effed up, y'all.<br />
Or my subconscious has as dramatic a flare as my conscious self?<br />
Whatever. I'm a freak, clearly.<br />
It was terrible. I was choking it down. And it had a distinct flavor of those cheese filled<a href="https://goo.gl/images/SpQTco" target="_blank"> hotdogs</a>.<br />
The. Worst. Nightmare. Ever.<br />
I think it was about Acting.<br />
You know, the craft I just spent 3 years studying and "mastering."<br />
Basically the guy represents my egoic exhibitionism with which I've been so intimately acquainted these last few years (and maybe my hubs represented my equally true selfless, seeking, righteous self), and now the chancy career path that is theatrical acting is being "murdered" by my search for a day job that won't suck my soul or impede my progress, and I'm having to eat my shit (so to speak) and accept a low-hourly-wage gig or submit myself to the misery of serving tables in my late 30's. Or teach.<br />
Or...<br />
My mom keeps saying I'm free falling. And yes, she then sings <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lWJXDG2i0A" target="_blank">Tom Petty</a>.<br />
And I am a bit.<br />
Don't know where the next paycheck'll come from.<br />
Enrolled for Union health/dental insurance today...completely uncertain if I'll book another Equity acting gig in time to keep the coverage past 6 months, but damn grateful to get it for a short spell.<br />
But last Thursday I found 3 four-leaf clovers, and I looked at my phone at 11:11 last night, this morning and tonight, so clearly I'm gonna be fine.<br />
The luck of the Irish.<br />
On the Media this week had a powerful <a href="https://www.wnycstudios.org/shows/otm/segments" target="_blank">take </a>(which, as it turns out was a rerun broadcast of the series BUSTED) on the myth of social mobility in America. It talks about the same wheels we spin in generational karma and just how big a role luck has to play in our class or social standing. (SPOILER ALERT: it's a bigger role than hard work). In other words it's random, but is given rough shape by our collective history and implicit biases. Clearly, it's the biggest culprit for the issues and inequities around race in our country.<br />
I know it's a trite and ridiculous thing to bring up, but I only just learned about the Irish being enslaved during the early trans-Atlantic slave trade while writing a paper in grad school. I admit for a moment it felt...I don't know...redeeming to be a descendant of oppressed people. Seemed about right. I've never had 2 pennies to rub together, but I feel like I've been working nonstop since I turned 16. Often more than one job at a time. The myth of meritocracy, as it's called, erodes our faith in free will. But also takes some of the<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Son_p6sPeI" target="_blank"> pressure off</a>.<br />
Anyway, since I learned about it, I've also learned how inappropriate and misguided any comparison being descended of Irish slaves to the African American experience is. White privilege is luck. Inheritance. My mom works in one of the poorest and poorest performing schools in Louisville, and tonight she lamented, "I just don't understand<i> how </i>the black communities are so disenfranchised." Not 20 minutes later, she was discussing how the possible sale of her inherited land might enable her to buy a new car (which she does definitely need).<br />
Don't worry, I pointed out the overlooked but obvious comparison. And she gets it. She also reads my blog...so Happy Belated Mother's Day! You're the best mom I've ever had!!! We're in this together.<br />
I find out by the end of the week if I get to work on my pilot in an episodic writing lab with mentors that could easily shift the course of my life. It might even just increase my social mobility and allow me to make more than poverty-level income for the first time in my adult life. Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath thinking about it. I've worked hard on it, and it's work I'm proud of no matter what happens. I feel pretty privileged to even be considered in the finalist round of candidates. Probably shouldn't have my hopes up as high as they are.<br />
But I feel lucky.Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-38125407004867811682018-05-10T13:42:00.001-07:002018-05-10T14:26:28.889-07:00Magnetic Human<div class="p1">
I love a good theme.</div>
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Perhaps it was an early love of Sesame Street? Tho I don't remember actually watching the show much when I was a kid, 3 of my favorite books involved the characters--of course there's the classic Grover masterpiece, <i>There's a Monster at the End of This Book,</i> and his other perhaps lesser known gem <i>Grover's New Kitten. </i>The latter made me aware of the name Ginger, which I'm still forgiving my mom for not naming my first little sister. The third is a vague memory of a large hardcover<i> </i>that had an actual recipe for cookies with Cookie Monster. I guess it was my first recipe book?</div>
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Perhaps this love of theme explains my passion for cooking, too? You know, recipes, regions, ingredients, cravings...there tends to be a rudder (often guiding an undercurrent from behind, since I rarely actually <i>follow</i> a recipe--I let it follow me) that keeps a certain order or container to the endeavor. </div>
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I crave order on the outside because it's often an elusive quality on the inside.</div>
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But not too much order.</div>
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When I used to teach yoga, I would attempt to craft my classes around a theme. Usually one of the eight limbs of Ashtanga Yoga (even though I'd studied the style of Iyengar more…which for those unfamiliar is essentially of different branch of the yoga tree even tho the creators had the same teacher). It was an easy way to weave in storytelling or what teachers of the Buddhist tradition call Dharma into my classes, and it kept me on task. Mostly.</div>
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Clearly I've never felt strictly beholden to theme. It's hard for a central idea to lord over a mind quite as unruly as my own. But I like a good one, nonetheless.</div>
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In 2012, I began to follow a <a href="http://www.13moon.com/" target="_blank">derivative of the Mayan spiritual calendar</a>.</div>
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Done rolling your eyes?</div>
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Yeah, I know. I get it. </div>
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Before you get up-in-arms about cultural appropriation, it was created by a half-Hispanic New Age peace-lovin, EarthDay-creating hippie in the early 80's as a calendar that is PAN-cultural but incorporates a wisdom of the Maya…and he had the blessing of the surviving modern-day Mayan elders to proliferate this notion to the world. The brass tax is essentially this: everything we see is light waves, everything we hear is sound waves, how we interpret these sensory perceptions is through brain waves, and we're held here on the planet by gravitational waves, so why not honor<i> time</i> as a wave? Time is measure and movement. The Maya took the numerology of our bodies: 20 (measure represented by our digits) and 13 (movement represented by our main moveable joints) and multiplied them to create a 260 day cycle (roughly our gestation and seed to stalk for corn, their and arguably our main sustenance), that they then imbued with oh-so-familiar archetypes. </div>
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Archetypes that woulda made ol' <a href="https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/19409052.2015.1050597" target="_blank">appropriator Jung</a> proud.</div>
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Some people are incredibly averse to this notion. Well, not my close-close people. But definitely some of my used-to-be-close people. And no, it's not <i>because</i> of this calendar we've fallen out of touch. Time and distance, unmeasured and impossible to track, did that.</div>
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The idea the creat<span style="font-family: inherit;">or, <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22.4px;">José</span> <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22.4px;">Argüelles</span>, had w</span>as that perhaps this unnatural, arrhythmic Gregorian count we're all blindly following is part of what's broken us out of the circle, or cycle, of nature and perpetually sets us up as a warring faction <i>against</i> nature and consequently ourselves. Maybe if we could just wrap our head around a new way of interpreting time, we could convince our bodies to do better things whilst we move through it??</div>
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I think it's noble, idealistic and inspiring, but...</div>
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But nothing.</div>
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I follow it. And it helps me process things. All the archetypes hold incredible value and simultaneously cast dark shadows. The shadows are embraced as fact, not sugar-coated or brushed under the rug. Just accepted.</div>
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The whole thing is a veritable rabbit hole of fun and fancy. And acceptance and forgiveness, the Mount Everests of human aspirations. </div>
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I've struggled this week with acceptance and forgiveness on numerous levels.</div>
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First of all, I got a terrible haircut. I'm working on a film that relied on the continuity of my haircut from October, so I brought footage of the film to the salon (which I had researched and found from Google's suggestion of "best salon in Knoxville"), and the stylist went to work. Then referencing the video 5 minutes into the cut says "You know, I cut the sides too short…it is a little longer here."</div>
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I think I responded with something like "well, don't say that!" As if that could somehow bring back the hair she'd mistakenly chopped off.</div>
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I left angry, and I kind of get angry every time I look in the mirror. </div>
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I still tipped her.</div>
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And so I get angry about that in retrospect.</div>
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Guys. I've been meditating twice a day for 20 min each for 3 solid weeks, and I still get angry about a quasi-bad haircut and my tipping the stylist <i>last week</i>. How ridiculous am I?</div>
