Explorations

I signed up for my senior spring only needing two classes, Directing and my Senior Project. These five credits alone would not be enough to graduate so I needed to take a few more classes. I took Sculpture 2-but still needed more credits. The rest of the classes I filled with a sort of hap-hazard nature. And by ‘classes’ I mean class. I ended up taking a 200 level English class titled “Writing about the Self”.

Grand. “Just perfect”, was my exact thought as I stumbled onto this class during my registration period. It was totally the vain and self-aggrandizing thought that anyone would have had as they signed up for a class they thought was all about writing about themselves. I am just that self important. “This will be the perfect class to showcase all my truly great stories about myself and my ridiculous life. People will love my stories and I’ll improve my writing.” Excellent.

But how wrong I was.

Turns out we don’t write really cool stories about ourselves. Instead we spend the whole semester researching a cultural group that we are apart of and produce a ten page paper about the group, along with a giant research portfolio and make a fifteen minute presentation to the class. When I found this out on the first day I quickly looked around to see if everyone else was heartbroken. They remained stoic and frozen. Ugh sophomores. My mind started racing: Already I’m questioning the decision to title this class “Writing the Self’. Maybe “Writing half heartily about other people when all you really want to do is brag about yourself” would have been a better title…but my new years goal was to be less judgmental. So. Uh. Now what?

Well first things first I needed to find a ‘cultural group’ , I decided to research a few of the University of Mary Washington Theatre Majors. This could be big. Its a group that’s interesting, diverse, one that I’m apart of, and I figured this project could quickly turn into me writing about myself in a round-about way, but not before anyone noticed and called me out for doing just that. This was my big plan.

I just recently turned in my portfolio so that my professor could look over my research and give me feed back before continuing. She wrote worthwhile comments, but my favorite one was, “You have no clear thesis. What’s your thesis?”

“A thesis for what?” I asked with a laugh.

“For your research project.” She answered dead on.

“Oh. Well. I’m researching people. And uh, I won’t lie to you–they seem just as lost and direction-less as I am. I mean I don’t think they know what they’re going to have for dinner, so it’s a little hard to get what they want out of theatre.” This was my was of 1) skirting the real issue that I failed to include a thesis and 2) getting myself back into the topic of conversation.

She saw right through this. “Not having a thesis is like not having an opinion Sully.” Ugh. “And we know you have plenty of those.” She smiled. I secretly loved being called out and I now have the distinct feeling she knows this. I also love a challenge.

“Well, a really bright man once wrote,” I hate quoting people but I felt this would be one of the more perfect moments for it:

I think

Is this not how life is?

You think you are doing one thing

it turns out you have been doing something else entirely

life has no plot

you only think it does

while all the time something without a plot is happening to you

over and over until you reach the end of your life

and you think you’ve had a beginning and a middle and an end

but all you’ve had is a start and stop

and a lot of disorientation in between

I love putting Charles Mee into my daily conversations as well. I realized the second after I finished speaking that maybe the simplest thesis was that life has no plot-and the plans we make towards any semblance of a professional career are really just a matter of timing and chance. I think she saw this realization on my face.

“Yeah, so uh, I’ll fix it up and email you what’s missing.”

Today I was totally and entirely devastated by the social networking site Facebook. I mean it’s pretty bad–NO it’s flat out awful. I normally don’t start drinking heavily before the evening (…see Dad, and future employers-I’m responsible) but I might have to make an exception today. It all began when I logged on hoping to find a witty response to my equally witty wall post to a friend. Nothing. So instead of closing my Macbook and doing something worthwhile and productive, I started looking up profiles of people I barely cared about. “Friends”. Just as I satisfied my low-grade stalkerish tendencies, I remembered what an ego trip it was to search for yourself.

And that’s when my happy little world came crashing down.

