What To Do and Where To Start...

I lifted the title from a song from Dolly Parton's 9 to 5.  As my old roommate Robert once espoused, "Dolly will always be the Queen."  It's been playing in my head for weeks, and I suppose with good reason.  This year has been one of incredible growth and change, from opening myself up to love and faith, to finding new outlets for creative work, to rethinking my place in this business, and what that might mean for me.  What I found was eye-opening, if not because the revelations came out of the blue, but because I had felt the stirrings of change for such a long time, and it took a series of ultimately freeing circumstances to see that what I had been holding on to, as well as who I thought I was and what mattered most to me had already changed, and I hadn't had the time to stop and take a look.  I was growing with each experience, with powerful lessons learned, but I didn't realize at the time that something deeper was going on.

Acting in a comedic short film in LA at the beginning of the year helped me clarify my own style as a performer, as well as exposing me to a completely different working process.   Being the acting coach, and de facto co-director on my friend's short film taught me the value of articulating my views and thoughts succinctly, and helped me relearn the value of collaboration.  Doing the reading helped me expedite fast, clear choices about circumstance and character.  Miss Saigon taught me the essence of trust in my fellow performers, the confidence in my instincts, and how to let go of the way I had conducted my Creative Process in the past.  Each time I learned to breathe, and to have faith.

But coming home from Maine, where I really had a chance to just sit and be with the quiet, to the cacophony and whirlwind of the city, where I couldn't even hear myself think, brought home the fact that I didn't feel New York anymore, and I hadn't felt that way for a while.  I had made some incredible connections and had some amazing opportunities, but my priorities no longer consisted of the constant grind of auditions, classes, workshops, and the like.  I wanted a new creative outlet, and a different direction, but I had no clue what it was.

As soon as that thought came to me, I fought it viciously.  I strived tooth and hard-tacked nail to live my dream of being a musical theater performer, and I had worked hard to see it through.  I had left all I had known in California, with it's safety net of home, job, and emotional security, to live in New York City with 2 suitcases, $2000, and no friends.  I cried for a month solid.  But by the end of my first six months, I had gotten a job, found myself an apartment I loved, made a sweet, solid group of friends, and booked a national tour.  I felt exhilarated and that I found my calling and place.  To suddenly see that what I wanted to do, and more so, that my priorities were changing, seemed like a denial of everything I'd worked for.

The harder I fought the feeling, the more depressed I became.  I fell into a deep, dark rut.  I was going through the motions, trying to live in the city, looking for an apartment and a job, and I was hurting like hell.  Each day seemed a struggle.  If you want an image, think of a lost puppy, which would be endearingly cute, but not on a grown 28 year-old man.  I became morose, tired, unmotivated, and forgetful.  Anger and frustration seemed to bubble just below the surface, along with a sadness for feeling helpless.  I couldn't tell anyone how I felt, even though I'm certain my energy gave me away.  I've been in that place once before, and I will say this:  It sucks ballsacks.

Unfortunately, when I get stuck in my head, it becomes incredibly hard to look outward and take care of, and be there for, those around me.  I forget that my problems are not exclusive, and that others need just as much attention and care as I do.  And because I can't be there for myself, how can I hope to be there for anyone else?  I know I certainly wasn't my best self during this time even if I did try as hard as I could, and I hope those I love know, and can forgive me.  I can only learn and do better next time.

Ultimately, circumstances brought me to a point where I had nothing holding me to New York, and I finally had to look that nagging thought right in the face.  I sat, breathed, and listened.  My Spirit talking to me, so to speak.  With sadness, I realized that my time in NYC was at a crossroads.  I still have much to give, and to learn from the city, but I have neglected for far too long that I have some lessons to learn elsewhere, if for a little while.  And though I'm not turning back from the dream of living the musical theater performer's life in NYC, I had been holding on to it tightly, and like most things, when you grasp and cling to them, you smother their life, their oxygen.  You have to let it go, so it can grow and fly.

So now I sit on a plane bound for Los Angeles.  It will be the first time in years that I haven't had something to plan towards.  Ironically enough, the biggest growth has been when I didn't plan, but simply remained open to whatever possibility might come up.  It is still a huge leap of faith, and is going to take enormous work, courage, and trust to not get discouraged and uncertain, but I'm incredibly optimistic, and I'm taking time to listen to my Spirit.  Who knows what I may find?  That's half the fun, I suppose.

To extrapolate on my last post, when I censor myself with the negative talk, denial and expectations I perceive in my head, I smother both the bad and the good within me.  To be honest, but loving with who I am, where I'm at, and how I feel, so that I can be honest and loving with the people in my life and make smart, informed choices has been the biggest lesson in growth, love and forgiveness this year.  So as the holidays roll in, all I wish for you is the courage to show up for yourself, for those you love, and for your future.  Get out of your head and open up.  You might find answers that aren't pretty, but they are real, and in the long run so worthwhile.  Don't be afraid of them.  It's the best gift you can give.  Well, the best gift besides that new iPad.

