exercise: letter to young person

Write a letter to a young person who is worried about the future.

Dear Friend,

What in the heck is going on here? Things feel bad, sometimes they feel good. Sometimes we forget, and are living in the moment. How do we keep going?

I am sorry for your stress. I am sorry that the weight of the unknown is building into something you can’t carry alone anymore. But I’m glad it brought you here.

I’m not too much older than you, you know. You’ve probably had plenty of experiences I’ve yet to have myself, in fact. The beauty is - we will continue learning together.

The truth is - I don’t know what the future holds. Sometimes I feel hope, and that is powerful. Sometimes I feel fear, and that is not so pleasant. As you already know, this life is a robust feast of varying tastes and colors and feelings and experiences. The Taoists would suggest that we can never really be sure of what is Good and what is Bad, as that it is all connected to each other - you never know what misfortune could guide you to somewhere better, and of course there’s the saying “be careful what you wish for” - what were we forgetting to appreciate while wishing away for something else?

The important thing is to remember that life is now. (This doesn’t mean to throw your computer out the window and run for the hills.) What I mean is that, if we’re lucky, we have time. It takes that time to build, for yourself, what you want to see in the world. It takes a lot of that time to realize that the life before you is a gift in itself. There is a balance to be found, and I believe we can do it.

It is okay to be worried sometimes. Don’t let it consume you. Keep going. Open your eyes. Smell the smells. Listen deeply. Breathe. And know that I’m always here. You got this.

Ansley

Failures/Redirections.

Recently I have been scouring my timeline highlighting delightful “successes.” Now here are some “failures.”

  • Did not successfully pass my first ~5 years of auditions at the Springer Opera House—Ron would tell my dad that he was impressed I kept coming back. We can blame my dad for assuring me after the first audition that not getting cast was not necessarily a bad thing. It changed my way of thinking. Both Ron and my dad have always said variations of “And that’s okay!”

  • Did not make track team in 7th grade!

  • Got fired from a theatre camp counseling gig when I was 15. On the date of a previously approved dentist appointment, someone got hurt at the theatre while I was gone - there were a lot of other camp counselors and I wasn’t solely titled “Safety Monitor” at any point. I got a call from the director, “This wouldn’t have happened if you were here. Please don’t come back.” There is much more to the story, contextually, which adds to its own round of failures and hard-earned lessons.

  • Rejected from Point Park University’s Musical Theatre BFA!

  • Rejected from Pace University’s Musical Theatre BFA!

  • Did not get accepted to the Disney College Program my first semester applying. I was way too honest in the initial vetting questionnaire: “Do you get upset if someone treats you poorly?” “Sometimes.” The computer couldn’t understand that this didn’t mean I acted on it.

    • Next round: we will present the best. Got accepted. Obtained Excellence in Service awards, a promotion, and was then awarded an extension to my ideal job and location. The extra semester at my school gave me a chance to perform and learn more, too. Not to mention all of the glorious people from both places I got to encounter because of the timing. Added lesson: I probably enjoyed my first role better than the one I requested—”be careful what you wish for.”

    • Made a mistake with a friend while we were down there. (See: prank-war with roommates, and one went too far.) After getting in some stressful trouble, we were graced with leniency. Changed my life.

  • College was solid. Didn’t get everything I applied for: nominated to give a TEDxUGA talk and the initial presentation did not go well (did not get passed on to next round,) applied to be a Tour Guide and an Orientation Leader- didn’t get those; auditioned for some plays and usually got a callback but was only cast in one small show put on by a student-led organization, which I did enjoy. I also worked my tail off for very mediocre grades.

  • Only hit my sales goal at Yelp a percentage of the time. Made appointments and pitched like a boss though—it made work fun. Wouldn’t push for sales when folks brought up concerns about money- still have room to grow here…

  • Asked to emcee an event years ago now. Said yes. Wasn’t given a set-list, and did not push for said set-list, and therefore, was truly, extremely, embarrassingly underprepared. Not only that- I got so flustered that I insulted the audience. It. was. bad. I continue to work on washing that shame away.

  • Was closeted.

  • Rejected from Highwire Comedy’s Livewire Sketch Team in Atlanta!

  • Rejected from DePaul University’s MFA in Screenwriting program!

  • Have applied, and I’d be interested to know the real data here, to probably well over a thousand jobs. I can be dramatic, but it has to be A LOT. Name of the game? Helpful nuggets have come from many notable interviews. (In this blog’s initial posting, I shared some of the nuggets. However, I’ve decided that the specificity was perhaps only informative for my own path, and have since wiped the quotes away.)

  • Have asked for raises that were not granted. Have asked for raises that were granted.

  • Humbled to receive an opportunity making great money in a great role for a great organization in my hometown, and walked away after just over two months. It did not align with what I was working on big picture, which I know is hard to understand. Learned a lot.

There is a part of me who loves relishing in the here and now, but personal/professional improvement/development is fuel for me. My hope is that in making decisions with integrity I’m led where I’m supposed to be. Considering both sides, maybe I am where I’m supposed to be.

Note: additional failures not listed.

road-trip

You won’t miss out.

My mom says, right before I leave, “this is wild behavior.” (Hint: upon my return she sends me the text “Yay!!!!! I’m impressed with you! You did something I never would’ve done. Love you!”) Sometimes we surprise ourselves. Emotional support appreciated.

I was certainly nervous, but I tried not to question it too much. No plans. “Sounds like the outline is complete and you’re working on the filling,” as my friend, Katie’s mom’s best friend, Diane, newly introduced to me on Tuesday regarding some bigger picture pathways.

My trek was Columbus, (GA,) Atlanta, Chattanooga, Nashville, Louisville, Indianapolis, Chicago, Milwaukee (Greenfield.) Nearly 1,000 miles (I don’t like putting the comma in “1,000,”) and 13-14 hours (additionally, I would much prefer “13/14” stylistically/aesthetically, but don’t want readers being confused if they read it to mean 13 fourteenths of one whole hour.) I was determined to do the drive in a single day. Stakes! Budgets! My sweet friend, Lauren, grew up in Louisville, so I ask her for a coffee shop there, do some light shopping in a few local stores, tee-tee, refill gas, and get back on my way. (1 stop was made before this, before I even got to Nashville. I am my mother’s daughter. And we need the stops!) It’s around this time when life started feeling a little weird- the midwest is suspicious. Do people really mind their own business? Why isn’t traffic bad? Hips and chubby thighs?! And the land was wide and open. What are all those white windmills for? Could certainly be aliens planting their seeds for a future siege, because that’s what it looks like.

I drive through Chicago, after making it through spooksville, paid somewhere close to $300 in tolls (lower end of $5-10), and was still feeling suspicious. We must keep in mind: these folks live in a frozen tundra 7-9 months of the year, and the flowers are beginning to bloom and birds are kind of out, and sometimes you even see a butterfly- it seemed somewhat acceptable that people were jogging together and going about their lives, in what I perceived to be, a pretty gloomy day. I saw a girl holding a canvas and smile as she caught the bus. Had to drive by Second City, even though it was a real inconvenience to cut into the city center streets from my direct, traffic-filled outside loopy street next to a big body of water (Lake Michigan.) A part of me wasn’t sure if I’d really get to come back to Chicago for some proper observation of life, so I let it go and kept back on to Milwaukee (Greenfield.) My friends, Katie and Aaron, just moved from Orlando, Florida to Greenfield, (15 minutes outside of Milwaukee,) Wisconsin. Personally, I was very excited. Katie and I met as 2 of a 6-roommate-apartment during our Disney College Programs, which was over 10 years ago now…………………………………………………………

Katie is just cool. She is funny, and thoughtful, and has taught me a lot about being a friend and loving life over the years. First night- we sit around the table with her husband eating cheese curds, and I’m finishing up a burger from Culver’s, and we catch up on the essential business. I go to bed, and start dreaming of possibilities in Chicago, as it doesn’t feel resolved from my earlier drive-through. Plus, I’m up here and I’ve never been to Chicago- I need to experience a piece of that.

