The Opportunity Express

Opportunity knocks. But it really doesn't. It's actually a Conductor there to say there's a Train for you at the metaphorical Train Station, ready to take you to a greater destination. All that's left for you to do is get to the station and climb aboard.

Well, Opportunity didn't knock. I saw the Conductor coming and raced to the Train Station to await the longed for "All aboard!"

I sat on the platform admiring the Train. But I wasn't called aboard; it was desolate of a crew.

I picked my fingernails and gave the Train anxious glances. But I wasn't called aboard.

I began securing all the cars for their departure: checking that they were each properly latched to the other, and then in turn to the Engine.

I began gathering wood to feed the fire.

But I wasn't called aboard.

I opened the furnace, to check its heat. I stoked the fire. I added more wood. I adjusted the coals. I let more air in and still more wood and still more air and I stoked it till my brow bled sweat and all it amounted to was the explosion of the Engine. I did not ensure the Train would leave with me as a giddy passenger. I ensure that the Train would never leave, regardless of my being on board. I left the Train desolate, to be dragged away and recycled for other Opportunity Trains of people strong enough to wait.

And who's to say, in but a moment's time, the Conductor would have tipped me his hat. Who's to say he'd have bellow "All aboard!" and taken my hand as I mounted the steps.

Who's to say the Train was truly going to leave, but my exuberant human nature brought me to forcing Fate and destroying that destination. And perhaps the Train would have taken me somewhere only to shortly pick me up and return me to my original standing, the only difference being my minutely wiser outlook toward similar situations. Or perhaps that Train was one of two much larger Trains, and the passage on either affects life's outcome immensely. Perhaps I destroyed the better option.

Or perhaps the Engine isn't in fiery ruin.

Perhaps it just needs a little more wood.

Life is an hourglass glued to the table

Well, as you may or may not recall, my last post was on my "golden year" being a year of change and moving on. It seems that twas not the only thing this year shall be. I read my darling Jason Mraz's blog a week or so back (see www.freshnessfactorfivethousand.blogspot.com should you care to taste his literate fruits) and he said his New Years resolution was to live in the now: to forget the past, the future, to take the 'new' and make it all 'now.' Then he wished all reading a Happy 'Now' Year.

I thought that was wise of him. Now Year... It's been going through my head the last few weeks. And today, a new semester started, and in Yoga Jan explained we will learn to focus and live in the present, to forget the past and live in the now. Yoga is wishing me a Happy 'Now' Year. And again, in Creative Writing after lunch, Mrs. Sides (on speaking on rapid-writes) explained to write what you feel right now. Whatever happened at lunch is in the past. It's "digesting." Write in the now. Happy 'Now' Year.

So, I suppose all I'm saying is at first I took Mraz's message as a quaint play-on-words to someday evoke in my life, but I suppose Fate is telling me it's yet another aspect of my 'golden year'. Living in the present, focusing on the task at hand. Finally learning that this life isn't a dress rehearsal, which is a harden lesson to learn that it appears. Even to a theatre nerd the phrase doesn't quite work. Why? Because--I learned during Cinderella--not do I only take the metaphorical performance of Life as a dress rehearsal, but I also take the very solid, very real stage performances as mere practices.

Always. I cannot remember a show up until West Side Story where I knew the choreography at an average, fluid level by opening night. Two years before I had succeeded in learning the Act One Final in Suessical the Musical Jr. on closing night. Needless to say, if you ask me to dance it now I'll merely look at you until you are awkwarded from my presence.

And I found myself delaying my grasp of the Stepmother's character up until the final curtain. Yes, I knew her well by dress rehearsals. Yes, she was the greatest, strongest roll I've played to date. But yes, I could have discovered a whole new dimension to her, but I didn't. Because somehow I'm wired to think the time will come later for me to do so.

I'm thankful this golden year is teaching me the pleasure of the present. I should have learned this lesson--metaphorical and literal--years ago. But I'm glad Fate is pitying my thick mortal mind and is instructing me properly to be better.

Now, let me fully embark on my Golden Now Year.

It's great how severing all these ties can make things right.

Everyone keeps telling me this year will be my golden year--the best year of my life--because I just turned 18 on the 18th. And in the week it's been since my "golden year" began, I already see what's so golden about it.

My free public schooling is over in June, I'll begin paying my way through my life come September. Things are changing. And I didn't realize until word reached me that Jason Mraz--my idol, my dream, my foundation for opinion--is engaged, that more than the price and atmosphere of school is changing; I can't expect things with Mraz to be the same, should the marriage actually last (which, in all honesty, I'm praying it will). How soon until he stops touring? How soon until he stops recording? How soon until he hangs up his guitar in retirement, only to take it down for the delight of his children? From what I know of the man, he'll forsake all he's built-up in fame to raise a couple of kids; he wants a family more than anything. I'm going to have to accept that change, I'm going to have to get used to the fact that someday relatively soon I won't be able to YouTube his new touring adventures or hear a new live track.