To Thine Own Self Be True

"Clear the attic."

"I beg your pardon?"

"And be aware of the timidity.  Just know that."

I was dumbfounded.  In two sentences, I had been assessed by a clairvoyant with alarming alacrity, and it shook me.

I have always had a mind impervious to rest.  It races through myriad thoughts, at times with such speed that I'll lose a really profound idea mere moments after it happens because my mind will move towards another, seemingly disparate tangent.  I find myself constantly assessing and weighing scenarios, judging them by their merits and detractions.  It can be a wonderful tool, in that it allows me to appraise many factors before making a decision.  Then again, it can become a paradox of choice, where the abundance of different options leads me to freeze, overwhelmed by the variety.

Furthermore, I am, by my own assessment, a rather shy individual.  I am good at being the boisterous one at the party, and I do love ripping into a fast and hopefully witty repartee.  I'll do anything for a laugh even if it's embarrassing.  That said, my idea of a good time has always been a quiet one-on-one with someone I care about, reconnecting and enjoying the time together.  I'm wary of the loud, drunken bar, or the party with people I don't really know.  I let my self be boisterous to combat the wariness. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don't.

So the fact that this woman honed in on both of them astounded me, because she had picked up on the two aspects of myself that have caused me the greatest hindrance in communicating and expressing myself and my needs: the former, because it constantly analyzes and judges what I say and the other's possible reactions, leaving me ill at ease; the latter because it expounds my anxiety in speaking up, too timid to voice what is essential for my own happiness.  It denies me being anything but pleasant, when I can be a myriad of different feelings and emotions and states of being, all of them valid.

This has been brewing for a time, and came to a head recently.  I realize now that it must stop, if only for the mere fact that I have not been taking care of myself, mentally, physically, and circumstantially.  It is insipid and insidious, and the realization that I have been sacrificing my voice to amend and appease others, to defer my opinion in order to make everyone else happy, is actually fraudulent and dishonest.  As I seek true emotional and mental honesty, and honest concern and care from my loved ones, this is my greatest struggle.

Someone recently said to me, "We are so obsessed with loving each other that we aren't being real with each other."  She hadn't directed it to me specifically, but it struck me, leaving me pondering the meaning for the rest of the day.  We cannot love if we are not completely honest, either with ourselves or with others.  We miss so much real intimacy by offering what we think is the right answer, the politically correct opinion, the safe response.  We try to sugar coat things, molding ourselves into being the perfect "someone" others may wish us to be, while never letting ourselves shine through, letting them know the real us.  We do them and ourselves a disservice.

So here is my cry, impassioned and forthright.  I will no longer allow myself to bullshit.  To not voice myself.  I will not provide the safe response.  I will not be timid.  I will be honest and concise, but not cruel and judgmental.  I will not hide myself for others' sake.  I will laugh when I want, hold your hand when I would like to, joke when I feel it, and love as I will.   I will dare to be out there, to be idiosyncratic, to not conform, and to create what I can.  Do not patronize me, do not condescend, do not exalt me, or put me on a pedestal.  Enjoy me as I am, warts and all.  I promise you I will do the same.  I will seek out the truth in you, the beauty that you possess.  I will not try to fit you into a box, or force you to be anything other than who and what you are.  I will enjoy you as you come, revel in your imperfections, and love you as you are meant to be loved.  I am not perfect, and I can never be.  You and I are merely God's creations, and that is perfection enough.

Taking a chance on love

What does it mean to love, or to fall in love?  Why do we feel the need to fall INTO love?  Like falling into a wide chasm that we cannot come out of.  Edward Albee once wrote about "growing into love."  What an incredible sentiment, huh?  Growing into love.  Working through the hurts and baggage of the past in tandem.  Or, at least, working through to loving oneself and one's past, good and bad.  Taking a chance on loving oneself to be able to love one's partner.  How do we do it?

Sometimes the lessons can only be learned in the aftermath of trauma, for there is where great learning often lies.  My friend Lee, one of the sweetest and sagest people I know, spoke of loving the "break up."  From there she always discovered new things about herself.  I understand that cognitively, but living through it can be another story.  We often find ourselves dwelling and ruminating, constantly rationalizing  while still running in circles.  We stay in place, thinking of What-Ifs and Shoulda-Beens.  It can be vicious stasis.  By the same token, we often confront long held beliefs that may no longer work, and solidify what has worked and what is particularly essential for our own emotional health.

Other times, the lessons are learned in the midst of being alone.  Removed from the heartache and soul searching of a break up, these lessons can be both like lightning and like mist.  On one end of the spectrum, they can strike with fury, a sudden jolt that can alter your consciousness in profound and noticeably distinct ways.  They change the way we do things and how we see the world.  On the other end, they can pervade and meander without any real notice, until one day you're sitting in a soft, beautiful spot, enjoying the day and you realize that something you may have believed is no longer the case.  Evolution in an instant, but not really.