Katie and Aaron hear news of a Chicago possibility and communicate the best pieces of advice to attend the new land confidently—they have both done this before and experience/travel a lot, so they know how to research where to park, paths, places. I feel ready. I book a hotel. I buy some tickets. I consider times. Create a short mental bucket list. We’re doing this. However, I get to rejoice in a day with Katie first. She took off from work, and she is taking me to some pieces of her own life, which I had requested. It was a special day, and of course we discussed musicals. I seem to get along with folks who can nerd out about musicals. We ended the night with a drive through downtown Milwaukee, and dinner in an 80’s VHS repair shop-themed speakeasy. It was all-around awesome—to list it all out would be redundant. (I really liked what I experienced of downtown Milwaukee!)

Next morning is Chicago-day, and I’m a little inconvenienced because sleep sounds and feels nice. The drive ended up being enjoyable though—I don’t totally hate it. I get to check into my hotel early, and enjoyed my brief time with their staff. I think- so people are just happy here? I get to my room and have a small emotional celebration. It’s rare that I book hotel rooms for myself. This room has become a safe haven betwixt adventures. I change outfits, then change back into what I originally had on, and set out afoot.

Coffee and breakfast sandwich first. I knew my first stop, my second stop, and was ultimately working my way towards INTO THE WOODS at the James M. Nederlander Theatre at 2pm. First few adventures complete. Core crew souvenirs obtained. Coffee shop. I sit outside. Right before that I get stopped by a Theology student promoting a discussion they’re hosting later in the evening, and was so spooked by what she was saying and the look in her eyes, that I could only think “I can’t go down that path,” before having a moment with this sweet shop and warm coffee drink (can’t remember which one) and sweet, sweet breakfast sammy. Full disclosure: I obtained a breakfast sandwich and coffee-variation earlier in the day—first stop. I took it to-go because I was focused on experiencing as much as I could in a condensed amount of time. I started eating it as I went back outside and walked to my next stop, which wasn’t too-too far. It just didn’t feel right, specifically as a chunkier white woman. It was not chic. I cannot tell you why exactly, but I threw that damn sandwich away after only a few bites. Plus side: it was not very delicious anyway. Awareness alert: I know the behavior isn’t excellent, but try to understand.

Okay, INTO THE WOODS was fantastic. Stopped for a deep dish slice on my way back to the hotel, before heading up to Second City later in the night. Went to the closest place because I was desperate for a recharge in my safe haven at this point. It’s a real restauranty-restaurant where folks are dining and drinking. They don’t do slices, but they can do a mini personal Chicago-style pizza. Fine, okay, still sounds delicious. I pay. I tip. I thank. “30-minutes?” Holy god. I look to the bar- I will drink. I get one manhattan, sit betwixt two respective couples, and watch the television with sports stuff on it. It’s sort of interesting. Meanwhile, the couple to my left—not romantic couple; they seem to know each other’s kids, perhaps old friends—are talking some real stuff. Out of respect, let’s leave it there. Pizza ready. To the hotel!

I eat the shit out of that pizza. Do I need to go to Second City? I’m enjoying occasionally scrolling about my phone. This movie is kind of funny. This bed… I set an alarm, and chill. I’ll decide later.

Alarm. I sort of change clothes and begin my walk to Second City.

Wild tales, watered down in maintaining a level head, incoming- I get to Second City and enter a line. The first group before me is a group of three. I think- oh, maybe this isn’t an alone thing. Yikes. The host celebrates my being alone. Another host walks me to my seat, and it is pretty much on top of another seat, where a lovely girl is sitting. A woman? A nice-looking person somewhere around my general age. I know I’m larger. Sometimes I like to pretend that it’s totally cool. (It is becoming cooler.) I hold my coat over myself for a minute, not knowing where a safe place to set it would be. Finally I locate a spot on the floor. I place it, and then mention to her, the girl whose lap I am in, how cozy we are having to get, to hopefully cut the obvious awkwardness of us being so close. She just laughs. The show starts, and there are people in our line of vision, so we have to lean our heads into each other, ON TOP OF THIS ALREADY TOO-CLOSENESS. Thank goodness she makes a comment during intermission to help alleviate THAT weirdness. She takes a chance, the one I was too frozen to make, and begins conversation. A few little synchronicities, mutual friends (from Columbus, shout-out!), and shared time n space. Going to a show alone? Best case scenario.

The next morning I’m up and at ‘em, and ready to hit the road. Stop for a breakfast sandwich and coffee. Put on musicals. This time, I am going to Franklin, near Nashville, to visit my brother, Dustin, and Melanie (sister-in-law I’ve known most of my life,) Simms (nephew-human,) and Oliver (nephew-dawg.) It’s always the best. I love those people with a lot of my heart. I think they love me too. And I think we always work towards understanding each other better, and enjoying this time. They’ve taught me about love and family through the years, too.

Next morning- coffee shop in Franklin, then I’m off to Dalton to visit with my Aunt Debbie and Uncle Joey. I have known these folks my whole life. I’ve not only known them, but I’ve loved and been loved by them, and their family, so much. They teach me about respect and honor and what family means, and working hard. A lot of big picture guidance, and heart. They are solid, and are dedicated to goodness. A part of me is nervous, because I don’t like to disappoint them, and I’m nervous that my current circumstances might be perceived as a light disappointment because it’s different, which I’ll face. They were lovely as ever, and my cup was overflowing by the time I got back on the road. It was good to visit each of these tight familial units as an individual, without my twin brother, and without my mom, and without a friend—just me. I felt I got to be myself a little more solidly, too.

Then back to Atlanta where I was greeted with immediate traffic, feelings, and ideas.

Hope you enjoyed this trip with me.

Much love,
Ansley

crossroads

This is where I face a moral dilemma, which I’ve since learned is antiseductive:

If I am focused on winning—on being the best—I’m inherently judging other peoples’ progress as being inferior or superior to my own. Our worth, no matter where we are on our respective journeys, is tied to how much exertion of this masculine “go get ‘em” that we’ve fooled ourselves into thinking we need for existential validation. We are no longer cherished individuals but turn into competitors.

Now, there’s another train of logic I dance betwixt (on a “betwixt” kix,) where I think- if I am going to share myself—heart, soul, mind, time, and effort—I want respect, and that seems to be earned by the level of craftsmanship and recognition to this one commits themself to. So, contradictory. I’ll work through it.

A few nights ago, a friend and I got together and wrote a 10-minute play. Because I have been on the business side of life for the last many years, quite practically I share: “It concerns me that people won’t want to come and see this.” She says, “I cannot think this way! We write what is interesting to us. I want a good story. It’ll speak to the right people if it’s meant to.” Fair response. While I knew the dialogue would be interesting, it was a conversation between two men, race not explicitly decided, but somewhat clear. A conversation that I think could speak to people, but one, based on the pure knowledge of who we were writing, may not be readily received or purposefully shared right now. Which could be harsh, but I feel that culturally, and necessarily, we are about expanding whose stories we are hearing. Maybe the exercise of our collaboration wasn’t to produce a hard-hitting success, but to continue evolving how we navigate creation as a team. No matter how it is received or whether or not we share the piece, I loved the time being spent. And I learned. Perhaps we were saying the same thing: Let us create what we want to create. (I’m obsessed with success.)

