I wish I could go back to college...Oh wait, I did.

My goodness, time does fly, doesn't it? I apologize for the long time between this post and the last; so much wonderful stuff has happened, and in the rush and hurry of it all I left this to languish. Life happens like that. As this post is both a summation of the past 15 months and a comment on the progress in my life over the same amount of time, let's get right down to it, shall we?

2013 became a year of monumental change. I gathered my belongings into two suitcases, a backpack, and three cardboard boxes, left my mother's house, and drove across the country to move and start graduate school in March at the Savannah College of Art and Design. With that one enormous physical and psychological shift, I took my first step in taking responsibility for my own learning, creativity, and success. I had been afraid of my own creative voice for much too long, and I had been so subconsciously terrified of success that I would self-sabotage during auditions and work. Succeeding meant owning my art, putting it up for scrutiny, and being okay with others depending on me, whether they be other artists, collaborators, or family. I hadn't ever felt ready, and I wasn't certain I was, but I was no longer willing to wait to find out. I had to take the jump, and I tried to do so with open arms and faith. I only had a mantra: Get out of my own way, let go of my ego, and stay open. Sometimes I was very mindful of that, and it helped me immensely. Other times, I would forget it, get in my head, and spiral down a road of self-doubt and anger that would only serve to lead me back to it all over again.

I started my time here going right into a show, and I loved performing in it, but the main takeaway from the experience was the incredible talents that I met, and the realization that I could like it here. Truth be told, I wasn't certain if I would. I was moving from the breezy, sunny Los Angeles to Savannah, Georgia, a place I knew very little about, and would seem (from the outside) to have a completely different set of governing social mores than most of the cities I'd lived in. I knew that what I felt were assumptions, but I felt them nonetheless. However, the city grew on me, and I certainly got the warmest welcome imaginable when I rolled in, my sober father in tow, the night before St. Patrick's Day, and encountered my new landlords more than slightly inebriated and downtown in full alcoholic swing. The five-hour parade the next day, and my father's first visit to a gay bar more than sealed the deal.

What also sealed the deal, and gave me a sense that this was where I needed to be was the wonderful faculty I encountered and my rediscovered thirst to learn. I wanted to do well because I wanted to be better, and I had learned to forgive myself if I failed, because it was part of learning. As anyone who is close to me knows, and anyone who went to undergrad with me can attest to, I was an enormous, unfocused fuckup at UCLA. I learned a great deal to be sure, but I as I've written before, I couldn't get out of my head, and I used my ego to hide the fear I had of not being perfect. That, in turn, made me incredibly lazy, because if I failed, and I hadn't really done the work, than I could blame it on my lack of preparation and not myself. But I couldn't let go of the shame that that attitude engendered, and ironically enough, that attitude came roaring back to life in a way I had not anticipated or imagined.

I recently directed a play here at school that I am both enormously proud of and incredibly hard on myself for. How so? The production came of stunningly well, with the actors doing beautiful work that hopefully pushed them and stretched them. But I didn't push myself as far as I needed to or should have. I was terrified of not getting it right, as the style was so specific, and in the surmounting fear of not getting it right, I pulled back. I didn't prepare like I should have. I directed in a way I normally wouldn't have, and didn't come at it from a place that was organic. I was falling on my old habits, and I wasn't proud of myself or the work I was doing. About halfway through the process, I had a moment where I had to take stock. I couldn't change the process up to that point, but I could approach it differently from then on. I decided to let go, if not of the fear but of the end goal, and try to focus just on the task at hand each day. I gave myself something concrete to focus on: the actors, the text, the show. If I was at a loss, I admitted it, asked for help, and tried something else. I wanted to focus on them, because it's not, and shouldn't be about me. I wanted to encourage the actors' creativity as best I could, and I worked hard to remember that theater is always collaboration. In the end, it all came off beautifully.

It brought to mind a piece of advice that Gary Busby, my voice teacher from UCLA, gave me that I carried with me, but had forgotten recently: Any choice made in fear is the wrong choice. I was making choices completely rooted in fear. It made me insular and cold, like a deer caught in headlights. I wasn't open to letting the show inform me on how to direct it, or the wonderful creative instincts that my actors were bringing to the table. But when I finally remembered to breathe, let go, and take it step by step, I removed fear from the equation, and I saw the actors soar. I was also reminded of taking responsibility, and understanding the consequences, both good and bad. Most people learn that at five, but I seem to need the reminder every few years, or months.