And then there are the lessons to be learned in the middle of the relationship.  These are at times the most enlightening and the most mundane of any that one might learn.  The establishment of the physical space and relationship, the communication and acceptance of different viewpoints and ways of doing things into something uniquely shared, and the formation of your own idiosyncratic language of love are all huge lessons learned in the context of any relationship, as well as who takes up more room in the bed and how each person likes their coffee.  In between that figurative pole and antipode, there are a million other lessons that, at the end provide the spine for the pages of this relationship that you have both embarked on.

I recently embarked on such a journey, and I'm learning every day.  Learning to be in the same space and to grow with this man in my life.  Finding that my heart and my life have room to spare for this new person, these new beliefs, and this new way of seeing how the world is and how it can be.  There are difficulties to be sure, but there are also beautiful moments of wonder and undeniable love and care.  All of it is part and parcel with the journey.

That journey, while frightening, is pushing me towards growth I may not have wanted, but nonetheless greatly needed.  To that end, I like to think that the growth is a form of self love, a way for me to know myself in ways I never expected.  As Thanksgiving gives way to Christmas in the following weeks, all I can say is that I count myself immensely and truly blessed.  I give thanks for this new journey and wherever it may lead, and the gift that is growing within myself.  I'm taking a chance on love.

La la la la la la Miss Saigon....

A long, butt-numbing bus ride, a very late lunch of salmon salad, and another van ride down a country highway brought me to my home for the subsequent seven weeks doing a show: Miss Saigon.  As the billboard said, "The heat is on.....in Ogunquit."

The amazing thing about going on a gig is the incredible ability one has to isolate, to utilize time as you see fit, without much in the way of obligation (other than the show), or the necessity to fill time.  Just the time to focus on the work at hand, and your own process.  Living in the city often makes you feel a bit lost if you aren't thoroughly and constantly on the move.  So many things to do; so much that needs to be taken in and explored.  In the end, we almost become spoiled with the wealth, the overabundance of activities and events.  Here was the chance to be alone with myself and listen, as I was attempting to really look at my process anew, hoping that I would learn more about myself along the way.

Now I have a confession to make.  I had never seen the show prior to being cast in it.  I had no preconceived notions of what the show was supposed to be, where it lived, or how it could possibly affect an audience.  I've only heard the score once, and when I stated this to most of my friends, they looked at me as if I had grown warts all over my face.  I suppose being Asian and in musical theater, I should've seen those looks coming.  But there was incredible beauty in approaching the show with no familiarity.   I hadn't made any decisions or choices, and I didn't have my strength in mimicry to fall back on.  I approached my first rehearsal with enormous trepidation.

You see, like so many of my colleagues, I did a bit of facebook stalking (you know you do it, too) before going up and discovered, both to my excitement and apprehension, that I was going to be in the company of some stupidly talented people.  People I had read about and listened to, admiring their work from afar in sunny, film-centric Los Angeles.  People I was now going to share the stage with.  What was I getting myself into?  I didn't know, but I was about to find out.

We walked into the rehearsal space and started being put into our paces, and my fears were more than confirmed.  These people were killing it.  Even in the first rehearsal.  My timidity began to set in.  I was as nervous as a cat.  My mind raced a mile a minute, and for a while I thought that there must have been some huge mistake.  Ashton Kutcher must've been waiting somewhere to tell me I was being Punk'd.

Then, as rehearsals progressed throughout the week, my body began to click in.  I was picking things up and making choices on the fly.  I was trusting my instincts again.  I was living in the moment, that elusive, transcendent state of being that every actor craves.  The show demanded enormous commitment and bravery in going to emotionally and mentally dark places, and even through previews and the weeks of performances, that need to invest fully never let up.  We couldn't relax.  It was all consuming, and gave me a focus I have not encountered in work in a very long time.  I felt this profound need to serve this piece its due, and to let go of my insecurities, my apprehensions, in order to trust my fellow cast mates to go to the "scary" place with me.  Luckily, they were right there, and I with them.  We held each other, bolstered each other.

I couldn't pinpoint the moment, like some myoclonic twitch, when we all began to work with each other and coalesce like a family.  It was more like coming home, a slow and steady realization.  I've tried for several weeks to find the words to describe how it happened, to articulate succinctly but fully.  It still is so close to me that I have little benefit of hindsight.  So instead I'll describe an evening early in rehearsals.

Some of our cast lived for the first few weeks in a little place called the Hideaway, a two story turn-of-the-century house that had been turned into an inn.  Cozy and very quaint, the place had an enormous living room with a long, oval dining table.  At any given time, you would find some ten to twelve people gathered around it, on their computers, eating, or chatting about the day.

One evening, after dinner, two of my cast mates performed an impromptu set of songs that they had written, and our collective jaws dropped.  Sexy, sultry, and eclectic, it was a wonderful sign of the enormous talents of our company.  Soon others joined in with a harmony here, a riff there, an added piano accompaniment, and by the end we all found ourselves singing in a large scale jam session.  At one point I stopped, took stock of the situation and the people around me, and thought, "I am the luckiest man alive, and I think I'm falling in love with these people."