I consider myself unique and important in the way everyone should consider themselves unique and important. But let’s face facts. I’m 22 and I’ve long figured out what a load of shit the whole unique and important crap is. I get it. Of course, I’m a pretty little snow flake just like everyone else. That fact has honestly never bothered me, if only for one saving saving grace: My Name. Anastasia Frances Shackleton Sullivan. I think my name is pretty rare and extraordinary. My last name ‘Sullivan’ represents my Irish heritage, my Father, our immigration from “the old country” (as my Father calls it) , potatoes, catholic guilt…this list goes on. In short, my last name ‘Sullivan’ is one that I value, I take pride in, I identify with. ‘Anastasia’ represents my Russian side, my Mother, my Grandmother and her immigration from Russia in the mid 1920s. It represents resilience, strength and a host of other things I admire and aspire to become. Anastasia Sullivan is my name. My name.

So when I searched myself I was shocked to find TWO OTHER ANASTASIA SULLIVANS on facebook. Sure, maybe if my name was Jane, or Susan, or Ashely- it wouldn’t be such a bitter pill to swallow. I would have had a lifetime to prepare myself for such a moment-a moment to realize that in fact my name is just like everyone’s. But it isn’t. My name is unique and different and important! Right? And COME ON–Anastasia Sullivan? You have got to be kidding me! How the hell could there be more than just one of us? How could there be more than just me?

Apparently I’m not alone in thinking that my name is unique. After realizing, there were now three Anastasia Sullivans I changed my facebook status to read : “there are now three ‘Anastasia Sullivan’ s on facebook. i.am.crushed. and debating if i want to friend the other two”. Two things became clear very quickly, 1) I’m not sure how to do the plural of a last name and 2) I’m unsure of what will happen in a world with three of me. Three of my friends commented on my status within 13 minutes. My friend Clifford Hamaker wrote, “It’s true, I am! I AM COMPLETELY UNIQUE ON THE LARGEST SOCIAL NETWORKING SITE IN THE WORLD! BAHAHAHA!!!” Shut up Cliff. You’re time is coming. My cousin Lovell, whom I adore, wrote, “there are 34 Lovell Clevengers.” Poor guy. He knows, he knows. Jim Planter wrote, “bahah creepy, i searched my last name last night and found a bunch of jim’s and james. And an unfortunate number of hot girls, must be the good genes…”. Well duh Jim, this isn’t a shock-you’ve got a regular everyday kind of name. I hate to break the news to you guys, but I think the world just got a lot smaller for all of us.

I haven’t even met another Anastasia, so it was especially hard to find not one, but TWO people with my name. I studied their pictures. One of them is from Albania. One is wearing a mask. These are the only details I presently know. At first I didn’t want to know too much about them, I wanted to imagine it was all a silly mistake and that they didn’t actually exist. But now I want to reach out and friend them. I want to know about them, I want to know and to understand all about life for Anastasia Sullivan, however many there might be.

But right now I’m going to grab a few beers. It’s 2 o’clock already. Tick tock.

Anastasia Sullivan(s).

There are a lot of things I am constantly discovering, but one of the most exciting things to discover is something that shocks or surprises me. Sadly(or maybe not) very little shocks me, and I place a great value in anything that can surprise me–because it is so terrifically rare.

With that, FREDERICKSBURG HAS A PYRAMID. Awesome. I found this little gem on a idle day in the fall when my friend Erin and I went on a fall foliage drive down Lee Drive, and the Fredericksburg Battlefield. 

Now the pyramid is pretty cool in and of itself. It totally shocked me. Which is why it instantly earned my interest. But what happened next proved almost more interesting:  Why would there be a pyramid in the middle of a civil war battlefield? 

Follow my thinking on this one : Pyramid. Hmm, cool. Wait. What? Pyramid. Egyptian. Egyptian Pyramids. Were made..using…slave labor. Civil War. Pyramid. Civil War. Slaves. Pyramid? Cringe.  