This means that in my pursuit of creation and sharing, I could bear to peel away some of the standard business-minded judgments I’ve cultivated through working in offices, which I admit, do speak to me on some level. Business can be really fun. It’s a creative collaboration towards a different product. But I think to this little piece I saw on Twitter a few days ago from Robert Greene: “It is in fact the height of selfishness to merely consume what others create and to retreat into a shell of limited goals and immediate pleasures.”

Ughfsahksjdklas discomfoooooorrrrrrrtttttttt.

So a level of responsibility to share one’s perspective and experience continues to ground. Despite the cringes I feel from my own self-righteousness, I do know that I can’t keep moving through, sensing what I sense, having people misunderstand so easily. Lizzo said “it’s selfish when you're creating it and selfless when you're putting it out." Who I am is created from necessity. How I share is where I feel I might be tripping up.

For instance, pouring all of myself into each social interaction or otherwise for the sake of presence is not sustainable. Or is it? In my selfishness, my processing of the world, I create a lot. Hundreds of projects, everywhere- songs, drawings, notes, scripts, stories, journals, paintings, sculptures, jewelry… I could probably be a better writer if I were hell-bent on being a professional writer, but I need words for me. Manipulating how I play with them for someone else’s comfort doesn’t resonate right now. So I’ll share pieces when I can, but know that it’s a rare shot I’ll stand out for my excellence in writing, unless it’s dialogue, but even then, the business of that craft is not entirely appealing to me. While it is selfless in the putting out- what if you do strike success? That is its own commitment. Regardless of the channel, I wanted to know and love who I was sharing—who I am sharing. I want to make sure what I’m sharing is pure-intentioned as it can be: a collaborative work BETWIXT the heart and mind—an offering in full.

Personally, power goes to my head. If I am to share, it must be a total act of love.

Betwixt intention and practicality, it’s taking some time. I don’t want to be a turd.

Peace.

cool shit I've done that doesn't specifically pay my bills

Alternate title: “Salary Expectations.”

  • “Awarded” “Class Clown” in high school, junior year. Then “Most Talented” senior year. It is recognized in each respective yearbook……… (All I can think is: “bish, don’t peak in high school.” I did not love high school and was not myself so worry not.)

  • “Awarded” “Best Sense of Humor” in my 2015 training class at Yelp, and that class was filled with genuine superstars.

  • Graduated improv level 1 at the PIT in NYC—was not very good. Took levels 1-3, and part of 4, improv at Village Theatre in ATL, and had so much anxiety, but met a fantastically fun bunch of people who I’m not sure I felt worthy of collaborating with at the time, but still laughed so hard with. Took levels 1-4 improv at Dad’s Garage in ATL, and still was not particularly excellent, but did learn to have a little more fun, a lot more confidence, and again, met some bright people who encouraged me to share myself in spite of the constant fighting. Took Improv at Highwire Comedy in ATL with prime collaborator and friend, and had the best class experience of a long time—the teacher and chemistry of the class were great. Took a few sketch writing classes there, and again, had such good learning experiences. Made friends who I still laugh and collaborate with. Was asked to, and fulfilled, a position TA’ing a sketch writing class, and I felt like I was right in place. And then began a stand-up class, and convinced other friends to join, then dropped it because I wasn’t making myself laugh and don’t like rules, especially when I don’t have to follow them.

  • Took a few acting classes at the Alliance with friends, and again, had such great teaching/learning experiences. Meaning- the instructors were present, and I trusted them. Learned more about myself, as I do in each setting.

  • Moved to New York City after graduating at UGA. (Let’s be real- I am proud to have graduated from the University of Georgia—it was on the outskirts of my wildest and earliest self-love dreams growing up. (Will, one day, get the vespa!)) Back to NYC- found a room in Bed-Stuy (Brooklyn) on Craigslist. Went to the meet-and-greet/viewing shaking in the snow/rain-boots my mom bought me, specifically in preparation for this new & slushy lifestyle. Was so inspired and bedazzled by the roommates. The three of us ended up having experiences together that I will never forget, and which I cherish deeply. It was also a very nice and affordable space!

  • What else, you ask? I co-created the Alliance Theatre Podcast with my colleagues, Ari and Jon. Ari and I shared the responsibility of production, and then when she went to another company, I took it on. Managed and produced that until I left, and passed it on to a newer colleague of excellence.

  • I did get accepted to Northwestern—for a Master’s Program. As I mentioned earlier, it is only astonishing because I never once, in my wildest dreams, even thought that this was in the realm of possibility. So when something like that happens, it is flabbergasting(: synonym for astonishing.) It wasn’t a degree for Neuroscience or Fine Art, but it was enough for me to think “wow, self, maybe you are worthy of some fanciness.”

  • When I was a kid, I wrote an anonymous love letter to my crush, and then through teamwork, he grabbed the note/I handed it to him when I told him “I wrote a love letter for my crush.” To the point: we didn’t move forward romantically. So I keep my loves secret mostly. Or I have.* A few years ago, I cleaned out some of those burdens of keeping one’s trap shut despite the swirling echoes of feeling beneath. To the point: I am mostly pretty honest about my feelings these days. Maybe not when I’m pissed off—working on it.

  • I interned at a radio station out of curiosity. I mentored a first grader at a local elementary school. I assisted with a local social art project. I paint. I write. I draw. I play with some music. We’re figuring it out!

Needs more: discipline, exercise, breathing, confidence, reading, water.

Peace.

Normal

“A rolling stone gathers no moss.” I’ve learned in recent years that moss is a sign of abundance. Do we want the moss or don’t we? Another proper crossroad: a move. A big one, or a little one?

New approach: Try to cook, bake, sauté, and sear ideas for caramelization and crisp with warm centers, instead of popping them raw into your mouth. (Side eye, ye dirty birds.) Inspired by sacred sexuality, what else are we releasing too soon, and for what outcome?

All I want to do is share what I ate for dinner: Crumbled up feta in a bowl and mixed it with greek yogurt, dill weed, and lemon juice; added some raw spinach, garbanzo beans, cherry tomatoes, kalamata olives, capers, and pickled red onion, then scooped variations with a toasted english muffin and layered with lox.

It might be nice to do a little traveling soon. Thank you to all forms of god for allowing me to write; and for my senses, and for some fascinating circumstances. Much love.

Content

very play. I mean no disrespect with the wild abandon.

I’m not a professional of any specific label right now. And it’s sorta tough, but sort of exciting. I find the therapeutic release of play (and share?) to be comforting as I continue to move forward in the unknown.

ooh la la: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=c-3x5dh5BcA

ASSTHETIC

Sometimes I live some life. I wait some days, mostly to recover: get rehydrated, neutralize my nervous system, process and let things go, grind to make up for lost time, and realign with my deeper mission. Sometimes it is fun to play and let loose, and sometimes, the socializing alone can do that for me—provide the excitement I need. As someone with social anxiety, learning to dive in anyway and to stay present and sincere is a most thrilling ride. And yes, I did giggle at myself for how I wrote that sentence.

