Give it a year.

Damn you John Denver.

I hate sitting here, wet from a shower, numb from playing online tetris, and fighting in my mind every second to not call you because, fuck, I’m still angry and you should call me. Our competitive natures I guess.

But John, you have to come up on my shuffle, and I’m back one week, god just one week, when we were driving through the mountains, talking about how the government must have had him killed, and I was sharing the songs of my childhood with you. And now he comes up singing of how his life is better with whoever in it, and all I can think of if that yesterday might have been the final straw.

I wasn’t angry with you in the mall when I had to leave. I just wanted some comfort. God, the first picture on the wikipedia article about anxiety/panic attacks (of all things) is one grey cartoon calming the other, because that’s what you’re medically supposed to do. Apparently, I should have just said, I need a hug, but I think I was subconsciously testing you to see if you would, and you didn’t.

Anxiety isn’t rational, panic isn’t rational. For me, it’s an overwhelming amount of negative ideas filling my mind like a flood, and I spiral into an indescribable sadness. It isn’t logical, and most of the thoughts aren’t even how I feel about things usually. But in the flood they are true demons of my mind; the dark thoughts most people are good at suppressing that only haunt them as they fall asleep or when they get a really unfortunate glimpse of themselves in the mirror.

When I started to get angry was when you were incapable of saying anything. And when I asked, as it began to subside if I had ruined the afternoon, I just needed you to say that we still had a great time (and we had, up until then) but you didn’t respond. And when I started to cry again and ask, as you judged me across the seats, if you had anything to say, that is when it began.

Apparently, I just throw temper tantrums. Apparently, I hate poor people. Apparently my career choice means I will never be a stable human being. Apparently I’ve signed myself for a life of disappointment. Go ahead and sit on your high horse telling yourself you’ve never had a moment of indulgent sadness where you needed someone to say, it’s going to be ok; because, that is a dirty lie. I have been the one to talk you down through grad school. When you felt you were failing as a teacher, or never going to finish, or sleep deprived, or wondering if it would ever end, I have been there with soft reassurance. Fuck, I’ve never even seen you teach, but when you love someone, sometimes you just suck up your own bullshit and are nice to them.

You used to try to be with me, and now you just accept it as happenstance. You used to care if we were fighting. Neither one of us could stand to be angry for too long, and given an hour or so to calm down, we would be right there and ready to talk it out. We are pushing 24 hours, and no word. When we would go out in New York, you would engage my friends; you would make an attempt to be a part of the group. And this weekend, you sulked and sat alone as I had the chance to see people that mean a great deal to me. I wanted to show you off, for everyone to see what a great guy you are. Well, good on me and you, you showed your true colors by not talking to a single person, judging them all as frivolous dumb actors, and generally being a dick. And don’t tell me it’s because you didn’t know anyone, because you did. And although I may have had some anxiety about spending time with lots of your friends at first, I was always engaging, and I always made an effort. Oh, and we always hang out with your fucking friends.

I’m still angry. I’m still hurt at how you treated an upsetting moment of mental anguish as child’s play. As soon as I’m upset you tune me out, it’s like my opinion doesn’t exist any more. Every word I say is written in stone and you throw them all back at me. I’m upset that you are still so bitter about acting that you assume that I will never be stable simply because it’s my chosen vocation, let alone the work I have been doing for the past two years to become financially stable while I act. My choice means I will never be good enough.

I’m not going to call you. I’m going to go see my friends, and I’m going to look beautiful, and I’m going to have a nice day. Fuck off.

Trip #2

The day you left I poured our wine and thought about getting my nails done. I got so far as the computer before I was hit with my reflection in the mirror you hung for me and decided I couldn’t go anywhere. Yes, my eyes were bright aquamarine, but that is their state when swimming in pointless tears. Crying at the bus stop while you get on and go away doesn’t push us forward in time. Crying in the bedroom while you look up at me from packing doesn’t finish your masters for you. Crying together in the kitchen doesn’t make Colorado, New York. Crying last night on the train for a spilt second doesn’t garner anything but sympathy from the other twentysomethingwhitegirl watching my tiny clutches at your pocket while you stand above me running your fingers through my hair and down my cheek. Once again we are left with memories of you rolling over in the sunlight saying sweetly “Let’s go to Coney Island” like a small boy with Ferris Wheel dreams. Us getting on the train so late that we miss all the traffic and ride for an hour, playing pass’n’play Scrabble, talking about that Ikea catalogue, and running my fingers in your curls. Days that pass in a flash, all filled with you calling me out when I’m wrong, asking me when the last time I wrote anything was, promising to always make me breakfast. Strong statements that you’ll take care of me even when I don’t need or think I want it and that you have forever on your mind. Gastric memories of hot dogs, bacon cheese fries, desserts made at midnight, Malbec for me, deep fried Twinkies, endless Cliff bars for the days of nonstop life, pink doughnut surprises, whiskey and chicken in Brooklyn, and protein plates bought in haste while I rehearsed and you supported. We never hungered; we ate our fill of life and one another. And once again, I’m in this suddenly larger bedroom with our dirty sheets and nothing but the ghost of our relationship to grasp at for months.