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On the opposite end of the spectrum, the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYOjWnS4cMY" target="_blank">music video</a> that broke the internet this week haunts me. I can't accept the world we live in. I can't forgive my ancestors or myself for the ignorance and inequity that plagues us. Because the past nips at the heels of the present. Each time we humans rise up in wisdom and knowledge, there's a roller coaster plunge into darkness and confusion. There is the rhetoric that keeps us divided, but there is also denial intrinsic in the suggestion we're all the same. A denial afforded solely to the majority. Privilege does not inherently promote responsibility; that's something we have to teach our children. Teach ourselves. Where am I called to help? To speak truth to power? Where am I called to just listen and observe without comment? How do we accept and forgive one another? How do we accept and forgive ourselves?</div>
On a personal level, I have had trouble accepting and forgiving a cohort. This particular cohort blew up the sanctity of our ensemble in a dramatic, self-serving display of deceit and manipulation last year, and somehow (self-preservation is real, folks) has created a reality for themselves in which they are the victim. (Using the genderless pronoun here to attempt anonymity...tho part of the egregious offenses of said cohort would hold up in court as libel and slander against another so they barely afforded themselves the courtesy.) Luckily there are eight of us, and the solidarity of the seven who were pawns in this cohort's mind games has kept us all sane and relatively happy working together. But this particular cohort garners a lot of positive attention from the University and department, and of course strangers ignorant of their volatile potential. And a witless partner of whom they spoke poorly and will likely hurt.<br />
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I hate even bringing it up on this public forum because to even do such a thing says more about my deficiencies than h...theirs. But my point is about my own ineptitudes so I hope that point is not lost. I cannot accept that they'll glide through life manipulating and lying and hurting people and still be viewed as the charismatic lovable character they portray to the world. I didn't think I could forgive.</div>
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I thought I had at times, but the forced proximity and professionalism have made catharsis and forgiveness a long, slow windy road.</div>
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Speaking of roads, yesterday a lovely young lady I know shared this meme on Facebook:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMQGnLOxJiDBKLDZ9pRpiY9LzSGJ2EAUnWsFjKlapYRbNTlUd2fzuKcM4DFp5KALRIIJYLWy48p2ilSTaosLPgSvVhxb1DluTi8D6PFg-h9mpPokLwCiKWco2Rq7qy60sAxYzR-0yIvw/s1600/tom-harrison-tomhharrisonn-hate-them-cyclists-that-take-up-the-31565631.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="500" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMQGnLOxJiDBKLDZ9pRpiY9LzSGJ2EAUnWsFjKlapYRbNTlUd2fzuKcM4DFp5KALRIIJYLWy48p2ilSTaosLPgSvVhxb1DluTi8D6PFg-h9mpPokLwCiKWco2Rq7qy60sAxYzR-0yIvw/s320/tom-harrison-tomhharrisonn-hate-them-cyclists-that-take-up-the-31565631.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Of course, I hastily commented about drivers' ignorance and cyclists' rights and how I thought this jackrabbit's joke was in poor taste having woken up in an ambulance after being hit by a motorist from behind, and I prefaced with "I know you're young..." </div>
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I realize now that maybe in the context that could've been patronizing, but as a 36 year-old woman, it's hard to think of <i>young </i>as anything but a compliment. I meant it more as an acquiescence.</div>
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>>I feel it necessary to interject here that the woman who hit me 4 years ago was on her phone and veered off the road to hit me on a wide shoulder of a busy road. I also have forgiven said woman because she was out of town, it was her 59th birthday, she was on her GPS and I'm sure she felt awful--though she never told me so herself.<<</div>
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The friend and I had a really productive and forgiving conversation after we both got over being butthurt, and I think we both felt good afterwards. It was a tiny little micro-victory in acceptance and forgiveness yesterday.</div>
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So I guess there's hope.</div>
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Afterall, <i>to err is human; to forgive, Divine. -</i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Alexander Pope</span></div>
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The theme of the next 13 days (appropriately called a wavespell) on my weird, wild calendar is imbued with the archetype of "Yellow Human." </div>
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Yeah, I know this means little to you, but I'll share some of the propaganda that brings so much solace and purpose into my life. About the Human archetype (or "tribe" as it's called in the calendar):</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">We influence each other by modeling our values. All we think,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">say, do, create, choose and feel impacts those around us, and</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">contributes to the Collective Human Consciousness, which we</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">are in turn affected by subtly and overtly. All that we consider</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">acceptable or normal merely reflects the precedents we have set</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">for each other. The behaviors and attitudes we've inherited from</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">our families and friends are for us to either perpetuate, or to </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">change and evolve. By design, we humans have a shared </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">vulnerability, yet we evoke invincibility when we connect with</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">each other and tho the Spirit which animates our humanity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">As we see the many faces of the One Humanity, may we</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">humbly honor diversity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">-Eden Sky</span></div>
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Tomorrow (as every 2nd day or Lunar day in a wavespell) is the <i>challenge </i>to Yellow Human. Challenge to strengthen. It also happens to be the signature of the day I was born, making me a Red Lunar Skywalker. </div>
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Now it makes all the sense, right?</div>
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Nah? I know. It's like a different language. </div>
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It's what's called my Galactic Birthday. It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to.</div>
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Probably won't tho. And if I did, it'd be from happiness. I'm working on a film that I actually get to act in and have a fun evening planned with friends and authentic Haitian food.</div>
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Skywalker for the Maya represented the cornstalk or the maize goddess. <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22.4px;">Argüelles thought this represented a prophet or connection between heaven and earth. So listen up!! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22.4px;">Or don't.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22.4px;">Trying to avoid plastic was making me crazy so I cooled my jets at the grocery store. From saline solution to bags of apples and potatoes or loaves of bread, I've moved it to the unavoidable column for now. I even used a plastic fork at lunch on set yesterday. In my defense it was not a plastic fork from catering, but one I've used and carried in my back-pack for about a month. I threw it away when I was finished because I was mindlessly chatting and following suit. But I did challenge 20 people to give up straws for a month. Not sure if anyone's truly taken up the challenge. And I even forgot to say no straw at a restaurant the other day (though now I'm happy to report I remember more often than not). It is certainly a losing battle to fight alone. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22.4px;">Who really knows the best way to challenge folks? I watched the film <i>Whiplash</i> last night, which left me reeling, pondering that exact question. I don't think I want to end up abusive and an asshole about ecology and sustainability, but the film explores how effective a tough-love pedagogy has the potential to be. Of course, this efficacy comes at a cost. It's not really my style to demoralize and berate folks, but we'll see how I feel in a decade if we're still spinning our wheels.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22.4px;">Apparently the last show done at the Clarence Brown during my time here, <i>Urinetown</i>, did not do well at the box office. One reason might have been because even though actors had gone on television to promote it, they were not able to say the title because it was vulgar. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22.4px;"><i>Urine</i> is vulgar, but plastic is a non-issue.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22.4px;">Humans. We may have inherited some ass-backward priorities, but I'm ready to change and evolve. Who's comin with me?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22.4px;">I leave you with some entertainment...our fight song, if you will:</span></span><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/uGsmKY_RrmI/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uGsmKY_RrmI?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-61103381227638541222018-04-25T20:03:00.000-07:002018-04-25T20:41:28.426-07:00Conscious incompetence <div class="MsoNormal">
My grandmother compulsively rearranges furniture. Her mother
died at twelve of tuberculosis, and she moved around a lot until she fell in
love and started a family with a compulsive drinker and storyteller. Boy could
my grandpa play a fiddle and spin a yarn! He was an entertaining old fool. His
tales were not always the good kind, though. His stories included lies that eventually broke my
grandma’s heart into sharp fragments.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"></span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">I hear in my mind all of these voices.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">I hear in my mind all of these words. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">I hear in my mind all of this music, and it breaks my
heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">It breaks my heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">–Regina Spektor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>I’ve been practicing music more lately because I gave up our
AT&T internet for the last month I’m in Knoxville. To save a little money.
