"what they wanted I didn't have/and what I had/they didn't want."

Wednesday I received a UPS package from the British Consulate. I had assumed this was to be my visa. I was wrong. Apparently I was supposed to send my physical passport to the consulate, not just a color copy which was what I had sent off--in this day and age, the idea of letting my passport out of sight is frightening. So today I'll be getting a certified check made out for $12 (the mailing fee for the next time the BC tries to send me anything) and returning all of my paperwork, complete with actual passport, back to the BC. I'm concerned about how long it's going to take. I'm concerned about having my passport out of reach. And I'm concerned that I will get neither back in time to get on the plane at 9PM on the 30th.

Other than that, I have been trying to decide what to pack. I've talked myself into taking only five books with me, and only five movies, however I may ammend the latter and allow myself those five movies and all my seasons of Battlestar Galactica. Because, let's face it--I'll be lost without it. Here's what I have thus far:

1) Julie Taymor: Playing with Fire
2) History of the Theatre by Brockett
3) My copy of The Little Prince, circa 1943 (I like the older translation better)
4) The Pythons: Autobiography by the Pythons
5) TBA

The thing about choices 1 ,2, & 4 is that they are all weighty coffee table books. So one asks if there's much point in bringing three books that each weigh a little over a pound each. And now, the movies:

1) Trainspotting
2) Amelie
3) Withnail and I
4) Finding Nemo
5) TBD

Number five is going to be a really hard choice. Not as hard as trying to get on a plane without a passport or a visa. But I'm sure you understand.

Aaaaaaaaaahhhhh!!!!! Why can't life just fall in place already?! I am D-R-O-W-N-I-N-G here, damn it!

I've also become terribly curious of all the hits my blog has gotten lately from out of the US visitors. Who are you people? Make yourselves known, please!

"Feelings/Nothing more than Feelings"

I woke up today, early, feeling crummy. What had woken me, and kept me awake was my mind working at how I could, if I was able to, transport a fan I'd left at my former apartment back to New Jersey after my next upcoming visit. I still have stuff there, and have been toting a bit of it out, here and there, over the past couple weeks. After the last visit, I still haven't unpacked, partly because I haven't made the time to, and partly because I'm doing fine without all the stuff in that suitcase, so there's been no immediacy attached to that task. There isn't much immediacy attached to any task, really. But I leave in forty-four days. So something is clearly amiss.

My mother lately has been on me to decide what exactly I'm taking and what pieces of clothing I have in the house that I can be rid of permanently. She's seeing this, I think, as an opportunity to purge things. I cannot bring myself to even naturally think about packing, let alone force myself to focus on throwing things out. I've always been pretty materially-based, no matter how petty or un-yogic that may seem. I've always been a little messy. I have a lot of "stuff"--I keep getting reminded of this every time I move, of how much useless "stuff" I own. I am an only child, pretty spoiled I don't mind telling you, and "stuff" became important at some point. And I'm used to getting what I want (sometimes it takes longer than I expect it to, but most of the time I still get it). Now I'm stuck with so many things I wanted, but don't need. For instance, I can't keep track of how many books I own that I haven't read. I was at some one's apartment a few weeks ago, and I remarked on their collection of DVDs and VHS tapes--they had maybe twelve DVDs, and something, again, just over ten cassettes. This person has some years on me, and I was curious as to how he hadn't acquired more over the time of our age difference. He said he wasn't one who was really into owning things. It struck me then, that this idea had never occurred to me. I'm too much a materialist and grew up to support capitalism well--I am, of course, an American. But now, here I am, awake in bed just after five AM, wondering to myself:

LEA (V.O.):

Is it humanly possible to transport a baseball bat, a 9lb Body Bar, another HUGE suitcase full of stuff, and a large, rather cumbersome indoor fan, which I could really use in a room that gets no real ventilation? Is there some kind of bungie-attachment I can work out?

Then I look around my room and wonder:

Where's the shit going to go, anyway?

Having moved in some capacity almost every year for the past six years, at about the rate of two times per year (move in, move out), the thought has often crossed my mind that it would just be easier if there was a fire that engulfed everything, just letting me start over without anything. As some one who's seen a house after it's been burned to the ground--my grandparent's house back in the mid-nineties--I can tell you from experience, the reality of a fire is pretty horrifying. Yet, there I am again, with the same old fantasy of me with a matchbook, striking, striking out my whole past and maybe part of my present, just to lose the sense of baggage that comes with it all. Just dropping a match on the floor after I pour out some gasoline.