It would seem totally insulting and inappropriate to have a pyramid in a Civil War battlefield, with the pyramid being a possible symbol of slave labor and all; but the whole reason the pyramid exists is actually quite absurd as well. A well traveled railroad runs behind the Fredericksburg Battlefield, so back in the 1950s a group from the railroad asked Fredericksburg to place a marker or sign by the battlefield so train passengers would be informed as to the historical significance of the field they are traveling over.

Oh no no no. We got one better for you, we’ll build a PYRAMID! 

Surely, this was a joke that went too far. Right? I mean a simple sign would have been more cost effective and more informative. And yet it was decided that the most appropriate way to alert people of a Civil War battlefield was to build a pyramid? 

Maybe we were really trying to stick it to other historical sites and their lame sign, maybe we were really just trying to push the envelope…maybe we didn’t think this through….

 I’m watching late night television as I’m prone to do when on break from school, and I stumble onto this little gem ‘Deal or No Deal’. The basic premise is that the contestant picks a briefcase from 26 which has a dollar amount ranging from $1 to $1,000,000. The hope is that the chosen case has the one million dollar prize in it. Then the contestant and the host (Howie Mandel) begin to eliminate the other cases. Once the case is eliminated the dollar value inside the case is revealed, and of course the hope is that that all the lower dollar values are eliminated. Here’s the twist, after each round of case opening this creepy and intentionally not shown ‘Banker’ offers the contestant an amount of cash as an exchange for what could be in their case. And then Howie Mandel gets to ask “Deal or No Deal?” in this overly dramatic fashion while the audience shouts what to do. 

Now, I’m sure there are a lot of things wrong with this show: Mandel’s awkward facial hair (A soulpatch, really? At your age? FAIL), the greed, the ridiculous models that hold the cases….BUT I found something so terribly redeeming about it when I watched on Christmas Eve. 

I watched a woman who was in her late-twenties, married, and had six newborn children try for the one million dollars. I’m not at all a fan of the show or contrived “reality television” for that matter, but I found myself caught up in this woman’s attempt. I wouldn’t really say this happened until Howie asked her how she would spend the money. 

Her eyes lit up. This woman explained that she wanted to pay off her and her husband’s student loans, she wanted to provide for her six newborns, that she just wanted to be able to take time off from work and be with them. 

I totally fell for it. This woman has such simple, honest dreams. She wants to pay off her student loans, pay off her husband’s, be a stay at home mom and provide for her six kids. Oh “Deal or No Deal” you’ve roped me in, I am a total sucker. Maybe because I think of this show as a bunch of greedy, money grubbing people, or maybe because I think people on game shows in general are idiots–but I was surprised by her plans. I almost felt bad for what I would have done with the money. (In case your wondering I would never ever accept an offer from the bank! Fortune favors the brave! Plus, I don’t owe student loans or have six kids to feed, so I would risk everything. I would totally blow through that money and take my entire family and all my friends on the most ridiculous vacation known to man. And what would I do if there was money left over? Let me make this clear: There would be no money left over. ) 

It was a stroke of brilliance by the show’s producer to put on the feel-good-america’s-sweetheart-story for Christmas Eve. It made me think that there really are good, honest, hardworking people in the world. That there still are people who want to provide for others before their own selfish wants. It made me think that maybe everyone isn’t so rotten after all, that people really are as good as we all hope. 

But seriously who told Howie Mandel that a soulpatch was a good idea?

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds? 
Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues? 
Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you’re getting fat and maybe it’s been raining too long, you’re just sad that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling? 
Paul Varjak: Sure. 
Holly Golightly: Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany’s. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that’d make me feel like Tiffany’s, then – then I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name!

Holly Golightly is probably one of Capote’s most interesting characters. Well, to me anyways. I find Golightly terrifically complex and rich as a character; easy-going, fun loving, chic, extravagant, insecure, unsure….. And then she’s mysterious( platonic company for money..like what?)  I totally dig the girl, and I totally connect with her too.