I did indeed fall in love with those people, that place, and that process.  I found a family, and I came home.

The Mirror Has Two Faces

Every once in a while a good Barbra Streisand title sets you on a path of reflection and as fate would have it, the Jewish New Year rolled through just as my boyfriend and I talked at length about faith.  He has held a constant belief system that has kept him and seen him through most of his life.  It's a strong and beautiful facet of him.  When the question arose to explain my own, I found myself both stupefied and tongue-tied.  I'd rarely discussed it openly, especially to someone I was dating.  Furthermore, I hadn't gotten to the point where I could fully articulate it to someone outside myself.  It's wondrous that the topic presented itself at that very moment, because I had spent the better part of the past year and a half really understanding and deciding what I believed.  Here was my chance to boldly state it.  Suffice it to say I babbled my way through it like an idiot.

When I moved to New York three years ago, a change began to take place.  An awakening, as it were.  Faith had always been a strong component of my life, but it was always tempered by a deep questioning, perhaps even skepticism.  As I had grown up in a household that embraced both Christianity and Buddhism, I merely accepted what I found to be parallel faith paths.  Yes I gravitated towards Christianity, but Buddhist principles constantly found active applications in my life. Moreover, I noticed that the basic tenets of mutual and individual respect, a search for inner tranquility, and an active love of others were common throughout.  However, I often found it hard to negotiate what I felt was a narrow view of God within the congregations I actively attended.  I couldn't understand the constraints put upon the nature of God.  Nonetheless, I stayed along my path and kept my focus, absorbing aspects of both faiths that spoke to me, inspired me.

Then my teens came in, and along with it confusion, anger, and general doubt in who I was.  The divorce and the fact that I liked boys didn't help much, either.  As it were, much of that belief system crumbled.  I went to church and played the part, continued meditating, but found myself increasingly unmoved.  Apathy is worse than aversion in faith.  You no longer care one way or another for what you previously believed.  You merely exist, just slogging day by day ignorantly unaware.

Then, as my teens gave way to my twenties, my apathy gave way to my struggle and determination to feel, indeed believe, in something.  And to my enormous surprise, I found that my faith in something greater than myself hadn't died.  Merely gone into hibernation, waiting for me to wake up from my paralyzed sense of identity.  What a great joy, but a great sorrow, for having not seen it or realized it was there for so long.  But this time, it was different.  It came with an understanding of pain in confluence with bliss, sadness with happiness.  Both exist within and inform each other.  And there was a new duality of faith, an appreciation of my beliefs as a Buddhist and a Christian, which now tied completely with the duality of being both bilingual and bicultural, and having to straddle two existing ideologies and sets of customs.  At least for me, all of them enrich each other, trauma providing insight into the vastness of joy, language offering more complex and precise forms of expression, and each culture increasing an understanding of the human condition.

So now I'm at a new point in my odyssey with faith.  Having the question asked of me has put me on the path to succinctly define it for myself, to open myself up to what I really believe.  One thing is certain: throughout this journey, I am thankful for rediscovering a faith that is uniquely and wholly my own.

The American Dream...according to my Mother

Anyone who knows me knows I tell stories about my mother.  A wise sage in sensible Nike Shox and recycled pants I wore when I was 12.  She endlessly amazes me, in that stories come flying out of her that always stun me, make me think, bore a little (she does get long-winded), and always elicit a smile.

A few days ago we were sitting watching the Golf Channel (actually, that's all her), and reminiscing about a trip my mother had made to visit me in New York around the Fourth of July.  Her first trip to the Big Apple.  The first of many that seem to always bring me back to myself.  To seeing the world through my awed mother's eyes.  For example, take her first trip to the Statue of Liberty, that quintessential representation of New York and its unending sense of promise.

It was a day like most in summer here, lit brightly yellow and sticky.  The AC in my apartment did little to help with the humidity, despite the cool air that now pervaded the room.

"Hey, we going to the Statue of Liberty today?"

"Yes, Mom.  Like I promised."

"Oh man!  Okay!  I need to go get ready.  Need to look nice for the Lady!"

If a grown woman could go skipping from a room, she was it.  She tends to get excited by life, but that day there was an unusual bounce in her step.  More akin to Tigger than anything else.

We made our way out and soon found ourselves on the ferry that would transport my mother and I to the island.  As the ferry glided closer and closer, my less than composed mother became positively kindergarten-esque.

"Oh, I see it!  I mean, her!  Oh man!  Hey Kav, look at her!  She's so big!"

I looked on in amazement.  Not just at the statue, but at my mother.  I had forgotten that awe for a good long while, and much of the city's grind and hustle had creeped in.  To recapture it in a moment of unexpected jubilation coming from someone I loved greatly plastered the hugest grin on my face.  By the end of the day, my cheeks hurt.

Reminiscing again the couple of years later, sitting on the couch, had done little to diminish my mother's giddiness.

"You know, when I saw that green lady with the big feet.  Oh man.  That made my day.  No, that made my LIFE!  Now I understand how all the immigrants felt when they saw her for the first time, because that's how I felt."