I realize that goals will always carry with them the terror of not achieving them, of not owning them with a completeness and confidence that one expects. We are struck with the fear that we'll not amount to what we firmly believe we are capable of, and truth be told, we won't always succeed. We will fail at times because the fear is always there. But you learn to mitigate it and speak kindly to it. You still get up, reflect and learn honestly, seek to make amends when necessary and move on. At the end of the day, each goal is really a series of steps, some small, some monumental, that form a path to getting there. For me, I know now that if I just focus on the step at hand, I'll get to where I need to be. I can take responsibility for that. It may not actually be the goal I originally set out to achieve, but it will be just as wondrous.

Get Out and Stay Out

Howdy again.  It's been way too long, and when my friend Megan mentioned she'd kept up on my blog, I realized I hadn't posted in a while.  Time to, I think. Lord knows, the past couple of months have been full of old lessons and real world application.

This fall, I was cast in Their Eyes Saw Rain at the Company of Angels, my first straight play in nearly five years. With any new challenge, I knew that it would push me and stretch me in ways expected and unforeseen.  What I didn't realize was how much I was learning in rehearsal would be applicable to my life in general. There's God in the details...

The play was small, and I had to strip myself down to tell the story truthfully. No hiding behind music or choreography or the distance of a two-thousand seat auditorium.  No big sets or large technical aspects. That's nakedness right there.  Just me, sitting four feet in front of the first row, talking to only one or two other people, communicating the text with as much honesty and integrity as I could muster.  I had to learn to be okay with walking and living in uncertainty on stage.

I soon realized that to be completely successful, I had to get out of my way, and in a very specific way. 

I have a deep-seated perfectionism, which has often served me well.  However, as I've gotten older, it has calcified into an anxious feeling that if I am not perfect in everything I do, I am a failure.  This produces two reactions in me.  The first is to immediately write off everything as being imperfect, which causes me not to try at all.  The second is that I have a hard time taking criticism or direction.  I will clam up, my mind will race, and I can be very curt.  Believe me, these reactions, nor my perfectionism, are nothing new to me.  I constantly work through them, because they are immediate impulses, and very rarely how I actually feel.  However, this show was different because I was out of my comfort zone, and that made these reactions even more pronounced.

The beginning of rehearsals proved hardest.  I was trying to prove myself to a company of new actors, and working way too hard.  Perfectionism at play.  When my director tried to shape and guide me, I tensed.  "I know what you want," I thought. "Don't need to tell me!" I was afraid of failing and making an ass of myself, which, I have learned, is the death knell for any artist.  That fear is all tied to ego, and when you're obsessed with you, you don't serve the piece, your art, or your audience.  You arrive at Stagnation Central.  The worst part is that you carry that self-doubt to the text, your other actors, and finally to your audience.  You all recall that undefinable feeling when you watch a performer that looks ill-at-ease, completely uncomfortable with what they're doing?  Well, they're judging themselves, deeming themselves unworthy, and passing it on to you.

The same held true in my personal life, when I realized I'd grown to care about someone new.  When I went to visit him recently, I found my attendant fears come straight to the fore.  We were finally together in the same space, and suddenly we had to get to know each other in all of our complexity.  My driving perfectionism made me want to make every moment "count", and fearing that the situation and myself wouldn't be perfect, I spent much of the last couple days anxious and agitated. You realize how that kills a mood?  You can't laugh at yourself, you can't enjoy the moment, and most importantly, you can't enjoy HIM.  You're not your best self, and you sure as hell are not going to let out the joy and happiness in seeing him show through.  BYE BYE ROMANCE.

It came to a head the last part of my visit. I was lying in bed with him, tossing and turning, anxious over myself and the general weirdness between us.  My heart was racing and my body temperature was skyrocketing; I was on fire.  

"Are you sick?"

"No." "Just mental," I thought.

However, as I spooned him, I decided to kiss his back.  I just wanted to show him some care, and I really didn't think about anything else. Almost immediately, my body temperature dropped to normal and my heart slowed.  I was stunned.  Stunned stupid. And especially at how stupid I'd been the past day and a half.  I was doing this TO MYSELF. And in turn, directing that outward.  

So what was the lesson in all this? Ultimately, it's not about me.  My anxieties get in the way of me giving love, working well, and enjoying the process. Ironically when I focus on others without letting my ego(fear) get in the way, my anxieties cease.  If I place pressure on the moment, I end up missing the creative collaboration in work, and the simple emotional exchange between me and my loved ones.  I'm missing out. The Persian poet Rumi said, "Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." 

Don't be stupid.  Let me be your personal Smokey the Bear and warn you against letting your fear, your internalized shame, from blocking you in your work and your love, whatever forms they take. You can't control how others may react and feel, but you can control and know you, and give over your best self.  Only you can prevent body fires. Sorry, I had to do it...