It’s a pretty undeniable fact of life that we all get the mean reds. These days I find myself getting the mean reds when I start thinking about graduating. And finding a job. And ugh paying bills? But mainly about growing up. Two very big words: Growing Up. It’s a wonderfully scary idea. All these things start to build up and my mind races a mile a minute. Next thing I know I’m afraid and scared and I have no idea how I worked myself up into such a frenzy.

And then beckoning me as a lighthouse to a ship, there it it: The Apple Store.

Oh god, just looking at it now gives me an odd peace with life. I was having one of my “Oh-my-god-the-real-world-is-coming” moments, the feeling of sheer panic and impending doom-when I walked into the Southpoint Apple store last week. To borrow from Ms. Golightly, the whole place calmed me down right away, the quietness and proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. Everything was clean, and bright, and well lit, sharply polished hardwood flooring and everyone wearing the same colored apple t-shirt. OH! Every polished surface brandishing that unmistakable apple…suddenly all is right in the world. In my world.

So armed with my newfound sense of renewal and self-reassurance, I walk across the pavilion and grab a soup and sandwich at Panera. I’m not big into breakfast foods(…honestly, does anyone really enjoy yogurt) or waking up before at least 9:30am, so its natural that my favorite meal is lunch. And then it hit me: All it takes to rid me of those mean reds is a late lunch at the apple store. If only I could find a ‘real-life’ place that makes me feel like the apple store- growing up might not be so bad…

I’m not someone who loves puns. I think….

It’s a very delicate balance for me. See I enjoy puns when I don’t expect them, when they take me by surprise, when they carefully flirt with being clever. I don’t enjoy puns when they simply play on words, or are trying to be cute or clever. Accidental versus Overt….

Case in point: A Lot of Cars

This is a prime example of a good pun. A Lot of Cars is a used auto dealer in the North end of Durham by Duke University. They have over 37 cars for sale(sounds like a large volume) and they’re all parked in a lot(…you might say a parking lot).

I won’t lie to you, I think this is brilliant. I’m laughing now even as I type this blog post. A Used Car dealer with a sense of humor?! These are the kind of people that I can respect. I wouldn’t know from personal experience, but I can imagine selling used cars in a largely Spanish and blue collar section of town to not be a laugh-a-minute type of job. That’s why this is so surprising. And funny. They’re not trying to be clever… 

Or at least if they are, they’ve done it subtly and don’t expect to be congratulated for their wit.

And then we have DietTribe. 

DietTribe is a new LifeTime network reality show that follows a group of five best friends in their collective struggle to lose weight and get fit. Hmmm, a group of friends(dare we say, a tribe?) and they’re all dieting(…dieting). But this really irks me, diettribe isn’t even a word! Thats ridiculous! A diatribe(which is a REAL word) is a bitter, sharply abusive denunciation, attack, or criticism…which does not sound like a group of friends losing weight. After a little research the word ’diettribe’  according to unword.com is  an irate sermon or lecture on healthy eating. UNWORD.COM? Also ridiculous! 

Ugh. Really? DietTribe? I’m not against people trying to get fit. But this is honestly the most worst pun. And given it refers to a reality television and the LifeTime network, I think the phrase “Worst Pun Ever” might be fitting… It’s so obvious and heavy handed. I can’t even appreciate it’s wit. It’s too cute and clever and I’m sure whoever thought this gem up is mighty proud of themselves. Eww. This is just so iconically the worst type of pun, and a pun for all the wrong reasons. 

Thumbs up ‘A Lot of Cars’. Thumbs down ‘DietTribe’. Thumbs way down ‘Unword.com’

It began simply enough as a shopping trip.