So with some time away to put the blocks back together, I’ve been noodling. And I think “ooh, I’ll write about that!” and “ooh, that might be an interesting idea to expand upon.” And as I’m sitting here at Hodgepodge Coffee House in East Atlanta Village, steps away from where I am petsitting for an extended stay, I am just pleased with the circumstances. I am simply pleased to be sitting here and writing. And my outfit is sort of cool—authentic. Not something you’d see in VOGUE and probably not even something I’d want posted on an Instagram. I’m wearing a practical ensemble: sleeveless top for heat, but a more tailored and textured cut to provide sophistication; high-wasted shorts that don’t look great and that you can maybe see my undies through, but clean; socks I’ve folded over to prevent blistering from some boots I bought a few years ago and am breaking back out to break in—Clarks!; minimal bracelet- an evil eye on a red string, and a handmade beaded cuff with my name on it that my friend Katherine and I made together; jade elephant earrings that were handed down from a pal, Talia; and wet hair that is currently halfway tied up in a bun on my head; New Yorker tote that I got for free and use with pride; and a stone on a string that I got from a store in the mountains with my dad. Awesome, right? It is very me. A little sloppy, but comfy, and a little classy, not too shouty but assumes the confidence in taking up space. Things younger me would have worn, and probably did wear, until she felt pressured to shift into other appearances to fit in.

So. I wanted to write a little bit about spirituality. On my walk this morning, (my third walk, because I’m petsitting,) I thought about how lucky I am to have pals like Katherine and Lauren because we are all a *little* goodie-two-shoes, not intentionally, but from our upbringings that have religious ties. Yes, we’ve rebelled and continue to in our own ways, but the core of the good heart and gentle spirits, and at least an interest to be better humans, is there. And I was thinking I was lucky because sometimes I roll so quickly down a path and forget to slow down and breathe. Their spirits can sometimes neutralize my own chaos, reminding me to be more tender with how I interact. I like that gentler version of myself. It’s the self who comforts—who trusts.

My understanding of the human spirit continues to evolve. And I often times don’t love talking about it in words because I personally do not like when I feel preached at, or like someone is trying to change me. I do suspect we are all here for different reasons, and my journey may not reflect yours. The beauty of empathy and compassion is slowing down to try and understand, and perhaps allow what/who is happening before you, and reassuring the trust of their path as solidly as your own. And if something is offered that helps inform yours, it’s like extra icing.

So I don’t totally know how to write about the human spirit. And if I were wiser I’d barf all this out, all of it, things I haven’t even written yet, and would let it simmer more and organize it and present it in a perhaps marketable lingo. But I am in a rebellious phase. I am being my strongest me. What we know of her so far. Them? Her. Open to exploring the pronouns, but I love being a lady. I love it. Always have. Periods and all. In the same way hippy folks discuss ONE LOVE, I think ONE SEX. But that’s a little too in the clouds right now.

Spirit. Sometimes, I have a strange fear that if I don’t ground and build more sturdily in the tangible world, that my spirit will be like PEACE and I’ll just die and it will float away to some other experience. So I’m trying to get my human body and mind to work with the wildness within. Use the power for good, yanno?

It’s sort of a wild experience right now. I have always wanted to be free in how I lived my day-to-day. I really enjoyed/enjoy working, but to sit in a cubicle felt like waiting. Right now, I am spinning plates: I am petsitting for multiple homes at once, driving for UberEats when I get a minute or have the interest to boost my bank, take TaskRabbit gigs occasionally, and am attempting to continue to take it one day/a few days at a time.

My spirit is happy. I’m laughing and being silly again. I’m loving on myself and other people, and my interactions out in the world have been validating to my experience. When does that happen?! Like I am being rewarded for existing. I can’t brag here—but it’s been good stuff. And unfortunately, I can’t hold onto the words for too much longer after they’re given to me because I’ve moved onto other dramas.

SPIRITUALITY. I pray when I remember to. It’s become more of a regular practice. And let me let you in on a little secret: the days I pray are a lot better than the days I don’t. Like the universe is like “you finally spoke it out loud—here you go!” For instance, I do get panicked about money. I’m 30 and don’t have much material wealth, and am somewhat struggling to solidify stability on income streams. I’m not mad at it, (maybe occasionally ashamed and stressed,) because I do feel like in order to build something wholly authentic to me, I have to slow down and listen to what feels right and what doesn’t. So my current gigs are stellar, but you can’t move too far ahead, and so far, I haven’t been able to get above a certain level. So, I pray. I met a woman about petsitting this weekend, drove for UberEats, then got 3 or 4 folks reaching out about petsitting in the immediate. I saw petsitting business decals on cars, and Lauren and I sparked an idea about petsitting business cards or flyers of these little animal art drawings I’ve been sending to pets’ owners to be a little silly. Because I am building for the long haul, I just have to make sure each step, like I said, is authentic. So, yes, I have ideas, but there are plenty of them and every part of my being would like to align before stepping, if I am in charge. (I can get stuck.)

It’s sort of funny how life shifts. I was always convinced I was going to be a performer of sorts. The whole acting thing… I just don’t know - I’m not certain it allows for a best self. Comedy? I feel like it’s a lot of navigating and begging for a morsel of attention. I can make my buddies laugh now. I can be fully present now.

Any of us could die… at any moment. I would like to keep stretching it out to see where I can go and what I could become, but, sometimes our purpose is simply to be and inspire others to do the same. What are we doing for others’ opinions of ourselves as opposed to what is whispering from within? It’s tricky. It’s wonderful.

My butt is sweating and I gotta get up to get a drip. Brb.

I’m back now. Light roast, a little half and half. They were out of medium roast, and I started this adventure with a hot dirty chai made with soy milk. You can’t beat that beverage right there. I loved a woman, (not because of, but enforcing,) who drinks a dirty chai every day. In college, I would skim close to pennies because I’d go for the dirty chai instead of the drip. Today, I get both. I think I am going to camp out a little bit. I picked up PLAYS by George Bernard Shaw, have nowhere to be until later in the afternoon, and am sitting on the damn stage up in this joint.

I look over to the bookshelf: LOVE THE ONE YOU’RE WITH is the first thing I see. Right now, I am loving the one I’m with.

This morning in my prayer I added in a sort of meditation where I asked to be a sturdy fortress of love—like I was my own mother, my own father, my own lover, and community, all here supporting me and ready to catch whoever approached. I have been to a few events recently and, at times, noticed I didn’t feel awesome and think I was able to sort of pin-point the differences: what are we doing for love vs. from love? It has changed some intentions on a micro-level.

Spirit. (Do I have ADHD?)

Spirit is love. I typed that without thinking. Who knows if it’s true. Humans have created so much of these structures we live and die by. It’s wonderful we’ve done something… but I think we know things have to change. The expanding disparity between classes. Men telling women what to do with their bodies when they have no idea of their responsibility in that evil. Racial tensions, subconscious biases, and baseline injustices happening left and right, perhaps caused by our own hand even. Political garbage. And then the emotional manipulations and power struggles that happen on a direct and interpersonal level? There’s so much!