Find some peace of mind. I inherited an enormous peace lily from a graduating
third-year cohort at the end of my first year of school, and she’s become dear
to me like a pet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once I understood that fostering indoor plants has enormous
health benefits, I’ve always longed to have great indoor plants. I never came
to keep them because I’ve moved around so much and have killed a criminal
amount of aloe. Undoubtedly I’d get smothery and over-water the damned things
(and I don’t say damned lightly…they were clearly in-for-it the day I earnestly
bought them at some such chain store or farmer’s market or coop), or I’d
clumsily burn myself multiple times and overuse the poor sucker(ulent) within
months. Was their doomed destiny preventable? Maybe. But they were sacrifices
in my education in negative symbiosis…something humans are kind of the worst
for being best at. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think my subconscious is aware of aloe…like the year I had
AAA and locked my keys in my car a record number of times. I can’t remember
exactly how many, and for a moment I was going to lie to you. I have a bad
habit of embellishing, and I even caught myself senselessly, somewhat
compulsively lying twice this past month. (Don’t worry, you can still trust
me…it was to my sister and my husband, and I later confessed the fibs to both of
them…neither of them believed me anyway so the good news is I’m not good at
lying to manipulate, but it made me wonder “how much does my subconscious lie
for me to preserve other people’s feelings? Or to weave a story… to make a tale
more compelling or interesting?”) Umpteenth would have probably been an
exaggeration about how many aloes have died at my hands because I doubt it was so bad to have reached teen proportions, but anything is possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>I believe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>I think my subconscious is also aware of peace. The lily
(named LilyBell by the cohort’s sweet daughter) has been such company for me
these last two years, and she, too, is thriving. In cold months she lives
directly next to my alter in my studio where I meditate and write. She has 5 beautiful
blooms harkening (heralding?) the variant Spring warmth, and she’ll be ready to
move to the front porch this weekend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Said grandmother has the greenest thumb in all the land. She
loves her roses and her dahlias and lilies and other various flowers and the occasional vegetable. Things
that need her. Are dependent on her love and attention to live. It’s important to feel needed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But not too needed, don’tcha
think?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m on the cusp of starting a family, and honestly I’m a
little scared to be so needed. I think this fear made the first years of marriage
extremely hard for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend of mine I may have leaned on a little too hard
during those years wrote a song about urging a friend (who shall remain
nameless) to make big decisions based on guts not fear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it shook me a bit. That advice (combined with my patient
husband’s reminders throughout the years and days) continues to alert me how
often I let fear call the shots in my life. Many of us are guilty of it. And
somehow I do think women are more susceptible. Worry is the curse of a mother, I've been told. Perhaps men just repress
it more due to gender norms? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sometimes crave surrender in inappropriate ways.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I look to people I have deemed “successful” for
too much guidance. Too much support. And it gets too heavy, and they prudently
distance themselves from me. My siblings look up to me because I’m the tallest,
not because I’m the smartest or oldest. Because I’m probably not the smartest,
and age is certainly relative. My brother is obviously more responsible and has
dealt with far more adversity than I could ever truly imagine. One sister’s
clearly an old soul who surpasses my own with lifetimes of wisdom, and the baby
has a baby so clearly she’s matured past me in many ways I can’t even yet
understand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today was my last singing lesson of graduate school, and I still have so much to work on. 3 years of repeating the same practices, identifying habits, attempting to inhibit them to make way for better ones. It was nice. I felt good about my progress, but I felt even better about my potential. Especially when I'll be living closer to my very own uber-talented accompanist...my mother-in-law is seriously the best, y'all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had the craziest dream last night. Probably my subconscious reaction to the conclusion of singing lessons and the fear and stress of graduating, but it was a classic "actor nightmare." I was in a musical, but I didn't know my lines or the music or the dances...my cat was in the audience because I'd unwittingly brought him to the theater. I didn't have makeup nor a costume. And the audience was huge. And fancy. Like black tie gala motha fuckas.<br />
Conscious incompetence is a very important step along the path to mastery. The precursor to competence. You just have mix in the right amount of practice and belief. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's the step I'm still on with the <a href="https://emilaflaneuse.blogspot.com/2018/03/id-rather-play-tennis-than-go-to-dentist.html" target="_blank">avoiding plastic</a>, too, by the way. I thought, "oh, I'll be conscientious and stop buying plastic." Have you ever tried it? Please let me know if you have any tips about saline solution and dishsoap. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I accepted a lifestyle challenge 11 days ago and have
abstained from sugar and alcohol and most caffeine (which I think I’ve weened
myself off slowly enough to give up without much thought this week). I’ve
also meditated for 20 minutes twice a day (save one day where I only meditated
once) and incorporated writing morning pages and drinking lemon/or ACV infused water 1<sup>st</sup>
thing when I wake up. With the daily practice, and the fact that I am passed on to the next round for <a href="https://secure.orchardproject.com/content/orchard-project-episodic-lab" target="_blank">The Orchard Project Episodic Lab</a>, I'm finally starting to believe I'm a writer. If I am accepted I'll spend 2 weeks in Saratoga, NY, this summer polishing up my pilot with some incredible writers (including one of my favorite living playwrights, Theresa Rebeck!!!!). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one day I was prevented from this morning routine and deprived some sleep, I crumpled into a crying mess. It was an
audition day and I had a lot of emotions swirling, and we were dog/cat sitting
and I got horrible sleep. It was strange though…as I was unraveling that day, I
held in my mind the mantra that has taken over my meditations as of late:<br />
I believe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It buoyed me because I believed that the difficulty and overwhelm and fatigue would pass. I believed that no matter the outcome of said audition, I was still perfectly safe and protected and provided for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would say the majority of my circles
are adamant (fervent even) Christians. I am a huge fan of Christ, but I don’t
often like to proclaim myself Christian. I believe in many things at the same
time. I am not fundamentally Christian. I am human. And flawed. And I surrender
to a higher power of good orderly direction. And I recognize the manipulations
and lies the Christian faith propagates because of tradition or patriarchy or
greed. I praise the Lord, but I don’t pretend to understand what that Lord
encompasses. Govinda Jaya Jaya. I think the "Lord" is beyond all comprehension…which I think Jesus
said, but Muhammad probably did, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An old born-again friend of mine immediately associated her
belief of God with my mantra. She’s been challenged with some health issues and
her surrender is rightfully in His hands, she says...with a capital H. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe in the power of Mother Earth. I believe in my own
power to change. I believe in love (and Cher’s life after it). I believe in the healing power of humor. I believe in
creation. I believe in peace.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I believe in bravery in the face of fear. And I believe I’m
finding it.<o:p></o:p></div>
Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-69206684029020479662018-04-15T14:11:00.001-07:002018-04-15T14:21:47.670-07:00slow down jo<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Anybody ever tell you that you move too fast?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Anybody ever tell you how to make a good thing last?</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>'Cause it ain't like that. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">-Monsters of Folk</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Now that I've established a few priorities with you guys (my blog audience...blodience?), we can really get down to it. Accountability. But...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
No buts.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We're doin this.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Together.</div>