My mother moved to the US for the first time when she was nineteen to live with her sister with very little in the way of money, and a lack of English skills.  By sheer force of will, since my aunt abruptly moved back six months after my mom arrived, she carved out a life for herself alone here, getting an Associate's degree and taking ESL classes in the evening before finally returning to Thailand some four years later.  A blushing wallflower she is not.

To me, she embodies the true promise of the American Dream.  The sense of exploration and deep awe that flows throughout my entire being.  I used to question it, and have certainly done so here, but that little conversation opened my eyes to the fact that a unique sense of wanderlust is in me.  Not flippant or flaky, but incredibly curious and open, with a world bounding in possibility.  That is the essence of my mother's sense of self.  Looking on the world anew each day, with an open heart and an enormous sense of humor.  Thanks, Mom.  I raise a glass to you.  Even if you don't drink.

PS.  Another example of my Mom's sense of opportunity.

"Wait, I have a surprise for you.  Close your eyes.  Hold out your hands.  Both hands.  Okay, you can open your eyes."  Two five-dollar bills sit in my hands. "See, there you go.  A gift.  Five dollars for Super Lotto, and five dollars for Mega Millions!"

I think I'll go out and buy some today.

Teens Like Phil

I recently worked on a project that I feel so excited about, and find so important to share.  The film, Teens Like Phil, deals with the bond of friendship and love, corrupted by fear and violence, between two young men.  Throughout the past year we have heard about a pronounced uptick in teen suicide and bullying.  Whether that uptick is the result of increased awareness or an actual rise in self inflicted violence is debatable, but hardly the point.  There are kids out there dying for being who they are and believing that that is not enough to warrant living.  As a man who understands what that felt like, I want to implore you to seek out those who may not know that there is light and joy at the end of that tunnel.

Isolation is a self-perpetuating condition.  It's strange how, once we feel abandoned, betrayed, antagonized, or ridiculed by a particular person or group of people, we begin to remove ourselves from the general society at large.  We begin to fear first the cause of our tumult, and then the world beyond it, because we begin to believe the awfulness that surrounds and is directed towards us.  We start to believe the diminished sense of place and worth that comes with such relentless contempt, and suddenly we are on a precipitous downhill course until we stand on a cliff edge, with nowhere to go and nowhere to turn.

The thing is, there is always somewhere to turn.  The first thing to realize is that giving up is not an option.  It never is.  There is a difference between acquiescing graciously and deciding to give up.  The former denotes a full fight to live the breadth of your time here.  It means that you have experienced everything that is part and parcel with living, and done so wholly, no matter how long your life may be.  The latter is the total antithesis of all that entails.  It is an inability to see beyond this moment, to know that the world is infinitely more joyous, and terrifying, than this.  It refuses to acknowledge the vast resources of your spirit, and your strength that far exceeds what you can imagine.

I want all of you to remember, if the path you're on is fraught with obstacles and hurts that you cannot fathom coming out of, to call to mind the proverbial light.  It's always there.  Whether from God, or the Universe, or your own Spirit; I don't care how you define it.  Find it.  Hold it.  And remind yourself of it constantly.  Because the path will eventually clear.  And know that you are a member of a community.  There is always someone who cares, or is willing to care.  All you need to do is seek it out.

I beseech those of you who have gone through your own trials, your own deep hurts, to seek out those in turmoil.  Give them the benediction of your compassion, your empathy, and your understanding.  It is so desperately needed.  I know I'm proselytizing, but fuck that.  It is important and needs to be shared.  People are dying because they feel isolated, ostracized, and alone.  People on the very cusp of their lives, who through the cruelty of others, will now never know the joy of a life fully lived.  That is the greatest shame.

One Size Does Not Fit All

My ex-roommate was thoroughly mortified by the show Hoarders, and for good reason.  No one ever wants to sink that low.  It's mortifying.  It's embarrassing.  It shows people your taste in clothes from the Seventies.  But the deeper issue is the emotional barricade these people put up through accumulating stuff.  Almost a bit like the drama we occupy ourselves with in life.  For example, say you have been seeing someone.  Gabe, perhaps.  Funny, warm, great smile, good body, motivated, and you feel so at ease around him.  You always have fun, laughing at yourselves over ice cream, feeling like fatties.  But you're just dating.  Something doesn't feel right.  Maybe he's a little too tall, or doesn't make enough money, or has a strange laugh that reminds you of the lovechild of a ghoul and a car engine revving.  So you continue to date around.

