Explorations

 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.

Few people will fully understand the understated importance of this post’s title. I am indeed a runner. I have been since as long as I can remember. Growing up, my Mother was almost always training for a road race or marathon, and instead of sticking me at home she let me ride my bike along side her. These bike ride/runs with my Mom still stand poignantly in my childhood memories; they were and are remarkably formative and critical to who I am.  Once I was old enough I became apart of the youth track program, and then elementary and middle school until I started to run in high school. Up until high school I was a sprinter, I liked the short distances and strict form it required. As I entered my freshman year I ran on the Cross Country team. It was one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. In addition to transforming into a distance runner, I learned so many valuable lessons and pushed myself to a very new place.

I would say it was a pretty big deal. And one that I can’t fully describe. Running and being a runner has been such a big part of my life, that I wrote my college essay on the topic. That’s half of what inspired this post: I found my college essay today, tucked away in lost files and it explains this feeling far better than this post could:

The Importance of the Sweet Betweens

It’s 6:00am and the night clouds are already beginning to burn off as I lace up my Asics and grab my jacket. This Saturday begins like most every other, with a run. It’s the type of morning where I dread my run, the regrets of three ice cream sandwiches sit heavy in my stomach and my calves are laden with pain from yesterday’s hill workout. But I push past my own excuses and set out of the hilly, narrow road ahead of me: Rattlesnake Hill Road.

My house shrinks with each stride, and my calves slowly loosen. I pass the pond and water fall, the housing construction and the remnants of the sewer installment. In the distance I hear screeching birds, allowing me to recognize that the world is waking up. With the first few miles behind me now, my breathing becomes easier. In the middle of my run, past the miles of loosening up, beyond the doubts and self-recriminations over yesterday’s ice cream sandwiches; I can think. I can really think. Heavy breathing and  the tenderness in my knees still a good four miles out, the opportunity allots me plenty of time to think. I call these miles ‘the sweet betweens’; and sweet they are. My mind begins to wander and soon the dialogues begin; with myself, my parents, friends, teachers, authors of my favorite books and poets.  My thoughts catch up with me, refusing to lose step-what I owe to myself, to others, my broken resolutions and what really matters to me. I try to lose them on the uphill, but they are far stronger than I am.  Anyplace else I would have given the back side of my hand to such idle musings, but out here they are as inescapable as the yellow dash that divides this narrow road.

The driveway ahead with the peach mailbox offers me a chance to turn around and head home. I decline. The mailbox just steps before me, presenting itself as a compromise, a place to say ‘far enough’. But I’ve learned over the years to use these seductions to my advantage. I tell myself that I’ll run to the mailbox and then decide whether or not to turn around, knowing full well that I will draw sustenance from reaching it and then refusing it’s invitation. The midcourse of my run is not unlike the course of my career and my life at large, where I’m tempted to accept the distance already won.

Eventually I set my eyes on a green house a half mile or so ahead, there a dog comes charging out, offering me the perfect chance to cross the road. I begin the wide arc of a return and head back to the pond and waterfall and the housing construction. From the opposite side of the road, even a road so narrow as this everything looks different, transformed by having become a part of my past. The sweet betweens have taught me more about myself than any other event in my life. It’s a lesson I learn every time I run. And at 18 I realize how lucky I am, blessed really to be on this road, even knowing that where the down hills once welcomed me, the up hills now rise in their stead.

Running has provided a remarkably important outlet for me. Yesterday, I sweated it out for a good 45 minutes to Cher and Mika and Say Anything and Eminem.  Everything just melted away: stresses, midterms, shows, meetings, homework, bad grades, people… they all to a backseat to a new found clarity. Looking back on this essay, written some years ago now, there is still one very true statement: It’s a lesson I learn every time I run.  This undefinable, near unknown lesson that resonates with me each run contains a clarity, or illusion or clarity that makes everything else seem so simple and organic.

The simple truth of the matter is that people fascinate me.

Today, like every other Monday morning since September, I went grocery shopping at the local Giant for work. Getting a weeks worth of groceries for a family of four, is an affair that normally takes up most of my morning, and today was no different.  Today, like every other Monday morning since September I unloaded my(err… their) groceries at  the checkout in isle 9. Why? Because of Dawn.

Dawn stands just a bit under 6ft, a few days over 50, with untamed dark brown wispy hair well down her backside, and wearing the brightest, pinkest, lipstick you have ever seen. And she’s also the fastest thing Giant has to offer at 10 in the morning(hence the reason I picked her). I have honestly been in Dawn’s checkout line every Monday morning since September, but I don’t think I’ve said more than 10 words to her the entire time I’ve known her.  Of course, we exchange the obligatory, “How’s it going?” or “Do you have a bonus card?” but that pretty much sums the up the boundaries of our shared communication. Until today that is.

Dawn was swiping the groceries of the older woman in front of me and she asked her, “Do you remember the lowest price you ever paid for a loaf of bread?” As the woman searched the recesses of her mind, I stood shocked and looked at the both of them.  At first I was almost upset; this practical stranger had elicited more interest from Dawn in a few moments than I had in months. Then I just watched. The woman rattled off a few prices and then asked Dawn the lowest price she remembers. Dawn with a slight smile said, “Back in New Mexico, I can remember getting 4 loafs for a dollar.” I was thinking about Dawn, my Dawn, my fast cashier, and her life in New Mexico, and ’how did she end up here?’ and ‘why would anybody want 4 loafs of bread at once?’ In that moment I realized for the first time that Dawn had a story. She had hopes, dreams, fears; she became real to me, more real than our autopilot interactions of the past 6 or so months.

I asked her how she ended up in Virginia from New Mexico.

It was a bold move coming from the “Good and you?” and “Can I just enter my telephone number?” catch-phrase kid.

But we talked. Dawn and I talked. What resonates with me now, more so than our conversation is the simple fact that we connected. My experience today with Dawn served as a simple reminder that everyone has something to say, and perhaps something to teach you. We as artists(or individuals) can never stop learning. It is the single most fundamental and necessary part of our art; we must always find new ideas in people, and learn from them.

And Dawn, she moved out of New Mexico ‘a while back’, but didn’t explain why.