I mean, you're here. So we're doin this.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ahhh, shit.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Don't freak out.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We can go slow.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I practice slowing down time.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Mainly by riding my bike. It's pretty gray and rainy today and I had to come to the library to get some things done online. I canceled my AT&T home wifi service slightly earlier than my departure date with purpose. I often waste less time on the internet if I have a limited amount of time to get things accomplished, and I sleep better not having tv to watch with the Roku or interactions with screens before bedtime. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There can also be a loneliness to quietude, but it's not a loneliness I fear.<br />
It's a din that drowns out the song I'm trying to hum. The story I'm trying to tell.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Anyway, I biked here even though it was far more appealing to drive.<br />
Especially since I'm getting over a nasty cold and I went out drinking with my cohorts last night as we finished up some data entry/organization for our digital showcase we're launching tomorrow. But I forced myself to gather the poncho and appropriate gear, and it felt so good. It always does. And daily it makes me mourn the society we could cultivate but don't.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I've been somewhat successful at creating some new habits, and I have to say starting the day with writing and meditating and [more often than not] making my bed has been lovely and helpful, but my relationship with time is bigger and more complex than a few good days. Or even a few bad ones for that matter. I say <i>somewhat</i> successful because there was travel and a wedding and cohabitation with a large group of people last weekend, and I have not yet mastered taking these habits with me on the go.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
They're my home habits. But I'm looking to change that.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I want you to hold me accountable, but who are you?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And why in the hell would that be your job?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I gotta do this myself.<br />
And that can be overwhelming. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Having my own back was sort of the theme of my thesis project, and a "lifestyle challenge" I'm taking on for the next 30 days. I am abstaining from sugar and adding an evening mediation to my daily habits. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have not successfully avoided plastic altogether as I'd <a href="https://emilaflaneuse.blogspot.com/2018/03/id-rather-play-tennis-than-go-to-dentist.html" target="_blank">hoped</a>, and I admittedly got a little depressed about the futility of my paltry attempt at avoiding it when yesterday, I not only forgot to say "no straw" at the restaurant, someone at my table <i>requested</i> a straw. If I weren't sick, I would've insisted he take mine, but I am so...and earlier in the day I used plasticware when it was offered because I was unprepared and happy to accept free food and didn't want to be that person eating with my hands. And I witnessed someone unnecessarily use <i>extra</i> plasticware. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It seemed a glaring reminder that not only am <i>I</i> not living the way I feel it is important to live (in this case using less plastic), I am having little to no affect on the people with whom I'm closest on their decisions around this topic.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This is the interrelated structure of reality.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">-Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The "lifestyle challenge," is part of a network marketing brand, and I hate that I have such strong reticence in joining these campaigns, but I do. They inspire folks to spread healthy habits, require the planting and regard for many plants, and aspire to create wealth among networks through sharing eco-friendly products.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And yet, I can't dive in. Join the club. Get others to join the club.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Club.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
This was one of our favorite games to play as kids. Giving each other roles ("You're treasurer." "But I wanna be President, I'm <i>always </i>treasurer!"), pretending to have influence or control. I watch modern politics and realize it's the same with these grown-ass men in their red ties and their blue suits. Pretense. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Of control and/or influence.<br />
We all know commerce is king.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And so I guess the hard thing to swallow about these network marketing companies is just that. I don't need <i>more </i>things to buy. I need <i>less</i>. It doesn't matter that their products are often the ones I wouldn't mind having, that they may be healthy or enhance my life...they still seem<i> beyond</i> my most basic needs and therefor a bit of a...well, a sell. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And I'm in the process of distilling exactly what it is I have to sell here.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So you'll buy it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Not the blodience you, the figurative you.)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I think after three years of growth, I'm ready to sell myself as an<a href="http://www.emilykicklighter.org/" target="_blank"> actress</a>. So I'm trying not to get distracted by the side-hustle of "easy money" networking, but if I were, you could click <a href="https://me.me/market?meme_id=19306003" target="_blank">here</a> to buy some Norwex or Doterra or Rodan and Fields products.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I happen to think these companies are doing great things for women in business, and the history of this type of commerce is rife with badass women like<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madam_C._J._Walker" target="_blank"> Madam C.J. Walker</a>, so I am far from knocking them. I recently had a heart-to-heart with my sister about why these companies <i>seem</i> so annoying at times, and I think it has to do with blurred lines between personal connection and professional ambition, but if you can mix it up just right in a network marketing cocktail that tastes good to you, I say DO IT! And I might be in your downline once I have 2 pennies to rub together, but until then, I'm gonna work at making my living at what I've invested the most in...and for now it's this acting schtick.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And writing. My reach? My aim? My message? Buy less, not more. And don't forget to say "no straw, please."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-21357881554177273652018-03-24T10:46:00.001-07:002018-03-24T10:46:26.762-07:00I'd rather play tennis than go to the dentistWell, if blogging were tennis and the dentist were working on my thesis project.<br />
I suppose I could use this blog entry as part of my thesis?<br />
I am at the main UTK library (Hodges) in a grad lounge slightly reminiscent about late night projects of years past trying to achieve the impossible and synthesize countless hours of work in support of a thesis that I am only thinly able to support.<br />
Why only thinly? Well, because I battle age-old habits that make me absolutely terrible at time management. I was ambitious in my proposals, and though I feel like I worked hard on my craft, I fell short of nearly every intention I'd set.<br />
But hey, the good news is I'm learning. So yay. Go grad school.<br />
I truly believe the old adage that if you want something done, give it to a busy person. But I've been <i>so</i> busy with production schedules and academic demands, I lost the part of myself capable of fostering good habits.<br />
She's a wispy one...that part of myself. Or maybe he's more wily than wispy. Ephemeral. Dodgy. Scattered? It's hard to pin down.<br />
I like that about her/him/them.<br />
That's right...I think this part of myself is non-binary. I think maybe all of me is non-binary? But it's hard to keep up. I'm sort of all over the place.<br />
Don't worry. Pronouns don't offend me and for most of my life I've blithely been a she/her/hers. That'll do. But if we're gonna get technical, I'd say it's a bit of a stretch to label myself cisgender, but I play a cis woman on tv. (Ha! Like the old <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ts0XG6qDIco" target="_blank">commercial</a>.) But I don't care to shave my body hair (unless I must for a gig), my husband is equally unattached to "roles" we "should" play in our family (though he likes to tease with an occasional faux-Southern accented, "woman!"), and I am a lesbian in my dreams like 87% of the time. A metaphysical analysis might point to my desire to be intimate with the conscious (woke) aspects of myself.<br />
I mean, I remember learning the word "gender" from my Uncle Mike. He was the first adult family member I lost some years later, and he was a trip! He passed away pretty suddenly when I was a teenager, and I feel the loss of not getting to know him as an adult. He was a total eclectic weirdo like me. Maybe it wasn't actually the first time I'd heard the word gender, but I remember him lamenting that his students (I forget what grade he taught...freshmen maybe?) did not know what the word meant. Those same students are likely even more confused today. But confusion isn't a crime. Thank God.<br />
Or Goddess.<br />
I just realized my children will also have an Uncle Mike who is a teacher.<br />They may also be confused about gender. I mean, gender might just be all the adjectives I previously used to describe that part of myself capable of fostering good habits...trixy. Spectral. Both elusive and a bit of a lie, or at the very least a cheat. A mirage.<br />
I could go on, but maybe you get it? If you don't, do not panic. I am the weird one, and you are probably smarter than me. Sometimes I complicate matters unnecessarily. You know, like compiling basic analytics for a thesis or simply updating a website.<br />