And then, out of the blue, you meet the perfect man at Barney's or better yet, Crunch.  He checks every box on your list.  Lawyer?  Check.  Apartment in a really classy co-op on the Upper West?  Check. Thighs that Michelangelo used to model the David?  Double check.  Huge fig leaf?  I think my nips just got hard. And his name?  Lorenzo.  The next week you indulge in three or seven cocktails (who counts?) at dinner with Lorenzo, who likes your arms and shows you how big that fig leaf is.  It is nirvana.  Angels sing and trumpets blare.  You realize that you have met the ONE.   You will now be featured on Barefoot Contessa, one of Ina's ridiculously happy, turtleneck clad gays of uncertain but affluent financial means.  Your days will consist of a hugely satisfying job working in advertising for Vanity Fair, commuting between the co-op and the Hamptons, milk painting the shabby chic dresser you found for the foyer entrance.  Idyllic doesn't describe it; Webster's can't define it.

You revel in your new found Apollo and the wondrous world you plan to build together.  Bliss, all in one week.  So what if he hasn't called in three days after your last date at Five Guys?  He is the ONE.  He knows the special bond you have formed, all over cooing words and bubble time in the hot tub.  Gabe, of the great smile, who's seen you as a sloppy mess after being out, and still wanted to take you home to cuddle, calls you to go out to a street faire in the Village this weekend.  But you're busy.  You're waiting for Lo-Ren-Zo.  You're on Cloud Nine.

Hmm.  He still hasn't called.  You check your voicemail.  Nothing.  A few more days go by.  Nothing.  You are in the dumps.  You call Gabe back and agree to go to the faire.  It's something to do.  You're a little sullen, a little pouty, and a whole lot of sass when you meet him.  Nothing is going to lift your spirits.  You are mourning the loss of your caviar dreams.  Oh look, one of your favorite food trucks, that sells the best Belgian waffles outside of Brussels, is parked on the corner.  You get one, and share it with Gabe, who comments that you look like an overly satisfied chipmunk.  That makes you chortle, which makes you cough, as you've just aspirated the powdered sugar on your bite of waffle.  Gabe (damn that smile) laughs at you.  You glare, but you're not mad.  He's just so warm, so comfortable, so funny.  Then suddenly you realize it.  Maybe it really is a quiet thing.  Maybe this is your Robin Leach dream.  And just at that moment, Gabe hands you a taster glass of champagne.  You smile back at him.  A smile of recognition.  And those jeans you bought at Barney's when you met...what's his name?  Oh yeah, they don't fit anymore.

La Voce

For an artist, the goal is often to communicate one's beliefs and ideas in forms that engage the viewer, and relates to them in that viewer's specific context; the way they see the world, so to speak.  By far the most expressive tool of communication for the singer is the voice, both literally and figuratively.  We cultivate the former through the practice of the voice and its musculature: timbre, pitch, dynamic, breathe.  We seek to make the voice pleasant to the ear, to perhaps emulate those that we admire, and to develop proper technique to ensure longevity of the muscle.

However, how often do we cultivate the latter?  The sense of one's own unique perspective, as reflected in sound?  I find, myself included, that we often forget ourselves in the search of the perfect sound.  We can learn to have the best technique in the world, but if we have no idea where we came from, and what we are trying to communicate, who's compelled to listen to anything we have to say?

I recently listened to a recording of myself.  It was perfectly serviceable, pretty at times, but what struck me was how little of my own personality came through.  I was shocked.  I'd always encouraged my friends to seek out there voice, their passion, and yet here I had so little of my own personality within my singing.  It brought me to the realization that, perhaps, I'd lost my voice in trying so hard to conform to what I thought was the sound I was supposed to produce.

I have lived much of my adult life forming my unique perspective, after having regained my voice after so long.  Not terribly ruffled, quirky, a little odd, loud, gregarious, maybe slightly unsettling, definitely dirty-minded, in love with love....those things I get.  Those things are ME.  Now I have to find out how to include all that back into my voice.  I have a feeling it might be harder than I expect.  Actually, I know it will be harder than I expect.  It always is, and I'd be foolish to think otherwise.  But, I could surprise myself...so perhaps it won't be so hard?  Hmm.  How circuitous.  I'm just excited to finally bring both together into one.  My literal voice: The final frontier.

Fackus!

Say it with me now.  Fackus.  Despite what you think the etymology of the word may be, it comes directly from my diving coach in high school.  His Greek-born father used to scream it at him during practices.  "Chyou needa to fackus!" he would shout from the stands.  The call seemed to help his son find the nerve, ambition, and drive to forge ahead to the next plateau.  It got him through grueling practices.  And it taught him the value of humor within competition and work.  Naturally, he wanted to pass it on to us young, impressionable teenagers.  Right before a dive, while concentrating on the task at hand, a voice would rise up from beside the pool.  "Fackus!"  It might not have helped us with our concentration, but it certainly got us to laugh as we glided into the pool.  Invariably, that became a rallying cry when one of us was having a particularly off day.

There's enormous strength in laughing at yourself as you find your footing and watch yourself flounder.  Think about it.  If you make a big mistake, you have one of two choices.  You could mope, and bemoan the fact that you made the mistake in the first place, or you could laugh, learn, and let it go.  Of course, that's a gross oversimplification, but as Polonius said, "Brevity is the soul of wit."  Therefore, to wit.  