How ironic that the other, more closely related aspect of my life bid farewell to the old on the same day "she said yes" to Jason. I sat there Thursday evening watching the final performance of the final show at Rodger's Memorial Theatre. The next time I see a show it'll be in a new seat, staring at a new stage with new carpet and new acoustics and...

All the basic aspects of my life--everything I've ever known and believed on--are changing. And they all decided to change after my "golden" birthday.

Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that this golden year is not to be taken the way I'd initially hoped; thus far it is a precedent for change. It is to be a time for accepting all the change in my life; a time to take all I've known and all that has made me who I am, shift among them and keep the better parts, turning the rest into fond memories to share in a rocking chair by a dying fire.

I have to choose a new artist to serenade me with new music when Mraz stops for good, I have to familiarize myself with the drive to Centerpoint Legacy Theatre, and I have to decide if I want to drive my potential to Ceder City or bus it to Virginia. I need to embrace the beauty my golden year is providing, and truly play it for all it's worth.

I believe I'll be different after this year. I find myself looking not with sorrow on the empty theatre, engaged musician, and pathetic bank account; but with a note of adventure, and a thick icing of contentment keeping me together. I find I'm excited in a way I've never been to receive my diploma and leave; and, oddly, it was as if the only thing keeping me from falling into myself was my lenient arm on Mraz. And now that he's cut me free, I can take all this ground and build a mountain.

My Dream Role

I've never gotten to know a character as well as I did Mrs. Lottie Child in Gershwin's Crazy For You. I think that's why it hurt so much knowing I'd never return to her lines, I'd never return to her costumes, I'd never return to her voice and mannerisms. She was the first character I truly got to know, and the first (I believe) I 100 percent acted in place of.

I've always developed a character, but I've always thought about what would get a laugh, what would make the most sense. I never once thought "What would _____ do?" I never made my character a person. I only ever made a voice, made a laugh, and made a means by which they delivered their lines and stood while onstage.

Erin was showing me the various walks of all of her characters from the Bountiful High stage, and I remember thinking "Lottie doesn't have a walk."

Or so I thought. I believe because I put so much effort into finding Lottie, her walk just came about, and I shocked myself many a time as I walked backstage alone in one of her costumes, walking the walk I was sure I hadn't developed.

But it was her. It was Lottie.

I have a very fond place in my heart for her, though she, to some degree, is the villain of the show. She is definitely one character I have loved the most. And I believe all my thanks should go to Jerome Rockwood and his book.

Rockwood taught me what I already knew, but he put it in words that changed the message. He taught me to justify my actions, to have a purpose on stage. He taught me that you couldn't get on stage a "play an emotion", you had to have some inner reason for that emotion. In real life you don't just become angry. There is a reason, if you look deep enough, for your anger. You need that on stage.

He taught me not the play the cliches. He taught me to find original material, not to mimic what I'd seen done a thousand times.

And if I stole the show being Lottie, as people have told me I have stolen the show in the past, I stole it this time with sincere originality. I stole it with a firmly developed character, not my ability to think how certain things would work with the crowd.

Opening night was a thrill when I dug myself so deep into Lottie's character that when I tried to remember my first line prior to going onstage (a simple "Yes, Bobby?") I couldn't for the life of me remember any of my lines. But I knew myself well enough to know that they'd come, and it was interesting to realize I'd forgotten them because Lottie wouldn't have planned a whole conversation in her head. It would have just come out, perhaps more bluntly than required.

Several shows later I came onstage with too much Erica. And Lottie did something Erica thought was funny. And Erica laughed. On stage. I hated myself for it, but that just drove the spike deeper for me to have a fabulous closing night.

I'm not going to say closing night was the single greatest performance I ever gave, no. That title belongs to opening night, a performance I wholeheartedly agree would not have been even an ounce as good if it twere not for the interceding of a certain Higher Power. And I believe He did it then so I could see, for the first time, how to properly play Lottie, because in every rehearsal prior I had had her general mass, but I had to skeleton to contain it.

So I would like to bid goodbye to Lottie. I would like to say farewell to the part that gave me all I need to act on stage. I would like to deeply thank the heartless woman who brought my talent meaning, and I'd like to thank my God for giving me the chance.

Lou Lou Letdown

I started this week at the top of the endless staircase in Super Mario 64. I tripped, I rolled, I bashed my head against the wall a few times, and I landed, spread-eagle, in a pool of blood and bitter tears. Who would have thought a week with only three school days could hurt my heart and tear ducts so much?