My Mom and I took an idle day in late June to venture into suburbia’s crowning consumerist achievement: the mall. In all fairness, I should explain that I’m not really a big mall shopper. I can’t wander around aimlessly pretending to be interested, I don’t like trying on clothes, I don’t even like the word ‘food-court’ (and wouldn’t imagine eating there), and in no way do I consider myself a reasonable person…at all costs I try to avoid the mall. But hey, why not? I mean I might as well beat the ‘back to school rush’…right? My Mom and I went to the Gap. Which right there should send a signal that this whole shopping ordeal is not going to end well.

First, my Mom and I are immediately cornered by a peppy sales girl, who tells us what’s on sale, and her name(Kimmy), and that if we need anything we can just ‘Holler’.

‘Oh Kimmy, I won’t hesitate to holler.’ I say with a broad smile. I may have added a wink. May have. My Mom reminds me that, ‘There is a time and place for your humor Anastasia, and here and now isn’t one of them.’ I can tell by her forced quiet tone that she means business, and over the years I’ve learned to fall in line.

I start looking for jeans but give up within a matter of minutes, and end up looking at t-shirts instead. I find myself staring at the (PRODUCT) RED line that Gap has put out; a line that proudly donates ‘Half the profits to support the global fund’s fight against HIV/AIDS in Africa’. I’m not impressed. Not only by the half falling apart t-shirts, which are ‘inspired’ by African designs, but by ignorance of the people selling them. This, if you couldn’t tell is where Kimmy comes back into the story. She asks me if I need any help, and I reply that I’m just looking around. She could have left then, and I’m sure she now regrets not doing so:

‘This is just like really great isn’t it?’ She asks.

I meet her face with a blank stare, ‘What?’

‘You know? This whole Africa thing, it’s like a really great cause.’

I would have just tried really hard to be quiet and polite, but my Mom wasn’t around so I said the first thing that came to mind:

‘Africa is in fact not a really good cause. It’s a continent. Comprised of 53 nations.’

‘Oh no’, Kimmy adds with a laugh, ‘I meant the RED Stuff, it’s like a charity’

Wrongo again Kimmy. ‘Actually, it’s not really even a charity, it’s more a business model. An attempt at an ethical business model. See 50% of the profits support the Global Fund, which treats HIV/AIDS by medication. I guess that’s a good idea. Sure. I totally support treating HIV and AIDS. I’m just saying that buying this t-shirt won’t fool me into thinking I’m a good person because I supported HIV and AIDS treatment in some small and removed way.’

‘Well’, Kimmy begins, ‘I just think that supporting this and Africa is a good idea.’

I can tell that I failed to properly explain myself, so I begin to relent, ‘I agree. Totally.’ But then I gain a second wind, ‘But, Kimmy, could you name say 5, just 5 nations in Africa, this country that you support?’

She opens her mouth and then shuts it.

‘South Africa. That one was almost a gimme! Botswana. Nigeria? Rwanda? Uganda? Zimbabwe? Gabon? Ethiopia? Chad? Could you tell me any issues facing these countries? Or key leaders? Or how many of them hold ‘democratic’(I used air quotes…sad but true) elections?’

At this point she’s shifting uncomfortably, and it’s quite clear I’ve violated the social contract between buyer and salesperson at the Gap. It’s a little late to try and recover. I mumble something about needing to find my Mom, only to turn around and see my Mom standing there. Along with like 3 other Gap staffers.

‘Turns out they don’t have it in medium’, I half sheepishly say to my Mom, who’s smirking. We leave quickly, but not before I shout out, ‘21′. The number of countries that hold somewhat free and democratic elections.

I’m not a reasonable person. Whatsoever. So I understand that these totally unnecessary and unwarranted ‘outbursts’ you might call them, are just a part of who I’ve become. I’m ok with that. I’m also ok with people who are committed to making socially responsible choices. I’m not ok with people who support causes or foundations they in fact know nothing about. People who fool themselves into thinking that they’re doing good. These people are dangerous. People who think that long-term, or sustainable solutions come in the form of trendy, overpriced t-shirts…

There is something so ephemeral, I think, about my blog posts. This only crosses my mind now, looking back on this semester while going through my blog drafts.