I want to open it up and ask you how you get in your way? What is blocking you from letting your love (in work, in life) be expressed? 

You'll Find Me, Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

The Location:  The Ramscale Penthouse.

Sitting high above the West Village, the penthouse is awash in white plaster with a large terrace flanked by patinated copper panels and standing tables lined with sunflowers, the view overlooking the Hudson to Jersey.  Along the walls, white trellises display a barrage of personal photos, displaying past happy memories.  

The Time of Day:  Dusk

Really, an almost too perfect pre-sunset hour.  Everything is golden, and the sky is pristinely clear.  The humidity is a bit much, but hey, you can't have it all.

The Guests: A Huge Group of Celebrants.

Young, old, gay, straight, black, white, yellow, brown.  All there with joy, love, and anticipation.

The Participants: Christopher Totten and Jeremy Ritz.

Two dapper young men in charcoal grey suits.  Slick, sophisticated, idiosyncratic, and oh so debonaire.

The Occasion:  The Wedding of the Year!

Yes, my friends, I got lucky.  I attended the wedding of the year.  With the two grooms of the year.  Surrounded by friends, family, love, and lot's of humor.  In a state where they can legally show the world their care and affection.  Excuse me if I gush, but that is something worth rejoicing.

The ceremony started with a simple processional of groomsmen and maids, followed by the two grooms, each on the arm of his mother.  After the processional up the stairs to the loft, the officiant began the ceremony.  Now my recollection is a bit hazy at this point, but tears will do that to your memory.  What I do remember includes anecdotes from the wedding officiant about not knowing Jeremy without Christopher and Christopher without Jeremy, a reading of "The Places You'll Go" by Topher's sisters, the lighting of the Unity Candle, and the individual vows, by which point my memory completely short circuits (damn you, tears!).  I suppose that's as it should be.

However, what I will always remember, is the rightness of the occasion.  Of any couple I know, Jeremy and Toph deserve to be together.  They have always felt right with each other.  The care of their regard for each other, the encouragement they provide to each other, and the humor they always exhibit is astounding.  Look no further than the waiting area for the restroom, which played "The Wizard of Oz" on loop in front of a phalanx of couches.  Special memories right there.  I learn something every single time I see them together, and to share with them the moment when they made public the decision to commit themselves to each other is a moment I will take with me everywhere.  They have taught me the very example of what love looks and feels like, how to savor it when it comes, how to show it to others, and that it comes from many places in many forms.  That is it's own unique magic.  Somewhere over the rainbow, indeed.

(Don't) Look Back In Anger

A few days ago, while at dinner with friends, a topic of conversation came up that began to get me agitated.  At first it was imperceptible; I just thought the conversation would take another turn.  When it seemed, though, that it wouldn't, my agitation boiled into a flash of ill temper that surprised everyone, especially me.  For the rest of the evening I remained agitated, both by the topic, but more so by my fierce and sudden reaction.It finally brought to the realization that I needed to address something that most of us seldom discuss with candor: anger.

Oh, Anger, you monstrous little green-haired stepchild that flounces into a room and with a small burst can topple friendships, break relationships, and tear families.  No one wants you around, but you always have a room in the house, somewhere under the stairs.  Unfortunately, you also have the weird knack of bringing to light what is wrong or unsettled in the house, and you do so in no uncertain terms and with swift, maniacal speed.

So what was this unkempt child trying to tell me?  What was so unsettled?  After that outburst, I began to contemplate hard, because I had noticed over the past few months, I had become increasingly prickly, sarcastic, and outright bitchy.  Which isn't really me, or at least not what I believe is truly me.  And after a bit, I had a lightbulb moment.

Life is messy, unpredictable, and rarely goes the way you expect it.  However, I had become frustrated by the fact that I was changing in unexpected ways, my choices were were becoming less obvious, and there seemed to be a barrage of varying opinions on what my choices were and how to make them.  But those were already issues that were being dealt with proactively.  Then it hit me.  I learned I hated CHANGE.  I am an actor who hates change.  What??  Furthermore, I hadn't learned how to deal with change that was not akin to a tantrum thrown by a five year-old.

When that dawned, a clarity struck me.  Audrey Hepburn once said, "You can say my definiteness stems from underlying feelings of insecurity and inferiority.  I couldn't conquer these feelings by acting indecisive.  I found the only way to get the better of them was was by adopting a forceful, concentrated drive."  I had been waffling from my own insecurity and inferiority, and lashing out in frustration as I'd always done.  It was time to make some choices and relearn lessons.  Time to continue pursuing my art, and working hard.  To push myself with each project and start with an open mind.  To remember that all the opinions and thoughts are given in the spirit of love and care, and to be grateful for, and love those who ventured to help out of the goodness in them.  To laugh at myself A LOT more.  to leave the bitchiness and doucheyness behind.  To seek beauty again in everyone around me.  And to remember that change, external and internal, is inevitable, and that I needed to rethink my reaction to change in my life.  We and our environment constantly change, and we can approach it with either grace and good humor, or kicking and screaming.  With La Hepburn as the epitome, I'd like to try for the former.

Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch....AGAIN!

Those words.  Feelings race through me in the dark before I hear them, my reflection black against the slightly illuminated audience staring at me in the periactoids (or the pterodactyls, as we liked to call them).  I’m anxious, exhilarated, joyous, and terrified all at once.  Numerous superfluous concerns pop up. My pants are riding a little high.  Is my hair okay?  Is my mic showing?  Will I accidentally “love tap” Anthony AGAIN?  Can I get to the place I emotionally need to go?  Mind you, these thoughts fly by in the span of three seconds.  I have no time to contemplate my answers, because suddenly I am blindingly visible.  It’s no time to think; all I must do now is dance.

So begins A Chorus Line, a show I never imagined I would do, let alone in such enormously talented company.  I always considered myself an actor and singer first, and a really “aggressive mover” second.  But not a dancer.  Not like this anyway.  After the first week of grueling rehearsal, I realized this was an entirely different animal. Even if I had some clue of what I was getting into, I wasn’t thoroughly prepared.  Most of these characters convey themselves, play out their life stories, almost exclusively through dance. Words help them shape the tale being told, but in the end, they bare their souls through their bodies.  It’s akin to ritual, something primal and unbridled. I hadn’t worked in that capacity in years, if ever. That was the first and most daunting challenge. 

However, I was cast in a role that tells his story through one long, emotionally arduous monologue.  Doing so alone, on a bare stage, in one singular spotlight.  No set.  Just me.  Riding an emotional roller coaster.  How would I navigate all the emotional checkpoints?  How would I go to the place inside myself I had to go to every night without just breaking down?  How could I tell the story as honestly and simply as I could?  I wasn’t sure, but all I knew was that this challenge, combined with the physical challenge, would leave me the most naked I’ve felt onstage in a LONG time. Talk about a one-two punch.

Finally, as a third concern, we were all taking part in a show that was structured as an audition.  In that regard, there is competition and rivalries built into the piece.  Even while standing on the Line, I wondered if the show would end up feeling like most auditions do, where you try your best to be supportive, but really just want to crush the competition and be better than everyone else.  Would we ever feel like we were together as a team?  I was anxious to find out.

As rehearsals gave way to tech, and finally to performance, we continued our regimen of constant cleaning, detail work, and scrutiny. We were constantly asked to do more, clean more, perfect more, and it took its toll on all of us.  Many felt unsure of what more they could do, myself included. Emotions ran high, and bodies were tired. We were drained. At that moment, our director decided, during a run of the final scene, to ask us to play the scene freely, to just be. Right then, as the scene progressed, we all started to come together, collective in our emotional weariness and physical exhaustion. We became a family, to wax poetical.

We, for all of our differences as people, had rallied to perfect ourselves within the show, and once performances began, we rooted for each other to succeed at the things that had given us grief in the rehearsal process.  A moment here; a dance step there. We wanted each other to be the best for ourselves.  And we all knew that we were in this as a unit.  If one person sank, we were there to pick them up.  There was this common experience that we all shared, and it was painful for everyone involved in myriad ways.  But we came out of it better for having had the experience, and for having each other.

How fortunate could I be to have two amazing theatrical experiences and families all within the span of a year?  From the intense bonding and devotion of Miss Saigon, where we all felt fated to be there, to A Chorus Line, where I really remembered why I loved performing in the first place with people I’ve grown to care about deeply and trust, I consider myself eternally grateful.  I must say, I’m one lucky pup.   

You're going golfing with whom?

So I must admit that the past few posts have been heavy.  Over the last year, I've felt the need to reassess what I want, how I function, and what my values and beliefs are.  It's been a rough slog, and the last few months I've sorted through a wide range of feelings and thoughts in order to reach some semblance of clarity, with my posts being a primary source of reflection.  I can say I'm much farther along than when I started, though I still have a lifetime to go.

Luckily for me and you, I ain't getting heavy this time.  Well...maybe a tad.

So I've talked ad nauseum about my parents' divorce.  I won't rehash those details.  Nonetheless, for a long time, my parents' relationship afterwards could best be described as chilly.  They were perfectly civil, but they weren't particularly chummy.  A typical exchange usually revolved around what I was doing, how I was getting along in school, or how much one of my extracurriculars was going to cost.  The usual.