I drove to Chicago this week for an audition and have been listening to Charles Duhigg's <i>The Power of Habit </i>on audio. Definitely not my preferred method of absorption (is my ADD obvious? because it certainly is with audiobooks), but a pretty great read (listen?), nonetheless. It's helping me wrap my head around some steps I need to take to ensure my health and boost my productivity (which is dismal).<br />
Not only did I get to go to an audition, but I was invited by an old friend to join him for the opening night of <i>An Enemy of the People</i> at The Goodman Theatre. Ibsen was a genius and The Goodman is legendary so I was pleased as punch for the opportunity. (thanks Greg Allen!) Of course it whet my appetite for good work and now I'm compulsively checking cheap flights to make it back up to the windy city to catch Sheila Callaghan's <i>Women Laughing Along with Salad.</i> And my Aunt Chris is recovering well from her deep brain surgery and let me use her car for the Chi-town adventure....which saved me a bundle as I'd planned to rent one to avoid running mine into the ground. (thanks Aunt Chris!) Needless to say, I'm a lucky duck.<br />
This week I've been nothing if not grateful. Nothing like a little spring break to make one feel renewed in all interests. That breathing room was just enough for me to fill up with love and gratitude, and gain a little perspective on just how damn lucky I truly am. I've been acting in a short film the last couple of days and the character was a blast. Another film we worked on is finished and being entered into festivals. The horizon looks pretty chocked full of opportunity. Possibility.<br />
I know it was read by far less folks because I posted it in the middle of the night, but I had some feelings about my <a href="https://emilaflaneuse.blogspot.com/2018/03/weebles-wobble-luddites-loddle.html" target="_blank">last blog post</a>. I was beginning to feel like a bit of a downer. Embittered or sore...and I had mixed feelings about sharing that with the world. But if I'm gonna be a writer y'all will have to take the bad with the good, I suppose.<br />
Ugh, I just had to leave the library because it got late. I probably won't post this until I edit/reread it in the morning anyway, so these interruptions don't matter, but where was I...?<br />
Gratitude? The Habit book!<br />
Productivity.<br />
Yeah, I'm definitely living below my capacity in that regard.<br />
I have often struggled to force my unruly ducks into a row.<br />
Hell, y'all are witnessing me chase the proverbial wild geese in this blog exercise (tired of the fowl analogies yet?).<br />
I think this propensity for overstimulation is yet another reason I'm a luddite. My husband is constantly scoffing at how many browser windows I have open. With so many irons in the fire, I tend to struggle when I'm required to actually <i>forge</i> something substantial. We have more coming at us in the form on communication and information than any human beings in history. I don't take that lightly. Nor does my brain.<br />
I hope this blog will suffice as an excuse for why my website may not be totally up to date. I feel like I should start to incorporate a little Twitter into my life, too, but honestly even thinking about it gives me a headache.<br />
I went through and reset my security settings on all the apps on FB (as it turns out, some folks are actually quite good at compiling basic analytics). The whole Cambridge Analytica bs made me want to get off of social media all together...<br />
But it is a tool I shall use for the time being. And I'm grateful.<br />
It could very well be why and how you're reading this right now so I truly can't complain. Well, anymore. I mean, I will complain again someday I'm sure....but I'll try very hard to not make a practice out of it. I'm very familiar with folks who do just that...they've clearly never seen this <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ilF7Zf1iRJI" target="_blank">kid</a> share the wisdom of Prem Rawat.<br />
But I digress (and expression I also remember being explained by Uncle Mike).<br />
The <a href="http://charlesduhigg.com/the-power-of-habit/" target="_blank">book</a> chats a bit about cornerstone habits, and I'd like to implement some of my own starting tomorrow. And perhaps keep up accountability through this medium of blogging? They're cornerstone habits I've had previously over the years, and I've seen how powerful they can be. I've witnessed how they transform my life and other habits. The ripple. The wave out. Now that my performance and class schedule is tapering off for the school year, I feel pretty inspired to return to these old ways.<br />
Daily meditation and yoga. Not gonna think about any diet or exercise regimen. Just gonna practice some good ol' habits and watch the dominos of the upward spiral fall. I know from my years of practice that these habits lead to better diet and nutrition, more personal responsibility, and a more balanced emotional life. Donc, je commence.<br />
Because we'd like to start a family, I'm looking at health and productivity through a slightly different lens. I'm sure at 36 my fertility ain't what it used to be, but I cannot see myself so desperate to procreate I would result to hormonal treatments or procedures your average Western fertility clinic would follow. I've had many cousins go that route, and I know that it's not for me. Though I am happy it worked for them...they made some awesome humans. So, I'm hoping to kickstart habits that will not only clarify my desire to have a child, but hopefully ramp up my ability to do so.<br />
When one thinks of corners, you might envision a square room like I did. I immediately chastised myself for being so limited (why not 7?), and then swung the opposite direction and chastised myself for not starting smaller (why not 3, the tetrahedron is stronger than the pyrimid, no?). But nonetheless, I have settled on four basic cornerstone habits I will attempt practice everyday. For my health and the health of the world that I might chose to bring a child into.<br />
I would like to create the habit of avoiding plastics. As I write, I am eating walnuts from a plastic bag because Kroger is closer to my house and cheaper than the Coop. But I'm serious about this one. Henceforth, I'll do my part. Not only are there proven endocrine disruptors associated with all plastics, <a href="https://plasticoceans.org/the-facts/" target="_blank">this shit</a> hurts my heart and my head, <i>and </i>totally makes me second guess bringing more human life into the world. <br />
I'm also thinking about keeping wifi off unless I'm using it, and then being aware of my time and usage. Being <a href="http://www.lib.utk.edu/" target="_blank">here </a>(I did return to edit and expand this entry this morning so I am back in a grad student carrel looking out over the Tennessee River, once again waxing nostalgic about my time here in school) reminds me of how much more productive I can be when using the internet outside my home. I think I will save on the AT&T bill and just cancel my internet service at home for the next few months. It's so slow and my computer's operating system is so outdated, I originally came to the library to work on my website/edit video with a rented labtop on with faster service, anyway. I will miss the HBO (provided generously by my mother-in-law), but I'll just come catch up on my stories here at the library.<br />
For those agents/casting directors/writers who would chastise my decision to scale back my tv habit...chillax. I'm not that kind of actress anyway. Not to say I won't work in this powerful medium and indulge healthily...I'd just like to be more mindful when and how I do...and believe me, as far as studying and keeping up with my craft, I just dedicated 3 years of my life to it so I think we're good.<br />
My father-in-law actually used to have a gospel group called The Cornerstone Singers. He had an incredible voice (as do his sons). Though I doubt we practice it very similarly (he was a Baptist minister of music), we both keep the faith. He would have been 60 this week. I vaguely remember meeting him in high school, and ironically one time would've likely been after a performance of <i>Our Town</i> (in which I played Emily and my brother-in-law was George). I wish I would've looked at him like a I really saw him. I wish I would've known how important he would one day be in my life. To my future kids. Or how quickly he'd shuffle off this mortal coil.<br />
<i>The Power of Habit </i>talks about this faith. The belief we <i>can</i> change is the most powerful prerequisite, and practicing believing in a power greater than yourself strengthens your <i>ability</i> to believe. In yourself. In us.<br />
Each day is a gift, even if some of them feel more like empty wrapped shoe boxes/prop gifts like the ones on our film set today (or yesterday). And so are all the people you encounter through said day. The ones there to challenge ya, strengthen you. Even if they're folks you didn't chose with whom you are forced to engage throughout your life (i.e. your family or your cohorts).<br />
I've always loved school and this experience has been no different. I may not have mastered productivity, but I think I learned a thing or two about myself and that has clarified my responsibilities and renewed my passions as an artist. As I head off now to march for our lives, for peace, for a new culture where we acknowledge our fears and anger and transcend through personal responsibility, I just want to thank you. For coming along on this wild ride with me. I have been inspired throughout my life by getting to know so many incredible humans...and you're one of 'em.<br />
The great works begins...now.<br />
<br />
<br />Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-7810668338669506872018-03-09T01:03:00.000-08:002018-03-09T22:54:00.040-08:00Weebles Wobble, Luddites LoddleI am supposed to be updating my website on Weebly.<br />