I’ve always had a fascination for Philippe Petit, a tightrope walker. When I graduated high school I discovered a documentary about him. I read a book about him. In college, a few years later, I gave a speech about him. I’ve watched additional programs about him. (I have proved my interest, yes?) His gentle assuredness that he was meant to walk betwixt (GOTTA) ridiculously tall things, and his unbothered attitude towards anything else, sort of struck something very honest within me. Is that spirit? I bring him up because he popped up on one of the accounts I follow last night—some quotes: “I found out that total creativity involves a certain intellectual rebellion…not to become a criminal, but…you have to do things that are a little bit forbidden. You have to feel free.” … “Anyone that embarks into the arts…even….the art of living as an extension, will have the most difficult life because it’s opposite of lethargy and laziness and dragging your feet and dying as you live.... If you find the motor necessary for a great life, which is passion, you will have a difficult life and at the same time your life will be very easy in a sense that you will not have to struggle to find ways, it is in you, it devours you, you have to do it… using your intuition and your passion.” And then I have added this photo as my lock screen background:

 
 

Lauren and I have joked about being lightrope walkers. Lauren is a big spark into the esoteric world that I didn’t realize, in words, was within me. It’s been a real gift. *Maybe there is more than *this* already here.*

Yanno- this light roast… I might enjoy it better than the medium which I had requested. I have been off of coffee for a few days, mostly for it’s lack of convenience and pompous prices.

Just spotted: BRECHT ON THEATRE—THE DEVELOPMENT OF AN AESTHETIC.

See? I am picking up the titles, but to wholly dive into the words is another story.

Spirit.

I feel good about where I’m going. What’s happening. My mom is less naggy about my unconventionality, and continues to send me love and nurturing via text while I’m away. My dad is flirting with support in the “Screw the 9-to-5’s!,” which has NEVER been the case previously. I feel lucky. My grandmother, who I wholeheartedly adore, is still alive and calls me. My aunt and uncle, who are two of the greatest, are still invested. My older brother is the embodiment of what it means to be good and do responsibly because it’s just who he is. I’ve got friends whispering up from the edges who are ready to swirl together again. I get to hang out with dogs, and don’t have the full-time responsibility of having my own right now! Like- lucky. A lucky freaking ducky.

AND- I am letting myself be silly and have fun, despite of what is socially acceptable. I try to consider those restraints, but a free spirit gotta wiggle and shout when it’s right.

So, here are my guts. I want the best for everybody. I’d really like to acknowledge peace with what already is, and trust that folks know they can come to me safely at any point along their journey if they have questions or need answers. I’m a pretty excellent communicator, so if sharing the truth doesn’t get me what it is I think I want, I have to trust that it isn’t meant for me anyway. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

IN SEARCH OF THE MIRACULOUS- the next title I have looked over and seen.

A woman came into my bubble to look at the shelf herself—she grabbed one, but I couldn’t see which. She is sitting near, eating a pastry, and I sort of like that threads that have been, I want to say sewn, but maybe recognized, that are present now. As simple as one interaction can do a lot.

From BRECHT ON THEATRE:
”How ought they to act then?”
For an audience of the scientific age.
What does that mean?
Demonstrating their knowledge.
Knowledge of what?
Of human relations, of human behaviour, of human capacities.”
…
”What ought it to be like, then?
Witty. Ceremonious. Ritual. Spectator and actor ought not to approach one another but to move apart. Each ought to move away from himself. Otherwise the element of terror necessary to all recognition is lacking.”
….
”For this audience hangs its brains up in the cloakroom along with its coat.”
….
”Difficulties are not mastered by keeping silent about them.”

This is getting good.

Mucho lava.

being gay

Being gay was kind of like being fat. It was something I really wanted to keep secret, so I shut off the possibility that I was a sexual being at all. (How is that like being fat?) Being fat, and I’ll speak for myself, I sort of ignored that I had a body. (How?!) I hid under loose clothing, jackets when it wasn’t cold, sillies when I wasn’t feeling silly, perhaps as a way to distract, and didn’t go out when I wanted to because it was easier to stay inside and remain unseen. How could I face them seeing me when I wasn’t seeing myself? Being fat and being gay were “wrong,” where I’m from. So I continued to chew on my wounds in private.

Recently I went to a monthly event in Atlanta celebrating gay women. It is rare, especially as I become more acquainted with the introvert within, to get me to attend anything like that. When I lived in NYC and first moved to ATL, I attended a lot of pride/queer-centric/gay events with my gay guy friends, but I most definitely would not look women in the eyes. Even still I wonder if I try to float above my sexuality; or hide beneath it.

Anyway, so this recent event in Atlanta. I was very nervous. Walking into the bar, I saw A LOT of gay women. I had never experienced energy like that before. I don’t know if it is because I am more in my body and understand it’s connection to the world, or because I’m older, or am fully stepping into this reality of being, (OR BECAUSE WOMEN ARE POWERFUL,) but I nearly began trembling. Still- very little eye contact in the beginning. “Get my drink, find my friend, wait to leave.” (It’s been a long time, folks.)

I walked outside and was immediately greeted by a group of queer strangers. Very friendly. Okay, I’m easing into this. Then met another group of queer strangers. Then another. Then another. I laughed like I haven’t laughed in years. I sort of felt seen.

The tune changed when I got home and thought- so I’m not a freak? I’m just gay. Perhaps both. But we all saw each other. Like the pain we had been through in hiding or exploring something different from the norm had brought us to a similar plane of seeing. It was a great night.

Being gay isn’t about finding someone to have sex with whose energy or genitalia might reflect your own. Or maybe it is! But what it has meant to me is knowing I’m different, developing other parts of myself outside of that, finally facing and accepting this very real truth and reality, and sharing it.

We all need each other. We aren’t alone. We deserve to be seen.

(Additional note: A very incomplete piece. Deserves more.)

 
 

Peace.

The Art of Camouflage

 

Granny, after her sister’s funeral. Following the tears she kept on her shades, slip, and pearls while we sat in her library. She laughed about how pissed Diane would’ve been knowing that her makeup was done so horribly in the casket…

 

Sometimes I put off the most important things. You want to do folks justice. My grandmother is in everything that I do—I’ve gently honored my own inspired urge to celebrate her being in past works, but it still hasn’t clicked. Her character is delicately created, sacred, and important. How do you solidify something, someone, almost mystical? I am doing to do, and hope that we can continue to build and celebrate with time. Here is an offering.

The Art of Camouflage. “Camouflage” was the word to which I lost my sixth grade spelling bee—my knack for humility was perhaps chosen for me. My grandmother has a framed photo that has been in her Barnesville home for as long as I can remember- it is a Native American riding a horse, and the bottom the photo says “The Art of Camouflage.” I didn’t comprehend the text until my most recent visit with her over the holidays. I almost didn’t share this because we live in sensitive times, and I don’t want to unintentionally out her for something that has been such a major part of her life, or hurt someone else out of ignorance or insensitivity.

She called me after I grabbed a drink with my friend Jasmin and her new husband. Granny inquires about a postcard I sent her- “did you make this yourself?” I couldn’t fully remember but I usually only send handmade postcards so I respond “I think so.” She responds, “Ansley, you are wasting yourself!” If you heard the tone you’d know it was a nice exclamation. 

She begins brainstorming of all the ways I could share my talents with whomever. For a woman with Alzheimer’s, she is still pretty sharp. She stirred an inspiration that is always there, but then I recognize that maybe we could share this moment and I begin to stir about her.

For years I’ve wanted to create something honoring her essence. In fact, I wrote a scene to present at my Springer Theatre Academy wrap-up one summer that featured her. A few years ago, I needed real word-of-mouth intel on an old star for a work project, so I called her and she spent hours telling me everything there was to know about this character. Every time we’ve talked since- “Ya know, he had two famous pets,” and whatever else had popped in her head since previous conversations.

Here is the really fun part. The thing I have always been curious, excited, perplexed, and impressed by…

I counted: Granny, or Sandra Elaine Daniel Usery, has 273 binders in her library filled with the scrapbooked chronicles of any old famous movie star you can think of, probably from before the 60’s.