Fast forward fifteen years, to a scene I never would have expected even five years ago.  My father, now retired, at my kitchen counter.  In his hand, a bag full of homemade Thai desserts he had made that morning. (You find out some interesting things your parents are into when they have free time on their hands.  Maybe he should open a bakery?) My mother laughing at him because he never bothered to help her in the kitchen when they were married. In the midst of the laughter, she suddenly asked if she could join his weekly golf game the next weekend.  I chuckled; she had only recently become interested in golf.  But my father, the man for whom golf is hobby and religion, who has a longstanding date with the boys for a round or two, not only invited her to the weekly game, but to the upcoming yearly tournament AS WELL.

The moment was quick, but it gave me pause and made me smile.  That's my family.  Not necessarily the ideal, but nonetheless loving and humorous.  Time heals many things, and what a wonder to realize that it can repair, even make more beautiful, the deepest of wounds.

Journey On

I once wrote about the search for equilibrium in my life.  At the time, my love of travel had become work, and though I still enjoyed it, I was losing any balance between my inherent wanderlust and my need to nest and lay roots.  My energy was pulled in myriad directions, and I was uncertain of the road ahead.  I knew something was coming, but couldn't define it. I could only promise to keep my eyes open.  A little over a year later, those "somethings" have come.

I knew early on that I wanted some life in the performing arts, and to that end I sought and attained a Bachelors of Arts in Theater.  However, I was an enormous fuckup in college.  Highly unfocused, temperamental, and deeply insecure about my own abilities, I constantly covered the fact by being pigheaded and getting stuck in my own head.  I wanted to do what was comfortable, with little regard for my fellow students or the professors who tried to push and teach me.  I had little patience for study.  All I wanted to do was perform, and being youthful and slightly stupid, I focused on finding work outside of school.  Selfish?  Oh, yeah.

However, time and experience level many, and I found my own fear (of rejection, of being emotionally naked, of looking like a fool) was causing my creative muscles to atrophy.  My work had turned stale, and I was too blocked and stuck to find a way to make it fresh again.  I realized I knew so little. I also noticed that the same fear had infected my every day relationships.  I was terrified of letting people get too close, for fear they would see me for what I felt I was: a fraud. The feeling had been there in college, and by my mid-twenties, I could barely show people I cared about them because I was too afraid of both the possibly of getting hurt and the guilt and responsibility should my actions hurt them.

As spring of 2011 came, I admitted to myself how much more I needed to learn in work and in life. I ventured to open myself up in my work, and to not make safe or easy choices.  In other words, I allowed myself to play.  With Miss Saigon, I began performing with this new consciousness, and saw myself becoming emotionally and mentally invested in my work.  It was exhilarating.  I knew I had to work more, if only to give me the chance to push myself again.

I moved back to Los Angeles and started auditioning with a vengeance.  Each one was a lesson, with every call back a chance to play and make strong, active choices.  I treated each as if it were a miniature performance class, even if the goal was to eventually land a job.  Thankfully, I was cast in A Chorus Line, a show that will surely test my physical endurance and emotional resilience.  Having rediscovered the passion and fearlessness in my work after so long, I can not wait to begin.  Finally, after much consideration, I applied to graduate school, with summer audition dates for entry in the fall of 2012.  I've always sought to further my education, not only to give myself the opportunity to rectify my past, but to lay the groundwork for a stabler, more intelligent, more thoughtful approach to my career and my art.

At the same time as my arrival in Los Angeles, I began to examine my fears, and started to open myself up to those I care about, as well as those that have newly come into my life.  The former gives such relief, because now I no longer have to hide.  The latter, however, is incredibly daunting for me, because it touches on so much emotion, both positive and negative, that I must sort through while doing the getting-to-know-you dance.  I will be the first to say that I can still fall back into my head, running through several thoughts all at once, in turn making me self-conscious, lethargic, or scatterbrained, even if I strive not to be.  Either way, it has allowed me the chance to take responsibility for myself, and learn how to actively love.  I want to be impeccable in my actions and my care of others.  The experience has been liberating and terrifying which, I suppose, is the ambivalence of being alive.

When I openly wondered over a year ago about the path of my life, and the disquiet I felt towards impending unknowns, I knew those circumstances could change how I work and live.  Reflecting now, I see that that anxiety and anticipation signaled that change and growth were coming quickly, even in that moment.  How much I will change and grow remains to be seen, but as with all things worth having, the end is never the goal.  The journey towards that end is.  And for all those I love and will love, and for the work I am beginning to delight in anew, that journey will never cease.