Instead, I muse.<br />
Or try and be visited by one.<br />
Because writing doesn't feel so much like a choice anymore. It just feels like remembering something necessary, like picking up saline solution at the grocery store. Which I forgot to do this week. Yeah, so I guess that's a bad example. Well hell, at the very least I'm a better writer than I am a rememberer...<br />
My high school AP History teacher used to reiterate "long term drug use causes short term memory loss." He was the fuggin coolest. We all loved Mr. Johnson because he treated us like adults. He didn't talk down to us, and he inspired you to want to stay up on politics and history. He made you want to continue to educate yourself. Which is the only thing a good teacher's supposed to do, right? Or the #1 thing, at least.<br />
What was I saying? Oh yeah, just about writing and keeping up the blog. I mean, for a minute I was feelin all obligated because I made it part of my "brand" on my website. I mean, whatever the f--- that means. Screw you guys, I might just sign off forever and go live in the woods.<br />
Threats. Hollow, empty threats.<br />
You can't get rid of me that easily.<br />
But I'm supposed to be engaging through the interwebs to make it as an artist. Or as a human, I guess, these days. But I might love the human I am far from technology most. Hence the retreat center longings...though even if those dreams do come true, I will likely still be reaching out to this web of mine through the internet. I mean, God willin and the creek don't rise. (And by that I literally mean if the sun don't flare or the poles don't flip.)<br />
Tons of casting directors in LA want folks with huge instagram/twitter account followers, and I don't engage in either because my phone's too old, but f--- you and your planned obsolescence (thank GAWD for spell check), Apple (incidentally the "most eco-conscious, ethical" technology giant out there)! <a href="https://emilaflaneuse.blogspot.com/2018/01/la-flaneuse.html">I</a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcJ8me22NVs"><span id="goog_1277505542"></span>just<span id="goog_1277505543"></span></a> <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/sustainable-business/rare-earth-mining-china-social-environmental-costs">can't</a> <a href="https://www.health.harvard.edu/staying-healthy/blue-light-has-a-dark-side">y'all</a>.<br />
When is <i>woke</i> really going to mean woke???<br />
I've nearly doubled the time I spend on Facebook these days because somehow I feel threatened by the FOMO on some random opportunity. For what, I cannot tell you. Connection I'm sure.<br />
It's hard living apart from Jake. But not harder than a lot of things by comparison. Like remembering to pick up saline solution...I mean, remembering stuff is hard. Or is it forgetting? I had another great <a href="https://www.village-well.com/">teacher</a> along the way reiterate "you can't unlearn things."<br />
And yet collectively we're so good at it. Myopic from that memory-loss. Or feigned memory-loss, anyway. Short-sighted when looking into both the past and future.<br />
And believe me, I get how funny it is that I feel overwhelmed by Facebook when most of you fools answer the beck and call of multiple social media commitments, but I didn't have Facebook for a couple of years...and it just kept right on keepin on without me so I'm sure instagram and twitter'll do just fine. I mean, I'm willing to bet most folks didn't even recognize I'd signed off. And that is ok. I ain't mad atcha, forreal. I have so many people in my family and am blessed with many close friends...I love community, but I'm a pretty tactile person. I love touch.<br />
Here, I would like to formally apologize to folks who may know that about me and wished they didn't. I try and get a real good read and have a real tight friendship before I start bein silly and inappropriately touching people. I've got a big love tank and I got lots of good friendly folks to fill it (get your mind outta the gutter...I mean with platonic affection).<br />
I may have inappropriately touched people before, but no one's ever been deeply offended to my knowledge. And I've never wielded any real or perceived power over these people. I think I can read the signs when folks aren't int'touching, and thankfully most theatre folks are, but I am a fallible human being. I'm not trying to be glib...I am sincerely sorry if I ever crossed a line. A line that I may not have recognized because maybe my boundary lines have always been a bit fuzzy.<br />
Well not always. My kindergarten teacher expressed concern to my mother because I was so stressed and neurotic about coloring in the lines. I outgrew it pretty fast, but my mom noticed it pretty early on. I was a neurotic cleaner as a toddler (clearly not a trait to which I held tightly). I'm a lot like my Aunt Chris who's been on my mind all day while a doctor's been in hers (she's having DBS for Parkinson's today...if there's anyone to celebrate on international women's day, it's her badass, but that's a whole other story). She still indulges her neurotic cleaning, but I let it go. To which anyone who's ever ridden in my car can attest.<br />
Pretty soon I was coloring all over the damn page and pushin all the boundaries. To show strength and bravery and to lighten up a bit, and not take everything quite so seriously. I found humor. And how good it felt to make people laugh. So I became a bit of a clown. Every teacher after that expressed concern for other reasons. "Emily's <i>quite</i> the social butterfly," they'd say through gritted smiles at conferences. She needs to focus and quit distracting her classmates with chatter. One quarter in 4th grade I had a straight A report card with D's in conduct from talking and disrupting class.<br />
So I guess I've always had some stuff to say...<br />
I like that the lines in society are becoming more defined around the topic of sexual harassment and misconduct so I'd like to color inside the lines on this one. My sincere apology for any misconduct or if I've ever made anyone uncomfortable in the work place.<br />
Someone did that to me recently and it was a powerful man. And I felt like I had to report it as misconduct. I hemmed and hawed (as any good Southerner would...not to imply Southerners are indecisive, just fond of that colloquialism), and in the end, it felt like even though I did not personally feel sexually harassed, the misconduct was affectionate in nature and would have easily made someone else uncomfortable. Also the immediate reaction of his subordinates/my authorities made me feel even higher authorities should know about his behavior. I told 3 teachers about the situation. Both men acknowledged said powerful man had severe boundary issues and often made women feel uncomfortable with his speech or physicality, and expressed fear and empathy for him along the lines of "gee, I hope he doesn't f--- everything up...he's so close to retirement."And the woman was absolutely furious. Because...well, her too, of course.<br />
I don't always have the healthiest boundaries and sometimes find myself comfortable in just accepting what the world throws at me. A yielding nature might be a super power or strength when it comes to bullets or say, in my case, asphalt, but it doesn't help in leading. I am not a leader, so to speak, so I guess I'm ok with so few followers.<br />
Those of you new on the outskirts of my web, or reach, in this blogsphere, may not know but I was hit by a car on my bicycle from behind at nearly 40mph, and came away with a separated shoulder, a concussion, terrible road rash, survivor guilt and acute post traumatic stress. Survivor guilt because my best friend was killed in a car accident on an interstate over a decade ago, and my brother is paraplegic from a car accident in 2002, and I...had road rash?!? <i>Without</i> the protective layer of a car between me and the driver??<br />
Why am I here??<br />
It was 4 years ago, and I've spent 3 of those exploring if I'm here to <i>act</i>. And I believe yes. As a means to an end. An end to having to deal with social media.<br />
Mostly I want to dig deep and connect the dots. The roots. I want to make a difference in my micro that might just reverberate out in waves to the macro. And maybe the channel for this wavelength is this internet realm for some...but for me it could just as easily be a cooperative or hostel circuit of bicyclist and climbers and eco-tourists and artists.<br />
Who am I kidding? It's all still gonna need to be the on the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGyJOX5wFFg">net</a>.<br />
Luckily, there are webs that are fostered enough to withstand social media hiatuses. And you guys know who you are. I'll catch ya outside.<br />
Writing no longer feels like a responsibility to my brand, but more like a self-care thing. I am processing so much right now. WE ALL ARE. I haven't been able to see my therapist in weeks. I am uninspired by my own broken commitments. My own failure in the face of high ambition. I am driving more than biking these days AND eating fast food. Who the f--- am I? Ughhhhh.<br />
The shift has begun. Right? We're waking up right? I just got cold chills thinking about Samatha Bee's (all hail Sam B, and happy international woman's day) recognition in this<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0omjeOt-U6w"> episode.</a><br />
I didn't know this "red pill" culture existed. I mean, we joked about the matrix analogy in my yoga teacher training, and I worked with fuggin <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000401/">Morpheus</a> this summer. And I didn't know alt-right bastards had co-opted the red pill narrative to idolize f---sticks like Elliot Rodger?!? I had only read his <a href="https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/1173808-elliot-rodger-manifesto.html">manifesto</a> to study for my role in the play I'm in...it didn't occur to me so many others had read it and felt <i>kinship</i> with him and <i>camaradarie</i> (f--- spell check!).<br />