TWO-HUNDRED-AND-SEVENTY-THREE.

That is a lifetime of studying the lives and careers of our biggest first wave Hollywood movie stars. Like they were friends. The curiosity…

I always remember Granny being glamorous, but she didn’t have an interest in being recognized for that. She dichotomously took in wild animals and saved hurt birds on the side of the road, let woodpeckers build homes in her home, and gave me and my twin brother, Daniel, more cookies than we could stomach. She also loved sweets. She made pallets on the floor of her living-room for me and my cousins, and sang beautiful little songs I had never heard before while doing little dances that I had never seen before. Very softly, mind you—her voice weakened as she grew older, “because of her allergies.” She was allergic to both cats and dogs but didn’t let it stop her from loving on them. This is all too familiar.

Granny wanted to be a movie star in her adolescence. She started going to “the picture” as a lil kid with her dad, and said she immediately fell in love with it. She got hand-me-down magazines from a neighbor and began cutting the movie stars out and putting them in notebooks. She collected tabs from old milk cartons in exchange for a photo of a star. She acted, was voted “most attractive” in high school, and then had a teacher in college, Miss Stacey, tell her she was too sensitive to ever make it in the biz.

She met my grandfather and chose him. They had my dad, Chad, and his younger sister, my aunt, Stacey. Recently I found out that Stacey was named after Miss Stacey, the teacher. When I asked her about the connection, she didn’t feel the need to go too much into detail about it. She loves her kids, she loves her grandkids, and she loved her husband. It was a simple matter of fact that this was the life she had chosen.

I think I came into the world loving Granny. (Note: She tried to get me and my brother, Daniel, to change this to “Grammy” as my younger cousins were born and she thought it sounded better, but it was too late. She is Granny to us, Grammy to them.)

We sat in her library watching movies and eating cookies. We saw the workshop. It was a very natural thing to see.

She has always taken a great pride in this movie star collection. More and more, especially as I myself get older, I can see why- it is a life’s work.

When you ask her about any of the original movie stars, (“old movie stars” seems off,) she names the films they’ve been in, but also almost always pairs it with all of the hard times they faced. And those hard times were publicized. When I walked into her library during this most recent visit, there was a magazine with Shirley Temple’s photo as a child and a title that said “The Dark Side of Old Hollywood.”

As I open up with the intent of understanding, I wonder if she had an unspoken desire to justify not going for that dream. I asked her and she said she just loved the glamour of it all.

She is always supportive. Always honest, but always supportive.

When I kept thinking about acting, she assured me that if Melissa McCarthy and Rebel Wilson were doing it, I could too. We didn’t skirt around the obvious truth that I enjoyed food. She warned me of all the politics and the need to make connections for it to be a practical endeavor. When I swerved towards comedy she was supportive in that, although we didn’t know how to connect about it as easily - my dad was our thread there. When I swerved towards painting little postcards she pushed me to go intern with local art programs. When I swerved towards getting a lil business job to pay bills and slow down, she celebrated.

Sometimes I wonder about tradition, and the karma, I guess you could call it, of our ancestors. As I go along my journey I wonder if I should use her offerings to do the thing we so feared…

and as I write this, I wonder which I would fear more: pursuing an artistic career for ages of struggling in the hopes that I’ll meet external validation, or sitting still with that soft inner voice reminding me to be here now, and that love is a practice in presence and gratitude, which might be thankless, but it might be lighter too.

Granny makes the world better. Within reason, her life has been of her own creation and choices. Now, if you ask her if she wishes she had done anything differently, the presentation of the idea almost feels absurd. When you meet her, you’ll understand that she is good as can be—pleased to enjoy a private and rich existence, with no one invited to judge.

pet peeve

If you wouldn’t say it to someone’s face, don’t say it behind their back.

They don’t have the opportunity for awareness and improvement if you use one’s humanness against them, attaching judgments from a limited perspective.

We are mirrors for one another. Make sure you aren’t doing the exact thing you gripe about first. Chances are- you are.

It is brave to communicate. It feels good to work together. Clear communication could lead you to greener pastures before your very eyes. Let’s do better together.

I believe in this.

Much love, from this sensitive soul.

A

one person's two cents

In 2016, I sat in a bar with some friends watching the election results. It grew painful to watch at times, but at around 10:30pm, I was tired and decided to go home and go to sleep, assuming we’d do the right thing—not fully worried.

I woke up the next morning, I guess that was November 9, checked my phone, and heartbreak struck. And shock. And… confusion? I let go the night before assuming we’d do the right thing.

Then followed four years of utter ridiculousness. People were awful. Then people were awful in response to people being awful. Then we were just all awful to each other, on top of the political and structural stresses we were already facing.

It’s been a weird few years. Terrible at times. Not everything is GOOD. In fact, a hell of a lot seems plain bad. There is a war.

I struggle with what to do. Do we put in the work to nurture our own private world and call it a day? Do we share whatever resources we have to help folks? Do we remain silent so no one directs their anger at us? Do we join in on the shouting because we are angry too?

I still don’t know.

The assumption in 2016 caused a lot of pain—assuming the right thing would just happen.

We share the responsibility of making something we are proud of. We need hope, belief, and honest teamwork to get there.

I wrote earlier last year- hope isn’t quite belief. Hope works its way to belief, right? Right now, we have to invest in hope in the smallest ways we can. The desire for something good—which, yes, desire causes pain because our expectations are hit, but a committed allowance for good opens us up to recognize that there’s more of it than we initially thought. Maybe I’m projecting my own sense of loss and fear; of which I feel a responsibility to turn my own vision around and stay strong—to outsmart my own demons, fueling and feeding the dogs leading this sled in a more positive direction. Sometimes, that can feel like a lot of work when you’re so aware of all the bullshit. That work feels worthwhile though, to believe in where you are going… belief is a whole other level of magic. And I hate to use that word, magic, but sometimes, it’s the only word to describe what is possible. When you have experienced something really wonderful, you know that good things DO happen—can happen. Sometimes you just have to look for it; WORK FOR IT.

The world feels chaotic right now, which means I might be keeping up too much on my screens, or that I’m growing up. Any chance for focusing on your own peace is diminished by the awareness of inadequate action- “I could be doing more.”

I just don’t know, and I certainly do not have the balance figured out. But I am trying to share as I move through, because I don’t want folks to feel alone. Whatever moments of hope and believing in something good, and witnessing something good, might spark something for someone else that helps someone else.

Sometimes it feels like we are fighting for hope. I am okay to face that. I am with you. People gotta work together.

I am a greedy enjoyer.

I have these ideas for something to write about, and almost can’t get here quickly enough.

“Queen” by Perfume Genius plays on a small speaker next to me. I’m on my second cup of coffee at 2:44pm, and am sitting on the balcony of my friend, Emily’s, apartment. I’m cat-sitting Baldwin, my nephew.

Okay, so I come here today because… hear me out:

You know that feeling when you’re in love? Or when it’s Christmas, or your birthday if you dig those? Or a week after seeing a really good play or concert, or your best friend of 15 years? There is a little pep in your step in each of these moods. Like there is a safety net of cozy feelings to catch you if something pokes.

I think I am trying to figure out how to allow that feeling as often as possible. Even without the circumstances.

So, those circumstances are all attached to a judgment we’ve formed. IS IT POSSIBLE to rewire our judgments to be more independent? I’m diverging…

Can we get excited about these small things, just as we do for the big ones? There are more of the small ones anyway, right?