‘Blog Drafts’.

It’s a phrase that throws my short comings in my face. Haha, ok that was dramatic–but looking at all my blog drafts remind me how strongly I start a post, and then let it ’sit around’ until I edit it. Normally the time passes and with it my energy and passion, until the post no longer seems relevant; and then it’s lost forever in the annoynomus ‘your drafts’ tab. I feel guilty about it for a while and then come up with a new, relevant blog post…only to have it doomed to the same fate. It’s an endless cycle really, so to break that cycle today’s post is dedicated to showing those ‘blog drafts’ the light of published day.

This one is a mere week old:

It happened on a cold, gray, spring afternoon five some years ago now. I had some how convinced my Dad to skip work and come to the beach with me to go surfing. New Hampshire in April isn’t exactly pleasant surfing weather, in fact it really isn’t pleasant anything weather; and I remember that day being particularly cold. We spent most of the afternoon huddled together in a mass of blankets trying to warm up in a simple and futile attempt to brave the cold surf again. I was miserable: My feet were scraped and bleeding, my wetsuit was letting in water, it was all going wrong. My entire body was numb. I was numb. There was something more wrong with me than not being able to feel my toes, something deeper and more emotional to my numbness. I felt truly and genuinely lost. I know I said something like that to my Dad, and I can still remember his efforts to look straight out into the Atlantic, because he knew I would refuse his eye contact.

He pulled the blanket closer to our chins and replied, “You need to let that happen then. You know? Let yourself be lost… Hope isn’t about everything turning out ok, it’s about being ok with how everything turns out.”

I only remember and subsequently blog about this event now, after the dinner with Nancy Robinette. At one point she had remarked ‘that as artists we need to give ourselves the permission to fail’ and ‘permission to do the work’. I don’t often think of giving myself permission when I choose to do something-it simply happens and becomes something I’ve done. Though when I compare Nancy’s remarks with my Dad’s advice, it becomes clear: it’s about letting go.

I understand in way larger than I could have at 16 that my Dad’s advice was to let go. He had the foresight to stress the importance of being ok with feeling lost rather than stress the importance of ‘finding’ myself or a solution, so that I could eventually overcome the situation. To really feel lost I had to let go of my need for control, my fear of failure, my fear of judgement…I needed to grant myself the permission to feel lost. Nancy’s remarks about allowing ourselves the ‘permission to do the work’ stems off the same, simple idea. As artists we need to let go of a lot (fear, inhibition, failure, judgement) to be able to do our work. We have to free ourselves to allow ourselves to create.

This one hails from the 4th week of the class:

Gregg keeps asking the group about our collective fears towards the up-coming trip to NYC. I may stand alone in this statement, but I am not at all afraid. Afraid about the possible living situation? No. I’ve lived out of a tent for 4 straight weeks on the Costa Rican shore while trying to gain surfing sponsorship. There was no running water, no electricity, and no sense of safety. I made it work. Afraid about the food? No. In those same 4 weeks, I lived off of bananas and Slim-Jims. I made it work. (It wasn’t actually that bad if you didn’t mix the two together.) Afraid about transportation options? No. I’ve roughed it on dirty, smelly trains before. Afraid about finding contacts? No. The city is home to more than 8 million people, I’m sure one of them will have an interesting story. Afraid about what? Gregg has asked this question like 4 or 5 times now, and I’m almost tempted to make up something, anything, so that the next time he asks I can contribute something to the class discussion. I can picture myself half-heartily saying ‘I’m afraid about finding theatre contacts in the theatre capital of the world’. I would be sure to emphasize the ‘theatre capital of the world’ bit, just as a way to disclose my sarcasm to the few that might catch it. Gregg has asked this question so many times in fact that his frequency in asking what I’m afraid about, is what’s scaring me. Does that count as an answer?