And then I heard Barry Crimmin talking about his battle with AOL over childhood pornography on NPR today, and I thought THIS. THIS. This is why I'm a luddite...this is why I hate technology and the internet. Human beings are garbage.<br />
Or as Peña laments in <i><a href="https://clarencebrowntheatre.com/">the strangers</a>, "</i>the world is fucked up."<br />
And <i>then</i> I heard about the Florida legislature and saw an ad for an oncologist running for congress on a "science should lead us" platform, and heard my aunt is recovering well from surgery.<br />
And I saw the glimmer of hope.<br />
This week has been all about defining things that are very important to me. Drawing my own lines. I think my vices and pitfalls and weaknesses (hello sugar, hello laziness, oh hey Cook Out) have had a lovely "death throes" display of dominance because I feel like I am waking up. Remembering all the stuff I forgot I forgot. Things that I feel obligated to use this platform to discuss because they are parts of my self pushed aside to practice acting.<br />
PRACTICE AND ALL IS COMING.<br />
It may have taken three saturated years of studying acting to make me desperately miss other previously rich parts of my life, but I am feelin the ache now. My yearning for those aspects of my life currently supersedes any hot pursuit of the successful acting career. Which makes all of the work necessary for finishing up my degree especially arduous.<br />
Sadly, I have not found a yoga teacher here in Knoxville that inspired me in the ways my NY and KY teachers did towards asana. I did go to yoga last night and did a smidge on my own today, but I also had fast food after the show tonight, and I don't even really care about my own personal health that much...it's the overwhelming, disgusting literal garbage that this particular indulgence produces. I felt equally disgusting about left-overs from a nice restaurant the other day...it's not only the fast part that bothers me, though I'm sure my body is less appreciative of the milkshake than the salad, but they both came in styrofoam guilt-containers.<br />
Now, I try to be mindful of the plastic I buy (and clearly steer clear of styrofoam most days), but recycling really only helps assuage my guilt. I have to change more at the consumer level. I have mixed feelings about the efficacy of the recycling industry. Mostly because sometimes well-meaning ignorant people throw bullshit in the wrong bins because they never bother to look anything up (prolly the same people that don't fact check their facebook posts). Truly a large portion of my diet comes from produce, but I am often overwhelmed by short-term frugalities and poor white trash diet tendencies that then take over my control board.<br />
In my defense, cooking for one is a lot harder than two (especially when your husband is a big hungry workin man and eats twice as much as you so it's really like adjusting shopping and cooking for three down to one...love you, boo).<br />
And the world is f---ed up and falling apart.<br />
And human beings are...<br />
Well, except you. You're swell! You made it this far.<br />
To find out that if you are what you eat, I am the garbage I despise.<br />
(I get that this self-loathing doesn't help anything, but don't worry. I needed to go here. To push off and swing back the other way. To relate. To find compassion for those people that get the wrath of my judgement. To get ahold of myself.<br />
To remember me. And start there.)<br />
Maybe I can be more accountable for me and that's what will ripple the wave out? Not my website. Not my instagram and twitter <a href="https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/34/Rub_al_Khali_002.JPG&imgrefurl=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desert&h=1987&w=3553&tbnid=FCTi_kqgZibbXM:&tbnh=112&tbnw=200&usg=__2e1Ki23EMQKmDkKldZd76jpaUVA%3D&vet=10ahUKEwjAgNbb5d7ZAhWp54MKHcVpBekQ_B0IpAIwDQ..i&docid=nisYnqpzmhC31M&itg=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjAgNbb5d7ZAhWp54MKHcVpBekQ_B0IpAIwDQ">followers</a>. Not my <a href="http://moziru.com/explore/Here%20clipart%20you%20are%20here/#go_post_7506_here-clipart-you-are-here-2.png">blog</a>. Not even my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/emilyhyberger">facebook</a>.<br />
My actions. My habits. My character.<br />
The one I am truly here to play.Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-18703645891986489362018-03-02T11:23:00.000-08:002018-03-02T13:31:32.176-08:00This lil' light of mineWe are the wretched.<br />
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. <i>Was</i>, haha.<br />
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.<br />
I'm feelin pretty happy.<br />
I'm 2 glasses of sangria in, and I sit on a precipice.<br />
A ledge I've walked a few times.<br />
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.<br />
We are the wretched.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
I miss feeling like we're on the same team. I mean, it's been a while, but...<br />
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.<br />
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<i> because</i> of a woman) so bad, somebody holy had to give their life to redeem 'em. He was that bad. He did the<i> bad </i>stuff. He <i>sinned</i>. The original wretched. But the savior came and redeemed us all so now we can reconcile our badness. Our <i>natural</i> badness. And the sincere <i>remorse</i> we have for it, oh yeah and then the <i>promise</i> to try and never do it again.<br />
Remorse.<br />
Comes from the Latin for "I bite back," or "to bite again."<br />
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.<br />
The moon is full.<br />
The pup's asleep. I finally got him to settle down. Where was I?<br />
Promise.<br />
Latin for...well, for promise.<br />
Promise is as old as language.<br />
I promise I might have a point.<br />
A former roommate used to have this book, <i>They Have a Word for It, A Lighthearted Lexicon of Untranslatable Words and Phrases.</i><br />
Untranslatable.<br />
I love how language weaves us all together, but necessarily accentuates our differences. Love letters n language barriers n all that lies between.<br />
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 <i>feel</i> 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.<br />
We are the wretched.<br />
If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves. ~Lincoln<br />
My dad is a poet. A dreamer. And sometimes he's a drunk.<br />
But I could choose different <i>language</i> 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.<br />
We've got a lot in common.<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>believed</i>. 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."<br />
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 <i>praising</i> joy for the first time.<br />
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.<br />
We are the wretched.<br />
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).<br />
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.<br />
Having this puppy makes me wonder how I might be a different parent.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
Sometimes I get a glimpse of light from that shiny diamond in the rough, but other times I just see a wretch.<br />
Like me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-87521221471181593732018-02-17T02:09:00.001-08:002018-02-17T09:37:10.610-08:00Oh 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.<br />
Who are you internet voyeurs? Nobody comments 'cept my baby sister because I make her. Drop me a line if you dare.<br />
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?<br />
8 days ago I was baptized by fire.<br />
Not literally.<br />
Although clearly <a href="http://www.dictionary.com/browse/literally?s=t" target="_blank">that </a>means nothing anymore in our post-truth world. The upside down.<br />
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.<br />
In retrospect, I was too excited.<br />
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.<br />
THEN WHY AM I SO NEEDY??? Why do I want more than I need? Why do any of us? Where does insecurity come from?<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>judge </i>it to be the best thing happenin right now in that realm and my time is so limited. I read Jill Soloway's <i>Tiny Women in Shiny Pants</i> because I <i>judged</i> it to be a solid recommendation from a genius on how to start my career as an actress <i>and </i>writer. <a href="http://www.sheilacallaghan.com/" target="_blank">Sheila Callaghan</a> graciously has many more scopes to light my path (which I plan to gorge on post thesis project).<br />
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?<br />
Maybe it's Brené Brown's <i>On Being </i><a href="https://onbeing.org/programs/brene-brown-strong-back-soft-front-wild-heart-feb2018/" target="_blank">episode </a>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 <a href="https://books.google.com/books/about/Braving_the_Wilderness.html?id=TqEwDwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=kp_read_button#v=onepage&q&f=false" target="_blank">book </a>that advises "Hold hands. With strangers."<br />
Did I mention I'm in a play called <i>the strangers</i>? 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."<br />
I pray for this post-post-truth reawakening with every fiber of my being.<br />
Come hell or high water. Or hot water, as it were.<br />
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.<br />
But there. Is. Enough. If we go back to the Judeo-Christian mythology (and why not, it <i>is</i> 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.<br />
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.<br />
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/emilyrawlings/albums/72157630067076810" target="_blank"> retreat </a>in Upstate NY. Printed on the pdf was this picture of the sacred heart.<br />
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.<br />
8 days ago I was baptized by fire.<br />