I’m working on the confidence to share this idea. I was nominated to interview to give a TED Talk in college, and when I spoke to the board I pitched “be happy.” After they looked confused as to why I was sharing this, their response was “isn’t this a bit cliche?” I remember thinking- then why aren’t you doing it?

“Nice is different than good.” (RIP the great S. Sondheim.) If we are only doing things to present the next big thing, we waste a lot of time actually enjoying the richness of what is already around us. It takes dexterity and agility and an exhausting presence, but… it’s helped me slow down a bit. Which ultimately, feels like a good thing.

Now, don’t take my advice and ideas too harshly. Just try it if you think about it. I’m still figuring out a lot for my own. Like a plane spooked to land, to put it dramatically.

Good luck.

bucket list

  • make a rubber stamp

  • be able to consistently rip it up on the guitar

  • make own clothes, tailored for me

  • travel to other continents, and I don’t know why exactly but I want it to be for work

  • have my own lil doggy, and when I have my own crib, I think having a cat, too, would be nice

  • long-term: build and decorate my own luscious space

  • have consistent early friday morning coffee shop friendship hangs

  • keep my home ready for guests, preferably with coffee, wine, treats on hand

  • shopping spree with no limits

  • true and lasting love 🙃

WILL ADD MORE LATER

people who need people

Luckily, I am not a Roman emperor, so the pressure to thoroughly suss this out is low. However, I will share, and realize that this will continue to evolve.

People are entire universes—each person you meet can introduce a new way of being. “What is it they see? Oh, that perspective feels good. How did they figure that out?” It may be as simple as “What is it exactly that I love about them?”

I’ve heard that we become what we love. If we love a lot, perhaps we are rich in our own being.

Here are some things I’ve learned from folks that have helped me love my own life more, and keep in mind that this cannot do them the justice they deserve:

Greg is his own muse. He used to stand by this Henry David Thoreau quote- “live the life you have imagined.” For him, this meant putting on jazz music as you cook a sweet meal, wearing cozy socks and other pieces of clothing that inspire you, having fresh flowers in a vase, waking up early to celebrate breakfast with friends, and acknowledging that life is happening now. For him, it also meant moving to NYC. He knew he wanted that, and committed to it. He very much lives his imagined life. Our friendship has continued to evolve and shift over the last twenty years, but the constant bell of truth: we both want to enjoy our lives. How do we honor that independently while helping to enhance that for one another, respectfully? I’ve learned a lot about being yourself boldly and having fun. Also, he has a sense of humor that is unmatchable.

My mom. My mom is, hands down, the most difficult person I’ve ever come in contact with. Sound like a familiar dynamic, to my fellow mother-and-daughter duos? My mom speaks in a way that naturally vibrates against any sort of peace I’ve been able to grasp. She is very honest, but also very precious, and it sort of just pisses you off. Because you know you love her, and you know she is gonna hurt your feelings, whether she means to or not. What I have loved about getting to know her better as an adult is that she likes to live her life like she likes to live it, and it ain’t none of your business to criticize it—and even if you do, she will not change for your comfort. But, if she really loves you, and you’ll know when she does through a subtle yet sturdy loyalty, you’ll start to witness the small changes she makes to share. What I’ve learned exactly, in words? Patience. Compassion. A sense of humor that’ll kick you in the nuts. She is a survivor. She’s learning just like the rest of us, and I have loved watching it. I am so relieved and grateful and blessed and proud to be her daughter.

Katherine- an easy one to write. Katherine is perhaps the most generous person I know. We know the quote, and it was recently referenced in a movie I watched: “attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” When you offer Katherine space, you are offered extreme attention. She watches for quirks and listens for games and allows herself to jump on your wavelength for the sake of connection. She affirms, and weaves, and shows her heart. She is multi-talented and extraordinarily gifted, but it is how she chooses to distribute those gifts that I am inspired by. She follows the melody of her soul, and creates harmony with others’. Katherine reminds me to expose my heart, on occasion. We are all better for it, and from knowing her. Goody is a goody goody and will forever be my sweet, dear goody goody—she didn’t let me push her away when I was going through my own rough times, and that’s the sort of gift you can’t imagine.

Ron was my man. Forever affectionately referred to as my Dumbledore. I still have visions of him and his wisdom, and character. He was everyone’s Dumbledore—that’s the trick. Ron was balanced: welcoming, but not over-giving. There was a clarity of pleasure in seeing someone. When I was 13, Ron gathered me, Greg, and our friend Jennifer into a group and hosted a “Ron-talk.” This is when you got a firm talking to about a concern that keeps coming up, guiding us to acknowledge it ourselves. Ron pointed out that we were leaders and encouraged us to spread the wealth with other classmates instead of remaining as this towered clique—an a-ha moment. The intentions weren’t bad, we were just hanging out with each other because it was comfortable and fun. But the opportunity to know other people and help them feel included might make more of the experience for everyone. Ron had a way of seeing practically, but gently and with space for optimism.

Lauren has been sort of a Dumbledore-type figure, funnily enough. We met in an improv class, and after day one we all went to grab drinks, and she and I sat next to one another. There was a cockroach walking around on the patio outside and I made some sort of comment about it—I’m pretty sure I was freaked out. She responded with “you think he’s spying on us?” It was an instant recognition for me- “oh hey.” Months later we grabbed lunch on a break and she pulled out a notebook to write down something we were talking about. An even more inspired reaction- “we can do this?!” She recognizes that life is art. She is the closest thing to THE ARTIST’S WAY in a walking person. She so nimbly and adeptly swerves any problem or worry into something deeper you’re trying to communicate with yourself, or challenges you to see it as a gift. Lauren’s home is this moving art gallery for spiritual connection and play—things are always changing and moving, and there are treats around every corner. It was Lauren who fervently stated my being as an artist. It was Lauren who helped me find and celebrate my own light. Lauren is the real secret agent—playfully stirring inspiration reminding folks to live, while also honoring inner peace. Excited to see what unfolds for her.

Val. High school theatre teacher! Taught me how to be a leader when in a position of power, and how to take that responsibility seriously. She taught me how to take pride and ownership of where you are: if you see trash on the ground, pick it up and throw it away—a lesson that working at Disney World enforced. She inspired me to be good-spirited. She taught me to dig deeper upon meeting an impulse, exploring the WHY in words.

Dad! A man who just wants to have a good time. He has taught me how to create your own adventures, even in the little things. He taught me how to brighten the day of the person you’re with—that being in a good mood does take energy but it’s worth it for the sake of the experience. He taught me that you have to live with you, so you better like it. He taught me that it’s okay to try to make yourself laugh instead of the people around you, because then at least you’re having fun. He taught me that sometimes you have to fake confidence until it becomes a part of you. He taught me that being silly is extremely freeing- you can’t imagine the made-up songs I’ve heard in my lifetime. And the Seinfeld-worthy jokes that are etched into my mind forever. He taught me to question things; when I started being old enough to understand pieces of what was being communicated at church, he would say to consider some things as metaphors, and that some lessons were outdated, and that it was important to listen but not stick to any of it as law. He taught me to consider the possibilities of what life could be, in a philosophical and metaphysical sense. He taught me that “silence is golden,” and that “hands are for helping, not hurting.” He taught me how to just go ahead and do the practical things practically so that you can enjoy the rest—take care of business! Also, sometimes things don’t work out how we imagined and that’s okay—it is no reason to judge yourself or the experience as “bad.” I went to my first audition around 8 or 9-years-old, and didn’t get it. Everyone who didn’t get kept was sad, and I was a little sad. I went out and told him, and he, without skipping a beat, simply said “but that’s okay!” I think we went and got ice-cream and kept moving ‘til the next one.