Helping some one packing up their apartment a few weeks ago, the movee talked about a married couple she had known who had been having problems, which ultimately ended in their separation. The couple had a couple of children and owned a house, and one day picked up and went their separate ways (I'm guessing one of them took the kids), abandoning the house and everything in it. Just left. The movee and her boyfriend drove over to clean it out--I can only assume to help sell it--to clean out this ghost house, that still had toys in the children's rooms. They just threw everything into garbage bags as quickly as they could--if they'd lingered at all, it would have got to them, that feeling of eeriness, of disquiet that comes from seeing rooms of things unused and in this case strangely out of context: a family home, complete with accessories, but without a family.

(And what about that vintage dress at Eleni's? She'd meant to try and mend it. How am I to get that back?)

I feel like Jennifer Connelly in Labyrinth, all her things on her back, or Steve Martin, leaving Bernadette Peters in The Jerk (God I love that scene). All this useless crap, and to what end?

Among the things left in the New York apartment are undelivered love letters, far past their time to be sent. What am I to do with those? I kept them because every time I went back to them, I was moved by what I read there, thought "These are real," and couldn't dare part with them. But what are they now but sentiments spent in vain, more so because they were never read by the addressee rather than the hopelessness that had surrounded that affair. What am I to do with them? I thought about using them for artistic fodder, but A.R. Gurney already wrote that play.

And the journals--I journal CONSTANTLY, and have built up quite the collection over time, though much of my journalling I'd like to forget. Another fantasy bonfire. But somehow, that seems like more of a crime.

All of these questions about things and where they go, what's useful and what's not, are elevated even moreso by the idea that: I'm not coming back. When I initially started telling people about going, one of the first, and what turned out to be the most common reaction was: "

VARIOUS VOICES, ETC:

You're not coming back, are you? You're going to find some British man, get married, and you're not going to come back.

Granted, this had been the childhood dream, compacted with guaranteed seasons at the RSC, and some project involving Judi Dench, and no doubt a West End revival of some American musical, of which I would be perfect for, no doubt. But time and experience have taught me, things don't always work out the way you plan. I can't bring myself to think about a lifetime I haven't had yet, don't know how to pack for it. And who can really plan for life anyway?

My parents have this saying whenever they leave for a trip, "If we forgot something, we'll just buy it when we get there." This covers those little inconsequentials like soap, hair pins, extra underwear, golf balls. My worry is that I'll forget something important, something vital. But as I look around at all of my unused things I wonder, "What, at all, is vital?"

As I said earlier on in this entry, I've always been a bit of a mess. By this I mean I've always been messy. My room has always been cluttered--not dirty but in disarray. I could use the assistance of a good Feng Shui agent. On the more messier and perhaps more "morbid" days, I have occasionally wondered, "If I died today, what would they think of my room?" Very much like that age old advice of always remembering to wear clean underwear, just in case you end up in an emergency room. And that always bothered me, knowing people wouldn't be able to just box things up, but that they'd have to clean up after me first. So now I'm functioning under the impression that I have to clean my room out right now for the rest of my life, just in case popular opinion's right, and I don't come back.

This entry is obviously uncharacteristic of what I try to do here. I try to write about art I'm working on, or what I think works about art that I see. However, not having a project currently in the works, combined with the isolation I've been feeling out in the boonies, have given me time to process more what's going on with me. And being aware for the most part of who's reading this blog thanks to Google Analysis (I see you, Alan!) and comments on entries, I feel like I'm expressing these thoughts to the people that I'd do so to normally, so I feel less guilty about the indulgence. And these are supposed to be letters to you all, of a sort. I guess whatever you have to tell yourself.

And now I think I'll make breakfast because that always feels like an accomplishment. And I know I don't have to think about packing any cookware. So it's safe.

Beaker: play me out.

"You used to be alright/What happened?"

Okay, this blog has gotten a little off topic, what with the Suzuki notes and the comic book conventions, so I figured now would be a good time for a little check-in* regarding where I am with the school process, etc. So here we go.

• I'm not excited, no. Please stop asking. The question comes up a lot, with knowing and expectant smiles on people's faces. But aside from my classmates who recognized the school's name at my Suzuki intensive the other day which brought out a bit of pride ("Here are people who really get where I'm going"), I have to say normally my reaction is a polite "yes," but inside I'm all, "not really." It's still too distant and too much of an unreality to be exciting, aided in part by the list below.
  