2 days ago, a young man forgot how to love.<br />
1 day at a time, we heal. It's itchy and it may scar forever, but we heal.Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-65054265368001140732018-02-04T00:52:00.000-08:002018-02-09T00:51:03.407-08:00Solar WarriorA 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 <i>continuing</i> to dump coal ash into the waters here in Tennessee.<br />
I feel like I am engaged in battles on many fronts these days.<br />
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 <i>am</i> in grad school, remember?<br />
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...<br />
Had I volunteered and forgotten?? I mean, I <i>am</i> 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 <i>not</i> overwhelmed by and often paralyzed by fear.<br />
One not in his/her/their last year of grad school.<br />
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.<br />
I bought a domain today to put up my website for school. <a href="http://www.emilykicklighter.org/">www.emilykicklighter.org</a>.<br />
.com wasn't available, but I sort of like the responsibility .org implies.<br />
It makes me feel like I'll somehow be held more accountable. More...organized. And I guess that's a comfort zone <i>and</i> 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 <i>all</i> 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?<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
But the <i>un</i>necessary stress comes from the overwhelming responsibility I feel to live up to my own ideals. <i>Ideally</i> 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 <i>any</i> averse reactions to these things.<br />
I happened upon <a href="https://undark.org/article/books-alanna-mitchell-spinning-magnet/" target="_blank">this article</a> 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<i> could</i> be crippled...the Earth <i>could</i> be transformed. Many species may not survive.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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).<br />
That is until the solar flares and radiation win the war.<br />
Gives new meaning to I'm with her.<br />
Leave it to a Trump presidency to make an Armageddon-like prediction seem like relief.<br />
<br />Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-72858029809979120952018-01-20T08:28:00.003-08:002018-01-20T08:28:58.354-08:00The World is Falling DownDamnit. 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.<br />
Wahwahwah! Life is so hard when you're living the dream.<br />
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 <i>will</i> change.<br />
But for now.<br />
I've also had some other writing assignments this week from my therapist.<br />
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.<br />
Isn't it weird to think of how much you've changed throughout your life, and yet you are always yourself?<br />
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.<br />
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 <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/81951381@N00/24860443837/" target="_blank">Capricorn</a>? Or...<br />
The world is falling down.<br />
Hold my hand.<br />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.<br />
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.<br />
I started crying when it became evident it would be a tight race.<br />
I didn't think it was possible.<br />
Insert my echo chamber guilt here.<br />
I didn't stop crying for the next 12 hrs, until the results were in and I sobbed myself to sleep like a baby.<br />
Perhaps I could have said more. Did she not know anything about this man???? She never even said "I voted for Trump."<br />
She said, "I couldn't vote for Hillary."<br />
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.<br />
With the promise of what? Working factory jobs at Riverport for minimum wage that doesn't cover the cost of living?<br />
She voted for Obama. She was ready for change. She had the hope he inspires.<br />
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.<br />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?<br />The world is falling down.<br />Hold my hand.<br />
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.<br />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?<br />
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 <i>as</i> marginalized as most of the students she encounters everyday. But struggling, nonetheless.<br />
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.<br />
The irony is this: it's hard not to turn it into a defense of my mom.<br />
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.<br />
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.)<br />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..."<br />
Before I got "you" out, the kid was on me. Coming at me, hitting his chest, "You talkin 'bout my momma."<br />
The world is falling down.<br />
Hold my hand.<br />
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 <i>against</i> 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.<br />
This young man clearly had no such privilege.<br />
My mom is in this school all day.<br />
There is little to no humor in such an environment. It is no laughing matter.<br />
My mom loves to laugh.<br />
There is angst. And after 8 years of hoping and nothing in her micro-environment changing, she got distracted by a clown.<br />
Like a child.<br />
But she gave me life, and loves me and has been an awesome mom.<br />
Hence the therapy.<br />
Luckily I get to work on a show about civil rights. About our country. Based on <i>Our Town</i>.<br />
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 <i>Hamilton</i> 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.<br />
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 <i>The World is Falling Down.</i> 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 <a href="http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-36928990" target="_blank">Abigail Fisher</a> and a homeless woman who may or may not suffer from mental illness.<br />
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.<br />
I'm sorry that somehow my demographic, <i>my own mother</i>, had a hand in electing this madman to power.<br />
I will speak all the truth I know to this power.<br />
Truth trumps Trump "truth."<br />
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.<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpzuSUVfXJI" target="_blank">The world is falling down</a>. But I'm glad I have you.<br />
<br />
<br />Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-74435992482267706892018-01-05T23:14:00.000-08:002018-01-07T16:26:42.796-08:00La FlâneuseMy 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...<br />
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 <a href="http://www.emilykicklighter.weebly.com/" target="_blank">website</a> now, just brimming with photos of me...the truly curious can have a ball by tuning in there.<br />
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.<br />
Be the change you wanna see, right?<br />
I added the title <i>Flâneuse</i> to the brand line on the cards and as it turns out, it's a great conversation starter.<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>somebody's</i> reading this thing.) So there ya are.<br />
Flâneuse is the feminine form of the word which was less popular and altogether unlikely when the flâneur became the "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fl%C3%A2neur" target="_blank">emblematic archetype of urban, modern experience</a>." Mainly because the modern woman didn't exist yet. I referenced a great <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jul/25/flaneuse-women-walk-city-paris-new-york-tokyo-venice-london-review-lauren-elkin" target="_blank">book review</a> 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."<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
In short, flâneuse is the most concise way to say blogger/feminist/pedestrian/yogi/luddite/creative.<br />
Because that wouldn't fit on a business card.Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-79217303040150045752017-12-09T11:54:00.001-08:002018-01-07T16:25:28.711-08:00That double lifeBeing 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.<br />
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?)...<i>and </i>prove I was just as cute as my siblings.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
So I came back! But a few things have come to light.<br />
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. <i>He</i> was a light.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
Or a disease. Dis ease.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>is </i>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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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).Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7223861459791714370.post-1023740817544420912017-12-02T23:55:00.002-08:002017-12-03T11:39:05.121-08:00GraduationGraduation looms like a full paper white moon in the sky. So pregnant with promise! How tinged with transmutation!<br />
And so, I'm driven towards this medium once again. Encouraged by my moon sister. Moved by the tides.<br />
My maternal grandma (affectionately Mawmaw) interjects "and so" parenthetically in her speech so often, she'll even throw it in when <i>you're</i> 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.<br />
Ça va.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>anywhere</i>, 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.<br />
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: <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2016/jul/29/female-flaneur-women-reclaim-streets.">https://www.theguardian.com/cities/2016/jul/29/female-flaneur-women-reclaim-streets.</a><br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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<br />Miss Emhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15659287074357020422noreply@blogger.com6