Forgive me if I'm not too eloquent, I just don't have the energy this evening.

It started Wednesday in AP Lit. We were getting back our timed writings from the time before, and yours truly--having received a 6 on the past two--was rather looking forward to this new score for the fridge. And, reminiscent perhaps of the monologue from A Chorus Line I used to audition for Musical two years ago, they gave me a 3.

I blinked back childish tears and wished in vain for Mrs. Drake to stop hissing her T's about the essay. I wanted to wad it up and leave the room. I couldn't stand something I'm so good at, something I'm so proud of, ending so wretchedly.

By the end of that day I was in Musical, a wondrous place of happy forgetfulness that normally makes me wish my life was on stage and only onstage, because life their is so much more fulfilling to me. But I stood on stage for my longest scene of the three I'm in, and my character wouldn't come. I couldn't even locate her voice enough to fake it. I felt myself shut down and began rambling off my lines so I stop embarrassing myself, get off stage, and rub myself raw in search of my hiding character. I exited not even delivering my final line, ready to go pout in the back of the room, when Angela beckoned me over.

"You need to make that bigger. Even that last line. Make it big. There are no small parts."

And it slipped through me like poison. I felt the sludge of my worthlessness; that I'd preformed so shoddily was one thing, but that Angela had to confront me about it, telling me to fix it, perhaps even entertaining the fancy that this was how I intended to play that part, was death to my heart in and of itself.

I have something I commonly refer to as "The Guilt", which results from my do-gooder nature in wrong-doer circumstances. I tend to dwell on the instant that brought "The Guilt" and replay how it should have gone over and over again until the wound has heeled, I've forgiven myself, and "The Guilt" has subsided. The average case lasts about two months, depending on the severity of the mistake, and how often my daily life reminds me of it.

I explained to Angela that I intended to do the part big and bold, but I could not find my character in that instance. I stood and began walking away from her, promising fervently it would be better next time, tears biting my pathetic eyes.

And today. Today was fine. Today was, actually, stupendous, until I came home in an elated manner to happily hug my mother who wouldn't hug me back. She told me she was disappointed I had done what a cousin of mine usually is scoffed at for. Then they proceeded to tell me how much I really should have stayed at my aunts wedding. How much fun my cousins had dancing, and how much fun I would have had with them. How we never see Sydney and it would have been a good idea to stay, if not for my newly wedded aunt, but for my Floridian cousin. How no one left the reception until after ten thirty, and how when it comes to family, things like that should be considered over meager friends surprise parties.

I went through half a box of tissues, sitting there in a ball on the couch, already replaying over and over images contrived from my imagination of me and my dear cousins hopping about the dim lit ballroom. I saw the DJ in the corner, I saw my aunt in her wedding dress, but as I blew my nose and whipped my eyes "The Guilt" slowly subsided. I kept the biting pain in the back of my conscience, the knowledge that, though my subconscious attitude had been "I'll stay longer at the next one", there would be no "next one" no one that close to me would get married with those same guests their and have that same dance party.

But the wound was scabbing over and I gave my father a hug before turning into a tear-free bed.

"And I could have had a daddy-daughter dance with you." He said.

I am a wretched being! I am the worst scum to have ever cursed this planet. I... I cry for nothing because it is all my fault. I cry for nothing because it was my selfish, worldly decision to go. Did I have fun with my friends? Yes, I made memories I won't soon replace.

But did I miss a reason to smile at the yearly Christmas Eve gathering, the Easter shindig, my own future wedding?!

Yes. I'm afraid I terribly did.

And "The Guilt" has me believing no amount of somber repentance will meand the wholes in the hearts I've ripped. If only I'd consider the after affect to my actions before my actions!

The Audience We Captivate is Already Ours

Ugh. Senior projects.

As they'd say in the 80's- "gag me with a spoon."

But... label me crazy, I'm not annoyed by this ridiculous, school wide joke. Yes, at first I begrudgingly bemoaned with the rest of my classmates, probably solely because my classmates were groaning first. But as last year's seniors were putting on their projects it just came to me. I knew what I was going to do my report on. I knew who I'd interview, how I'd contact him. Heck, I even figured out how to do my service hours. So while my fellow graduating class is rolling their eyes and looking for spoons, I'm grinning and saying "Let's do this."

The moment I asked Eric if I could interview him, outside his local theatre OBT (Off Broadway Theatre), having just joined his improv group onstage for an audience participation game where he said in front of Bountifillians and Salt Lakians alike that we go way back, Eric asked me why.

I told him he was a director, and that's the career I'm going to research.

You want to know what he said? (Forgive me, those who will be reading my senior project paper, though I doubt you're following this lowly blog, I will most likely use this exact scenario in my project as well.)