I used to take myself very seriously.  In fact, I think it's this very quality that made me too lazy to do the work, too insecure to push myself, and too prideful to accept constructive criticism at times when I needed it most.  Perhaps I'm being harsh with myself, but sometimes a good thorough taking stock is in order.  So here's a reminder to wipe the poop off, throw the chip off my shoulder, and do what needs to be done.  Laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.  If you've felt that you haven't lived up to your potential because you've gotten in your own way, I give you full permission to get out of the way.  Seriously, get the hell out of the way.  Just stick to the enterprise and off you go.  A clairvoyant once told me to "clear the attic."  At the time it unnerved me, because I knew what she meant, but had no means to do so.  I have those means now.  Hard fought, gainfully won, and heaven sent.  That is a wonderfully gratifying feeling.

To all who have helped me, guided me, and tried to pull it out of me when I couldn't and wouldn't let you, I apologize.  I wasn't ready, and I wasn't trying.  I was simply resting on laurels that weren't there, because I was too lazy and afraid to do the work.  I'm so sorry, but so grateful to you all for everything you have taught me.  You may not feel like I learned it, but I did, though it's taken years of active work, reflection, and perseverance to grasp it.  Thank you.

Now, back to work!

Auditions....and all of that ilk.

So the past couple of months have been a non-stop whirl of auditions, callbacks, and lessons.  I don't think I saw my roommate for a week and a half in one particular stretch.  It was almost mind-numbing.  Luckily, a few things have panned out, so my summer is all set.

I suppose this being my first time auditioning for summer stock season, I had a few lessons to learn.  However, I was ill-prepared for the cattle calls of five hundred people, trying to mold my particular skills and downplay my shortcomings to fit into prospective theaters' seasons.  I have usually been gone on a job during this time, and so going through it myself was an eye opener.

The first real lesson I learned was that I really have become a rusty dancer, even with the renewed effort to regain my dance ability.  In the four years since I last danced in a show, I have primarily been cast in roles that require little of that skill set.  I feel a bit like an infant, learning to walk, to move through space.  Nonetheless, it's better than where I was some five months ago.  On the opposite end of the spectrum, I've learned a great deal about trusting my instincts in crafting a song, a character, and a complete arc through the show.  I'm able to see where I would like to go with my character, how he relates to others onstage, and how to contribute my voice and my energy to the collective theatrical process.  I hope I make April Shawhan proud!

The third, and most interesting, lesson is that how I perceive myself as a performer and an artist, and the set of skills that I have worked through and honed in the past few years is now different from how I'm perceived by those casting.  When I danced a great deal, I was what you could call a real ensemble kid.  I loved working the chorus.  It was a comradeship; a coming together of people, usually just out of college, who wanted to put on a show.  It was loud and boisterous and silly almost.  I loved it.

But I realized, sadly, that I'm no longer that kid.  I've been pushing myself to deepen as an artist, and having neglected my dancing ability, I found the realization of my lack of skill both a slap in the face to my sense of self, and somewhat bittersweet.  I saw that I was growing into a different kind of artist, even if I couldn't move like those kids at all the dance callbacks I went to.  However, many of the theaters still see me as that kid.  Thankfully, I now have life behind me, and experience that I hope has deepened my other abilities and given me something else to offer.  Maybe not the wide-eyed eagerness, but a deeper sense of self awareness, and a richer well of expression and experience.  I wouldn't change the last four years for the world, and I'm prepared to show the world a maturer, quirkier, richer performer than that kid from then.  I'm ready now; who wants to see it?

Stop worrying where you're going, move on.

August 2, 2011- Note: This post is rather personal, and is really my final say on a matter that I reflected on for a long time.  As I wrote it, my inability to expound on my feelings seemed to give way to clarity.  I had finally uttered what I had spent so many months trying to find words to define.  When I finished, it was with enormous relief.  That day I let it go.  I hadn't expected it, but it came nonetheless.  I leave it here as a reminder of where I was.  With grace, it weighs me no more.


I love that line.  In seven words, Sondheim says so much.  You're constantly seeing ahead, projecting ahead, that you forget that you are already moving ahead.  And in that regard, you get stuck in a strange purgatory, never fully present, but not living out a real future.  Just an envisioned one.

That's a lot like some relationships, isn't it?

My last relationship saw me at probably one of the most vulnerable and unhappy times of my life.  The future loomed ahead of me, and because I was touring the country, having left behind my new home and newly formed friendships in New York City, I had very little stability.  That coupled with some antagonistic tourmates made life a bit of nightmare, and from which I found little escape.  My only escape was my long distance relationship, which in retrospect (being 20/20) I shouldn't have started in the first place.  Our relationship existed solely on the phone.  No shared memories.  No time spent in the others company, save the one time he was able to visit.  It was like having someone to tell you the things you wanted to hear, without the actions to really back it up.  And it occurred on both ends of that line; we both did that to each other.  I acted like a teenager, with the attendant highs and lows.  I needed a life line from touring, I grabbed it, and after it ended I have to say I was rather ashamed of, and stunned by, my behavior.