• I have not filled out my FASA yet. My room is jumbled mess, and somewhere, underneath the sizable dumping ground at the foot of my bed, in front of my dresser, in the great bosom of dirty clothing and discarded stuff (all sorts) buried, is my tax folder that I need to fill out my FASA. I haven't cleaned my room in almost a month, so I've not yet unearthed the paperwork. Filling out a FASA also requires a sizable amount of time, and that I just do not seem to have. Ever.
  
• I have not applied for my Visa yet. This costs $200, and I don't have it to spare, so I'm putting it off and putting it off and putting it off, while not putting away they monies I need to pay for it. (Lack of discipline regarding money is pretty flagrant with me, and has kind of been a life long problem. I was hoping I would be more responsible by now, and that it wouldn't follow me through this process. It has.)
  
• I still have no idea where I'm going to live. Which is troubling. The school is associated with the University of London, and while student housing is somewhat available for grad students, you have to make an appointment to see the space you'd be living in beforehand, and sign off on a paper saying you're okay with it. I am not able to travel to London before term (I'll be getting in literally a day before school starts) and so have no opportunity to do this. There is some kind of list serve that current students use to post available rooms for other students, but that's also with my acceptance paperwork, again lost in the room somewhere, so I haven't gotten onto the board. Also I'm in denial, and that's done it's fair share of keeping me away from actualizing anything like this.
  
• I'm still not technically a yoga teacher. Here we come into the "unfinished business" category. Besides having some loose ends with certain individuals in my life, there are some logistical things that need sorting out. One of these is my yoga teacher certification. I did a teacher training intensive in January, and due to my insane schedule that month (8 hours of training for five days a week, working part time three-four days a week, rehearsing two plays...the mind boggles) I opted to not do any of my homework, since we can hand it in late. I also, however, did not do my take home test. Part of getting ready is to secure my diploma from Yoga Works, so when I get over to England, I can try to get a job teaching, or maybe have the opportunity to teach privates (under the table=no British taxes!). But getting the diploma involves me sitting down and doing a month's work of homework, and a test that takes about two weeks to finish. And I'd have to pass it. I'm daunted by the paperwork (again: PAPERS!!!) and trying to excite myself to do it is hard, hard work.
  

Have I become, as I feared, one of those people who list out all of their problems on their blog and take no action in their life to affect the change necessary?

Maybe.

(Shit.)

But instead of that, I will try to use this as a check list for what has yet to be done, and hopefully it will help me step up and take some responsibility, once and for all!

That's what adulthood is about, isn't it?


*For the record, I hate the phrase, "Check-in." Saying "just checking in," however, seems acceptable, and has a lovely place in my heart, left over from a year of driving up to my friend Amanda's house and calling up to her window from the drive way, "Just checking in!" and then staying for dinner. Double standard, I know. I don't care.

NY Event Number Four: Seeing other important people read stuff.

(Posting a couple days after this actual post's date, because I just haven't had the time to sit down and really focus on this.)

Thanks to the generous thought of L. Moon in an effort to assist me in knocking things off my list, I went to an event called Public Lives/Private Lives, part of the Festival of International Literature being held this week in New York. PEN is the organization that is running the event, and this selection of readings took place at the Town Hall, a venue I'd never been to before. Basically, authors from around the globe, deemed important for whatever reasons (some of which I understood, others I did not), were brought together to read pieces from various work they've done. Salman Rushdie introduced and closed the function, and I must admit I didn't know who he was initially except as "that guy who was in 'Bridget Jone's Diary.'" The readers were:

1) Michael Ondaatje
2) Evelyn Schlag
3) Rian Malan
4) Peter Esterhazy
5) Annie Proulx
6) A. B. Yehoshua
7) Carol Bracho
8) Francine Prose
9) Ian McEwan

McEwan was the real reason I wanted to go--I have never read a lick of his prose, but I loved "Atonement" so much that I figured the author of the novel the film was based on would be well worth seeing. And he didn't disappoint. But it was great to hear several of the other authors as well, who, because of their international standing, I probably would have gone on without ever having heard of the rest of my days (though I could have been spared the two female poets, Bracho and Schlag, whose work did not impress anything upon me at all). Peter Esterhazy (that's him in the picture), a Hungarian, was really great, as were Michael Ondaatje and A. B. Yehoshua, all of who I plan to look up, whenever I finish the three books I'm already currently reading. Wait: make that four. I'm reading four books right now. Which actually means I'm reading no books, because I'm so overwhelmed by the idea of reading four books. Gah.