The longer I sit here, the sooner it is you come back. The longer I sit here, the further it feels since you left.

Everything and Nothing.

I feel everything and nothing. Nothing is more accurate, for this is not sadness, and elation comes in moments long and short between hazy periods of deep thought about, once again, nothing and everything. New York is in front of me, and what is there is what will always be there. I have no set plans or places, just aspirations and attempts awaiting me. In Colorado, I leave behind happiness as I have not felt in years, personally and professionally, both of which came out of left field. My heart breaks to leave these mountains, these people, this production, this role, but not this person who has floated in limbo for over a year. Not making choices and letting life happen has only proved otherwise: It's nice to think the universe will guide you to where your meant to be, but the reality is, accepting ambiguity is more akin to giving up and far less spiritual than I once believed. Fate is an idea, and destiny is a nice thought, but my humanity and tenaciousness are to be trusted more readily. That said, I must believe that with hard work, dedication to craft, and observance of the world around me, I will not only be successful in my endeavours, but led back to the people that truly matter, and love will not be lost.

I must wake and shake up my life.

Shortly, I begin a nomadic existence.

In around a month, due to unforeseen circumstances, I will go forth with nothing and start the next phase of my life versus this purgatory I've been enduring. All that is left for me in Colorado is Oklahoma, and it is the only thing keeping me going. In rehearsal the other day I thought to myself 'I would rather be here every day and never have a break, than have all the time in the world to rest' and it was a positive reminder that I want nothing more for myself.

I have been in a terrible hibernation these past months, and I must wake and shake up my life. This show will end and within days, I will be standing in New York City (center of the Universe, sing it girl) with my laptop, a binder full of sheet music and headshots, a stack of resumes (both for acting and day jobs) and a smile on my face. I am thrilled to leave so much behind: Physical things (like second hand kitchen wears) and emotional things, like a collegiate lifestyle that I've hung onto the fringes of, all the while sinking deeper into my parent’s basement, depression, and agoraphobia.

I do not want or need a home full of possessions. I get three suitcases (maybe) that will be entirely filled with what I do need: shoes, clothes, and products (I am woman, hear me complain about the weight of three large suitcases and the pressures of a male dominant society to look beautiful when auditioning or interviewing). I will strategically pack them and position them in my new location, and set forth into the summer of 2010 eagerly hunting for life, love and the pursuit of happiness (or as John Locke would have it property, and by property, I mean a lease on a place that is mildly affordable and not super gross or far away).

I don't know much, but I know myself. I have faith in my feet, I believe in my brain power. Sometimes life hands us shitty circumstances, and the real test of character is either accept them and back down, away from hopes and dreams because what is in front of you is daunting, scary, difficult, or upsetting; or to stand on your own two feet and know that with enough fortitude, perseverance, faith in your own abilities and god given strengths that you will endure.

"It's a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." Immortal Wisdom from Tolkein.

It's just hazey in the mornings.

My life has grown stale, and I need to wake up again. I feel a dramatic shift in perspective and lifestyle is the best option, especially paired with the opportunity to do something worthwhile and globally conscious. Asia is as far removed as I would ever be from the safe and guarded world that was raised by generations before me. I want to live out in the world and not feel so trapped by it. I want to impart passion and an enthusiasm for self education that has proven to be one of my most valuable assets in life, to children who may have never heard that type of encouragement before. I want to see the world through the eyes of someone I will never be, but have the greatest respect for due to that.

Gilgamesh. June 2007 - March 2010

I watched my fish die this morning.
He was no average fish.
Gilgamesh had lived with me since the summer of 2007. He followed my finger, he knew my face. He was stronger than any Beta, and had a personality that was distinct. I loved him as best a person who cannot hold their pet can.

I came downstairs from getting ready for work, and noticed him turned over in the corner, his gills fluttering, his head in the rocks. He saw me as I yelped "Gill!" and he valiantly tried to swim to the top of the tank. He was having a hard time turning over and I watched in vain as he continued to burst tiny amounts of all the energy he had left to come up for a bubble on the surface, to reach the food I vainly tried to help him with. I stood there in shock not knowing how to help, and knowing that I could do nothing, but be with him and cry for him as he slowly fell to the bottom. He couldn't turn over, so his head rested on the gravel, but he looked deeply into my eyes placed up against the glass as he flapped his fins holding onto the seconds he had left. We stared into each other one last time, and then he was a lifeless red shell.

I openly wept for my fish, and for watching him and not being able to help. I wept to see his little light go out, for all life is precious, and his was to me.

Long live Gilgamesh, Mesopotamian warrior fish.
Good bye Gilly.

early morning in the pink room.

I feel like I've been ripped apart
I am the broken face I see
I cannot lie to myself
My heart palpates still
Day in an out
But it churns in my soul
Guilt and lies; a weight I am unaccustomed to

Am I still myself
Have I been torn haphazardly
Into a semblance
Some self