Why had I behaved this way?  Why was I so volatile?  I had made explicit to myself what I would and would not like in a relationship, and yet all my rational thought had simply and singly been thrown out the window.  I'm fairly levelheaded when it comes to my friends and their issues and problems; I understand many different opinions and sides, and try to give them all equal weight.  I understand that ambiguity.  However, for myself, I became victim to the whims of my emotions, and I wanted the answers that served MY purpose.  In other words, I couldn't practice what I preached, and that started me to thinking.

I'm the kind of guy to whom the phrase "Still waters run deep" applies in spades. I spent most of my teenage years in a bit of a daze.  I had lost all personality, lost my own voice.  Numb to most anything but this deep sense of something wrong that I couldn't articulate until my final year of college. When I finally sought help and learned to feel something, anything, it wasn't at all what I expected.  Instead of the jubilant emotions that I had hoped to feel, I was left dealing with the huge sense of loss I couldn't fathom.  Where had it come from?  And then it came to me, like a door opening onto a vast and pitch black hall: My parents' divorce.  I had never realized it before because I had buried the anger and frustration so deeply that it seemed to disappear.  Of course, it hadn't.  Upon reflection, it became a defining moment of my life.  As a friend once told me, "It's as if all the color was sucked out of the world."

The pain had been more than I could handle, and an emotionally withdrawn armor had formed, mostly against letting myself love someone, or be loved by someone, lest I get hurt again.  I wasn't antagonistic or bitter, but aloof to life and work, taking little interest in the things I used to love, and only seeking out relationships sporadically.  When I felt that people were starting to get too enmeshed in my life, I'd find a new place to be or move.  It seemed to manifest as the restlessness I've mentioned before, and I always justified it because of my natural need for adventure and endeavor, but on reflection, I realized it was partially running away.  I liked being alone, and doing things on my own, only because it prevented people from seeing the hurt I was in, from which I was sure most of my friends would flee to avoid.  Only when I would get intimately involved with someone would I have to confront my deeper turmoil, and even then I didn't have the ability to understand and articulate it.  However, the end of my last relationship threw it all into high relief, and I decided to finally let myself grieve, both for the relationship and for the past.  I wanted to be conscious of every emotion, every nuance of feeling that passed through me.  I began to piece myself together.  I began to trust myself and those I loved.

Today, the sadness, the ache has diminished and changed somewhat, but I realize it may never quite go away.  However, knowing it's there, and respecting it, is much of the battle.  Each disappointment feels greater because of it, and each triumph is infinitely more rich.  Thankfully, I can now see it, when before, I was merely coasting through life not knowing.  The process of stripping it of its negative power may take a long time, but if that's the price to pay for the freedom from, or the acceptance of, it, then that's the way this cookie has to crumble.  That's the way to move on.  And that's what I think Sondheim meant.

LA to NYC...did I sign up for this?

Okay okay.  I understand the concern.  "Where have you been?", you might ask.  Or perhaps,"We were sick with worry."  Maybe even, "We couldn't function without your insight."  Or you actually probably didn't think a nit about it.  Because I know I forgot.

So here I am again, keeping myself accountable.  It's been a good four months since I last wrote anything, so here's a brief recap:

-I went to upstate NewYork to workshop a children's musical.

-I got cast and shot an independent film/pilot presentation in LA.

-I had Thanksgiving with my Mom for the first time in three years in NYC.

-I went home for the holidays for the first time in two years in LA.

All in all, not terribly eventful and yet enormously so.  Most people accrue a couple thousand frequent flyer miles in six months to a year.  I accrued 8000 in three.  And for the first time in my life I got tired of travel.

Now let me explain.  For as long as I can remember, I've loved travelling.  I couldn't get enough.  Flights, to me, were like something out of magic.  I tried caviar for the first time on a plane (loved it).  I tried coffee for the first time on a plane (hated it....but not for long).  It was the most intense, awesome experience.  To be in one place and in the span of a few hours to find yourself somewhere so foreign, you had to recalibrate everything.  That was amazing to me!

So I thought nothing of the travel plans some four months ago before I started.  Just another adventure.

But this time around, it wasn't an adventure.  It was work, and for long stretches of time.  And each time I realized that I was leaving behind friends in either place.  I had always thought that we would pick up right where we left off, but in actuality I was missing out on hanging around, being with them, joking with them, doing stupid things with them.  I'm putting each friendship/relationship in stasis.  To constantly travel and work.  I love what I do, but I think a bit more balance might be in order.

Somewhere in my soul is this incredible feeling of motion.  I love stillness, but invariably a moment of pure adrenaline will rush me off to do something.  And travel has become a huge component of that.  My chance to discover a new place, a new perspective, new people, if just for a little while.  If there was a shuttle to Mars, I would be the first one on it.

So now I am in the middle of a dilemma:  How do I find the balance within work and life?  How do I give and respect each in equal measure?   For now, I can only be where I am and enjoy where I am.  But something is coming.  What?  I can't say.   But I can keep my eyes open.