The people at the event were somewhat predictable. I looked around on the street while I was waiting for my friends to meet me out front before the start of the event and was struck with the thought: "These are people who read." I know this will make me sound like a jerk, but there is definately a specific demographic of people who in their personal identities border on academia (or have {or like to think they have} the prowess of academia), but still work "real jobs" and then go to these sorts of things and wear their tweed jackets or embroidered scarves, glasses (here it's okay to not put your contacts in), and velvet--there is always a lot of velvet at these functions, crushed or otherwise--to get closer to living that life that they don't necessarily live day to day. The women always give off an air of having read a lot of Jane Austin and that they hold those ideals found in her books true to their hearts, though now in our post-Nora-walking-through-the-door-age, they also accompany it with a sense of modern feminism: many will dress that scarf up with a pants suit. And the men come off quiet and thoughtful, with some kind of struggle between the eloquence of the words and works they try to produce, and that more masculine thing they had to leave behind perhaps to do so. And everyone probably listens to NPR more on principle, less because of enjoyment--I know I do. A few may have even given it money.

Where's Bukowski? Where's Hemingway? I want some one to read me a poem that will rock me in my seat, and then watch them throw up on stage. I want some one to look like they just walked back from an African game hunting expedition, slap a woman on the ass as they go up to the podium, and then promise to make it up to her by making love to her later in his hotel room in a way that she'll never forget and always regret that she'll never have again. Where are these characters? Hidden under all that wool? Perhaps.

I often wonder when I go to these sorts of things if I look like I belong. I don't read, not really, and I wonder if I look like some one who doesn't, despite owning several scarves, two corduroy jackets, one tweed jacket, one velvet jacket, two berets, and glasses (which I haven't worn since early December when I stepped on them); none of which I was wearing that evening. I wonder what I look like, if I come off as an actor at first glance. I always figured it was apparent once I started a conversation, and once some one gets to know me I think it's an undeniable fact--I am rather dramatic at times (or All the time). But I've always sought to be unidentifiable in a way, never wanted to be pinned down as this or that. I find labels annoying, and stifling, even though they are sometimes the best way to communicate ideas ("These are people who read"). Part of being an actor is to remain constantly available to change at any moment, whether it's your demeanor or your haircut. And how can you be that available if you fulfill any label wholly? But then a question arises when it comes down to personal identity-->who are you, if you're an actor, if you're some one that needs to be able to defy lables? And is this sense of need of some kind of vague, surface anonymity one of the reasons I'm having trouble getting myself in gear for school? Because to stand up and say, "I'm an actor, I'm a student, I'm an American, I'm a woman, I'm an artist," to say all of those things suddenly you set the bar, and suddenly you have to reach it.

One of the hardest things to do in life is to declare what you want, simply because there's a risk you won't get it. Then what are you--something to be pitied or mocked, neither very desirable attentions really. This is of course if you value other people's opinion of yourself to the point where that sort of thing becomes a concern. And I do. And the truth of the matter is, I view myself on occasion with enough distance and enough drama, to consider myself as something worth pitying or mocking. But I'm human, and all humans should be pitied and mocked at some point or other, just like they should be granted love and sympathy. Maybe "human" is the only label I'm really comfortable with at least acknowledging--the business of being human is far messier than most people give it credit for, and I won't say I'm completely comfortable with it because that would be a lie.

But of course we must risk something. Otherwise we'd just sit in our beds all day and never move, and die right there in the covers. So now I have what I want. And what do I do?

Oh, but how did we get here? I'm ending this post right now because I don't know what else to say, and frankly tying it up with a "lesson" is just too annoying. South Park can get away with it, but I don't trust myself to not end up writing something terribly cliche.

Do I deny my true nature by doing that?

"I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course."

(That title is not only appropriate, but a nod back to the fact that I forgot to post yesterday celebrating Shakespeare's Birthday. Happy Belated, my dear, darling, dead author.)

After a ridiculous chain of events that are far too boring and ludicrous to recount here, I finally had the check (British spelling: cheque) drawn up yesterday for my initial deposit to reserve my place in next year's MAATP program at Central (the acronym stands for: Master of Arts in Advanced Theatre Practices). It's to be made out for one thousand pounds (there's no way to make that symbol on an American key board in Blogger, it seems) and because it's an international draft, or some such thing, it takes two business days to make. I'm not certain why this is, but it is so, and so it is.