Ben and Emily are hardworking, good people. They surprised me on my birthday a few years ago with streamers strung throughout our shared home, and a homemade key lime pie. They show up for people and for themselves. They’ve sat through a lot of shit with me. In fact, they are probably two of my most honest friendships as they’ve allowed space for me to be my worst. They’re individuals and don’t need a combined blurb, and I think I am still learning from each of them. I’m lucky.

All for now. <3

snail trail mix tape measure success

Write something.

Vulnerability pisses me off. I like myself better when I practice it, but it’s so damn risky.

Maybe because you can’t control how you are perceived, you can only be honest. And for me, the only thing I sort of have any idea on at any given moment is how I’m feeling. Which is annoying because WHAT A NERD. It’s like the meanest, judgiest, nasty self comes out and demands that I pull it together. “I feel betrayed that someone I love really hurt me.” THAT’S LIFE, BITCH. “I’m disappointed that I was honest about my wants and needs with most folks I came in contact with at work, and wasn’t appreciated more.” IT’S A JOB TO MAKE MONEY, IT CAN’T LOVE YOU BACK. “I’m tired of giving and not receiving.” IS THIS EVEN TRUE? Because there is this flip side, this rational side, that knows—or at least, chooses to believe—that things work out how they’re meant to. (BECAUSE WHY NOT?) And maybe there are lessons to be learned.

Even now as I type, there is a loud self-judgment. I wonder if more people feel this than just me. I just don’t get it. It is the worst feeling and people swirl it around because it’s easy. Or am I simply listening for those remarks to affirm my own inner meanies?

Sometimes I’ll have to tell myself, as a freaking 29-year-old woman, if that person is an asshole then that’s on them. I am almost preemptively defensive, which is very much the opposite of vulnerability.

I like writing, but it’s scary. You’re sharing those innermost swirlings. You’re judging which ones are important enough to stick to words and then share on a platform beyond just that. There are so many drafts of things I’ve written that quite possibly might hide forever. I wonder- is that hiding yourself?

Self-judgment alert: this is becoming too carrie bradshaw

And I almost want to walk away from writing this now because I am annoyed that it is so dramatic. In my human mind, I understand that I am maybe one of the luckiest people I know, and I offer “one of the” instead of “the” because maybe we all know we’re the luckiest getting to hang out with ourselves. Not to mention, our paths that have happened specifically in a way that crafted who we are. So that’s cool.

Self-judgment alert: too bob ross

Self-judgment alert: two white people examples

When you offer up vulnerability and it isn’t met with a similar reception, it sort of feels like what we have been in that moment was wrong.

Are my own self-judgments a training for staying grumpy? Because it doesn’t matter what you’re doing with the wrong acknowledgement. I refrain from writing “attitude” on purpose.

Anyway. It’s hard writing, sharing, being yourself, and to always be pushing forward, especially after something didn’t align exactly how you imagined. Yanno- it probably actually makes life easier, ultimately, but the journey to retrain is a kick in the head.

I’ve figuratively seen a shiny object and must go on to the next thing for now. Hopefully this is received perfectly well and will never receive criticism, even the thought of it, at all. (And if it is to receive criticism, the intent is helpful, positive, productive, and constructive for a better big picture.) And they all lived happily ever after.

wonder channel

Train-of-thought.

I deserve my own time. A sweetness of presence that I have so easily dreamt away upon breadcrumbs of the selfish. (For context, this is a ridiculous way to talk about searching for love outside of yourself.)

How do artists do it? Bare their souls. And then the fearful and scared have the audacity to criticize, hiding behind their own pretenses and deeply protected hopes. Are we critiquing someone’s soul, or their math? Because there is a difference you can recognize in art, but that isn’t up to me to decide. The math is what sometimes resonates and can impress. But the soul is the purpose, so they say, so what is yours?

A “normal folk” dares to share something beyond the humdrum of a nice meal. The criticism of peers. Why would anyone share? Of course egos exist, you MUST build them in order to survive. Where is the balance in that? Humility and force… this makes my head spin.

How do you stand up for yourself and assume that people will work their way towards your point of view? Empathy and compassion maybe aren’t as accessible as I’d like to assume that they are.

I am a part of this big imperfect thing, and so are you. None of us are alone in that.

Just being yourself, perhaps your most present self, is more freeing than the math. Although I haven’t learned the math…

I fight the urge to make a joke here. A sense of humor and sincerity coexist. Assholes.

Ricky the Raccoon

My grandmother mailed this to me a few weeks ago- a story I wrote when I was six, although I did update some grammar and misspellings for this round of sharing. Enjoy.

Once there was a raccoon. His name was Ricky. He lived in a tree in the meadow. He ate acorns, fish, and eggs. Ricky liked to wash everything. Ricky said, “I have to wash my food before I eat it.” Then he saw some kids eating fish. He made friends with them. He told the kids “can you teach me how to do a back flip?” “No we can not.” “That’s okay, I can already do one,” said Ricky. He was very, very glad he had good friends. The kids went home with Ricky. Ricky met the kids’ mom. She was washing the clothes. Ricky said, “Can I help? I like to wash things.” “Yes,” said mom. He started to clean the sink and put mom’s book in the sink and filled it with bubbles. Then he met the kids’ dad when he was playing a golf game. “Can I play, I like playing games too.” “Yes,” said dad. “Nintendo golf is lots of fun,” said Ricky. He played the game and then he put it in the bathtub to wash it. Mom screamed! Everybody came running! “Look what happened to my book! It is soaking wet!” said mom. Dad yelled! Everybody came running. “What is the matter?” said the kids. “My Nintendo golf game is in the bathtub!” Ricky said, “I’m sorry, I was just trying to help. I was just trying to wash things.” “That’s okay,” said mom and dad. “I can buy a new book,” said mom. “Me too,” said dad. Mom showed Ricky how to read a book. Ricky liked to read books. Mom told him to ask before he washed things. Mom read Ricky lots of books. Ricky washed lots of things for mom. They became best friends.

(Shout-out, Mrs. Pate)

maybe it's okay to kare

I got Karened.

What does this mean? Went to the hair salon for the first time in over a year. I had given myself a self-provided quarantine cut that wasn’t working for me any longer, especially as we continue to ease back into the world more and more. (Should we be? The recluse in me says no. And yet the butterfly…)

So I show a picture, one picture, of the haircut I am into. She says “you want it shorter in the back?” I say yes, thinking it would help elongate my jaw, of course. Long story short, in this location, I feel borderline soccer mom. Which is fine if you’ve chosen that path, but I haven’t. I wonder if this is what folks assume about me here. Or what we’re assuming about each other. I do it too.

I’m in Columbus. Columbus, GA. Facing my most demony demons head-on. Reminders of the past can do that.

Karen has a reputation. I wonder if she has had to learn to feel entitled. That she’s deserving. Her standards can seem ridiculous, and she comes in strong because her expectations have probably never been met because a lot of people don’t care like she does. Is she wrong? Not my business. Behind every Karen is probably some selfish asshole telling her she isn’t good enough, or maybe at some point. Maybe she’s just working on telling herself that she is. Maybe a finger up in Panera Bread is the release she needs. The boost of feeling in control of something. (Don’t be unkind to the people working there! That is not fair, Kare.)

Panera is her stage, and this is mine.

Does an asshole know that they’re an asshole? Or are they just taking care of themselves?

“When you know better you do better.”