Today a miraculous and epic event materialized, an event that I have eagerly anticipated now for 3 years: Registering for my Senior Fall. I’ve looked forward to the day where I could register for classes ahead of the lowly upcoming juniors, sophomores and freshmen; I looked forward to the day where I could take simply what interested me, without regard to ATC or goals, or major requirements. And dear friends, that day was today. Can you sense my excitement? That day was today!

I began my epic journey towards senior year as I have with any new semester at UMW, with my registration permission number. The only difference was that today those 6 simple digits separated me from my dream of creating the greatest school schedule ever. I’ve found myself in the enviable position of being entirely at my own disposal within the formal education system, such a rarity that I was nearly overwhelmed with shock. When Helen asked me what I was going to take for classes I said, “Whatever. I don’t know, whatever I want.” And that is exactly what I did this morning at 9am- I signed up for whatever I wanted. I ended up with: Beginning Chinese, Practical Ethics, Modern Poetry, Modern Drama and Dance Improvisation.

So I find myself entirely at my own disposal…and I end up here. It’s an entirely unusual feeling: the freedom of being able to do almost anything, but it’s not everything I dreamed it would have or could have been. It’s a bit scary, there’s a lot more at stake, more responsibility; and all of it stems back to the individual. The freedom of doing whatever I wanted required me to really think, I mean really think for myself what I wanted. It’s much easier to be told what to do, to put on a little track and follow it around, instead of forging your own route.  It’s one of those ‘everyone-knows-this-kind-of-lesson’, but actually learning it, and experiencing it for yourself forces you into a whole new level of awareness. Yes dear friends, that day was today.

Consider it Martin Luther King’s lesser known version, a first draft of sorts: I Don’t Have A Dream.

This is exactly how I currently feel. I don’t have a dream. I don’t want to be anything, I don’t want to do any one thing either. This might sound scary for some, but for me it provides a small, if growing comfort.

It’s nice to see my classmates so excited about acting, or direction, or stage management. It’s moving to see individuals so passionate about something, anything. I look no further than my Latin Professor, Liane R. Houghtalin, whom I adore. I tend to think she’s half the reason I didn’t switch to French or Spanish after last year. Houghtalin is just so amped about coming into our class everyday; you can tell that she loves, no breathes…no, in fact lives the constant study of Latin, the classics and archeology. It’s like this constant study is her very essence. It’s inspiring to study and work under her. I mean Latin still sucks-it always will, but experiencing her passion makes the trip worthwhile. She tries to share her passion with us; it’s hard not to recognize her efforts. When I look at Houghtalin I see someone who has seemingly found their ultimate purpose and joy: she has ‘arrived’.

Then there are my classmates. Lucia, Jen and Sommer are all jazzed about stage management, David about acting, and so on. These people all have a want, a hunger, a need to follow their dream and passion. They want to be a stage manager, or actor; they have a ‘destination’.

I can’t help but feel that I’m wandering about; sort of aimless and a bit dazed. I don’t have a dream. There’s nothing I really want to do. I have no destination, or it’s off the map. I don’t want to call myself an actor, or a director, or an investment banker, or a teacher. I want everything: eclectic.

‘…i want out of the labels. i don’t want my whole life crammed into a single word. a story. i want to find something else, unknowable, some place to be that’s not on the map. a real adventure. a sphinx. a mystery. a blank. unknown. undefined…’ chuck palahniuk.

I don’t have a dream, and it’s wonderful. I’ll just react to whatever comes next. There are few instances where I’ve been truly allowed to simply react; but there is a remarkable and rare intensity that is derived solely from this reacting, surviving- that’s where I feel alive and awake.

There is no road-map or destination and sometimes I wish that I did have a label or destination to cling to. There is a safety, or at-least the illusion of safety attached to these ideals: labels and destinations. But, “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.” -Helen Keller

I can respect Martin Luther King and Houghtalin, I admire their dreams and passions; but I don’t have a problem with not having a dream either.

I’m ready.