"Well yeah. But not really. I do everything. Stage craft, tech, playwright, actor... You name it I do it."

I admit, at the time, I was mildly dumbfounded. He'd cut me off my course. He'd almost made it seem like what I was asking him was completely pointless.

Thankfully I persisted.

I've been spending every Tuesday afternoon for the past month or so now "helping" with the acting classes (taught by Eric) at Rodger's Memorial Theatre. The first two weeks I felt like a complete waste of space. For two hours a week I sat and pushed play on the CD player approximately two times per Tuesday. I also spotted lines for missing people.

But, never fear, Eric scourged up some things for me to do the next week. Boy did I feel productive writing down what songs were what track on the CD.

But the next week, it's safe to say, changed my life. Literally.

Eric left the room for a moment, and I snappishly made the rowdy kids get back to rehearsing, saying that "Just because Eric's out of the room doesn't mean rehearsals over." I'm sorry to say that I believe the minorly bratty tone I subconsciously used that day has affected the way those kids see me. So the twenty of twenty-five that don't know me from previous shows seem to think I'm some bipolar lose cannon. Sigh.

I expected to keep them on track for five to ten minutes, then Eric would stride into the room and say in his booming, actor's voice, to run that scene from the top.

Well, five minutes turned to ten, and ten to fifteen, and it dawned on me that I was the teacher. That I was the one holding the reigns of this rehearsal.

I moved my way to the front of the room, pillaged script in hand, and began conducting rehearsal with a knowing air--though I've never attempted to instruct someone how to act in my life. Not saying that the need hasn't been exceptionally over-powering in some instances, but all in all I've never let my acting experience escape my own head.

By the time I'd settled into that strange position Eric strode through the room.

"Great going, guys!"

And he was gone.

Minutes later he'd pass by again.

"Thanks." He'd pat me on the knee as he briskly left the room.

And I truly don't know what it was. I really don't know why that day was so substantially different than every other day I'd "helped" there, or from any other acting class/rehearsal I've attended. But I left that place knowing that this is really what I want to do. It's always been a "Yeah. Uh huh. I'll get a teaching degree in theatre in college and see if I ever end up actually using it." "Yeah. Uh huh. Teaching theatre could be fun."

And today, just a few hours ago, I was sitting by myself in the dark, eye-straining tech booth running the sound and actually touching a sound board; writing notes on things the kids should fix or pay better attention to. I've been saying that, today, I was "Livin' the dream," doing what I've seen so many directors do for me, but finally being on the other side of it.

And while performing is phenomenal, there's something about being behind it that lifts me all the more. I know this is what I should be. I know this is what I should do.

How great it feels to know that yes, this will be my future. How great it is to dream of me and that future husband of mine setting up our own little theatre in some Podunk, artless town. How great it is to have a dream, an ambition. A goal. I never realized how terribly I was lacking one.

But I have it now. And it's all thanks to senior projects.

I Wish the Real World Would Just Stop Hassling Me

My dad's retired. He likes to sit in his lazy boy and watch discussions on politics because, frankly, he believes every day is taking us one step closer to the second coming.

They said something and my mom started freaking out.

"It's coming." Dad said. I regretted not listening. Those shows are on so often I tend to force them into background sound that rarely reaches me. At least when I'm preoccupied.

"What does that mean?" I asked, referring to the statement I'd missed.

"It means our standard of living is going to go down."

It's the age old cliche, "Life's not fair." I know I should understand this, having heard it on every sitcom I've ever viewed, but I can't help but be indignant. Soon I'll be a high school graduate. Soon I'll be off to college, off to the real world. I can see me entering a career, I can see me trying to start a family. I can see me trying to give my children all they deserve. I can see me trying to give me all I deserve. And it's not fair. Why I can't have the America I had when I was a kid, day-dreaming of growing up to become a veterinarian or a doctor? Why can't I have the America my parents had when they brought me into this world? Why can't I have the America they wrote of in the Constitution? Why has Karma picked my generation for its dumping ground?

A girl I work with once told me how her mom would always let them go visit relatives out of state when they were younger. She said it was because her mother wanted them to know what the real world was like. To quote her exactly, she said it was because "Utah is some protective bubble." She didn't want her children to grow up naive and in the dark.

Perhaps when Brigham Young said this was the place, he didn't mean it for the pioneers with their covered wagons. Perhaps he meant it for me, for you, for anyone who wants that America we grew up proud of. Perhaps this was the place to establish a protective bubble from the real world.

Because perhaps the real world would get rather terrible.

Perhaps the real world is rather terrible.

But what do I know? I'm a gullible resident of the bubble who doesn't even listen to transmissions from the real world.