Anyway, after the whole transaction happened, I left the bank feeling badly. The mood lasted the rest of the day, this kind of nervous fear. My roommate (who should be making her cheque out today, incidentally) thinks that it has to do with a few things:

1) Spending that much money all at once can cause excessive nausea.
2) It's a LOT of money.
3) This is something that we are investing a lot in, and somewhat blindly.

I can attest for the nausea, no doubt--I have it right now, as I'm writing this post. And it's not just "I ate too much" nausea, it's "Why is everything spinning?", sea-sickness nausea. Somebody please bring me some Transderm Scop.

And it is a LOT of money. With the recession going on and the general weakness of the dollar (Remember that great sketch with Topher Grace on SNL? I do, but can't find a link to it to put here.), the check/cheque came out to $2,119.20.

YES.

Now, this may not seem like a lot of money to some, but it's quite a bit to me. And given the fact that exchange rates fluctuate daily, if I'd had the check/cheque made out on Sunday, or today, even, it would have only totaled a little over $1,970. This kind of fickle behavior of dollar-to-pound value fills my heart with bitterness. And it also makes the idea of living and existing in England all the more daunting, because I am a poor artist-student, and London is fucking expensive.

But, as I like to say, there are always ways of getting money. And bemoaning my poverty is much more appropriate in person, over high-priced drinks. So let's cut this one off right here.

The third reason is really the resonant one. Going over means a lot of things for a variety of reasons, but I suppose one of the chief ones is the hope that this experience will provide some answers, some clue as to what the fuck I should do for the rest of my life. Now, experience and yoga tells me that no such thing is possible. Nothing will ever give you a set answer because there is no "one answer" and if there was you probably already know it and are either not conscious of it, or you're just flat out ignoring it. But a clue would be nice. I'll even take a suggestion. Even a kick in the ass--not too hard, though please. I'm not really into that. Furthermore, taking this first step in really getting the gears moving in terms of getting myself over there makes everything suddenly overwhelming.

I should explain how I got this far: In November, I came home from somewhere, slightly drunk, with some kind of fire in my brain, logged onto the Internet, looked up Central, and after cruising around the site for a bit, I found the page that talked about US auditions. I registered to reserve a slot, but didn't give anymore real thought to it until sometime in December when I received a reminder e-mail from the school asking me to send in an application. A month later, I finally contacted my references and asked them to send their letters in, while I still hadn't filled out a single application. Cut to the last week of February, I finally finish my applications and Fed Ex them to England. They get there on Friday at noon. My auditions are Saturday and Sunday morning. My audition piece for the program I got into I finalized the day before, after figuring it out two days before the audition. The lag in this process followed me stil to sending the money off--I've had it for about a month, but now, with it due next Friday, I'm finally getting it there just barely in time to make this deadline.

Mastery of procrastination is one of my leading characteristics, it must be said. But I think part of the fueling of this procrastination is some denial of reality--the reality of the work that will be involved in just getting to England (flights, living space, setting up a bank account while over there, living costs), the reality of the work that I'll encounter (my program focuses on forms of theatrical production that I mostly know nothing about and have no substantial prior experience with, save the idea of development within an ensemble), and just the damned reality that the way of life as I've known it for the immediate past 5 years or so is going to change so drastically.

When it comes to the unknown, surely a certain amount of apprehension is to be expected. But I'm the kind of person who doesn't even deal with the immediate reality of change until about three months after the change has occurred: I float along, and then one day, BAM, the flood gates hit and everything flows through, taking out every large and small city in its path. I've been trying to think of this time I have left in NY as a kind of preparation, so that I'm not back-logging so much. But instead of acting I've just been dragging my feet more. (Go ahead and ask me if I've filled out my FASA. Go on. I dare you.) I fear taking responsibility for myself. I fear adulthood, and whatever sense of loss and hardship comes with it. The whole thing just seems so daunting, so why even bother, just stay here and have another drink, and do it tomorrow.

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow..."

So I'm freaked out, but not entirely willing to admit it (in my waking life, away from this forum, apparently), and while I know this is the right choice in the end, I hope to God I feel it at some point. And soon would be nice. Even if it was fleeting assurance.

And till then, I better get to work, because the recession is only getting worse, and I'll be lucky if a pound comes out to $3 by the time I get over there. Please forgive the introspective nature of this entry. Money does this to me.