Sunday, January 29, 2012

Blood, Sweat, and Tears...

...And this week has been full of them. It's been a great first week back to classes, but I must admit, it's been a little overwhelming. Dance with Johnny again was as painfully beautiful as it could be. My fellow classmates and I were almost incapacitated for the remainder of the week. I always enjoy the soreness that comes from working out. It seems to represent hard work, determination, and all that inspirational stuff. I think to myself, "Yeah. I can do it. I did it. I survived.". And then I feel like a fool because I'm so sore I can hardly move and every step I take forces me to wince in pain. That was this week.

I could say the same academically. My mind has been stretched to its mental limits with new material this week - as a musician, as a performer, and as a student. As odd as this may sound, the class I'm most excited for this semester is my Advanced College Essay class. Advanced College Essay is an extension of last semesters' Writing the Essay. Now, as I'm sure you've read before, I truly detested Writing the Essay. The class that all freshmen, regardless of AP standing, IB tests, gender, race, religion, etc. were required to take. I absolutely adored my professor; she was great. However, the class itself wasn't the most thought-provoking. I mean to say, I ended up writing essays about essays about essays about fish and life and death and the meaning of this world. I was just happy to be done. And then I walked into Advanced College Essay. The class is unreservedly enthralling. Last night I read an essay titled "Dwelling in Possibilities" by Mark Edmundson, and after doing so, my academic worldview seemed to flip entirely upside down. His essay raises some interesting questions about the college aged generation (my generation) today, and the endless opportunities in which we live. It was utterly fascinating. He argues that we are hungry, almost desperately so to live as fully as possible. He says, "there's a humane hunger to [our] hustle for more life", and this hunger is what makes us "appealing, highly promising - and also radically vulnerable". This vulnerability is a result of our multiple possibilities; everything is at our fingertips, and because of that, we are "enemies of closure". We cannot stand to see an option shut down, but everything in our lives must remain an open option. If you're interested, look up his essay. I highly recommend reading it. 

Rehearsal for Street Scene begun this week. I can't begin to explain how wonderful it feels to be rehearsing something again. We worked the song I'm in on Thursday night, and it was amazing. It was one of those nights. One of those dance in the rain, sing while you're walking down the street nights. New York was singing my song, and it was beautiful. 

I had Friday off, and awoke to a beautiful drizzle of rain. Drizzle is a bit of an understatement. It was kind of pouring. However, it started my day off perfectly. I made french press coffee and wrote. For any writer, reader, or literature fanatic, I don't feel the need to explain what a rainy window and a cup of coffee will do for your inspiration. I now have a substantial start on a great writing project!


Friday night my roommates and I rushed Seminar, and oh my goodness it was amazing. The entire performance was wonderful. The show is about a group of college-aged writers in a writing seminar. The seminar is taught by a writing professor (Alan Rickman) who only takes the most elite group of writers. Set in the ritzy west village apartment of one of the students, it explored a multitude of the challenges that any writer, or more generally - an artist, experiences and struggles with in their field of work. The 5 character cast did more than justice to the script. It was amazing. And at the stage door, we were fortunate enough to get the signature of each actor, (ahhhhh Alan Rickman!) and we managed to capture a few photos of him signing. It was an incredible night.

Rehearsal ensued over the rest of the weekend, leaving little to no time for homework, and involving a few too many cups of coffee. I'm sure eventually I'll get to my theory homework.

For next week, I have the exciting tale of making raw truffles, and raw chocolate chip cookies with my oh-so-lovely sister. I have pictures too, so be excited.

Emily

England countdown: 40 days!

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Back in the swing of things...

It is so good to be back. And what a trip it was! I came home to some beautiful snow. I've discovered that one of the most peaceful things in this city is an early morning snow.

This picture courtesy of Curtis Reynolds. 

Being back is so refreshing. Life has already gotten crazy busy again and by the end of this week, classes will be in full swing! Rehearsal for Street Scene starts Tuesday, and I couldn't be more thrilled. Although I've only been back a day, I feel like I never left. I met up with some lovely friends for dinner last night, and we had some great conversation and cheap Chinese food. (I'm sorry. I couldn't resist the alliteration.) After dinner I met up with my sister to see the closing night of a steam punk opera, Miranda. The show was wonderfully done. It was a cast of 7, and all of them played some sort of instrument. They functioned as both the orchestra and the actors. The show itself was a murder mystery and you, the audience, were the jury. We got to convict one of three suspects for murdering Miranda. The voices for the most part were impressive. The father was an incredible counter-tenor. The show itself was beautifully done, very artistic, and I had never seen anything really steam punk before, so it was fascinating. 

After meeting up with Ben and Lauren for brunch this morning and exchanging all our crazy, wonderful, bad, and in-between winter break stories, we went grocery shopping. I can say, I didn't miss ridiculously long lines at Trader Joe's or cranky Whole Foods cashiers. Lauren and I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up, and I have an evening of work ahead of me. I have more super exciting news. I'm visiting Mauri this Spring! Over my Spring break, Cheyenne and I are going to head to England together! Tickets have been purchased, and the planning has begun. I can hardly wait. Mauri stayed in England this Christmas, so it was odd not having her home. However, I can't wait for the vacation! 

It's back to Sunday blog posts, and there's a busy week ahead, so be prepared for next week. :)

All my love,
Emily 

England countdown: 47 days!

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Not for the Life of Me.

I get an inexplicable thrill walking into a theater. Before the curtain rises or the show begins, there's a tangible, almost palpable excitement that I can sense. It's quite beautiful. Whether it is the energy of the performers, or the liveliness of the audience, I can feel the way a theater almost cries out for the story about to unfold, for the truth that is about to be revealed. It And I feel at home. Because there is a huge part of me that cries to be on that stage. 

I love being an audience member, believe me, I do. In fact, going to the theater is my favorite pastime. And I say pastime because that's what it truly is, a hobby. It's not a mere source of trifling entertainment. My professor said something quite memorable at the beginning of this year to our class, and it's something I'll never forget. During a lecture she said something along the lines of, "you know, for you, going to the theater is like a football player watching the super bowl". And I smile each time I reflect on her words, because I think, Dianna Heldman, you couldn't be more right. I've discovered there's an interesting way that we sit on the edge of our seats, awaiting what could either be a brilliant production or something quite disastrous.  We hold our breath, hoping that the performers won't "fumble" the ball of hard work and talent upon that stage. There's something, too, that marks our conversation as much different than the average theater-goer before we've even walked through the door. We talk names, reputations, and expectations for the evening. And I love it. I crave it more than ever. But as soon as I enter a theater, once I glimpse the closed curtain, I almost feel the lives that have been behind the curtain on that stage, that have told their own story the way I desperately want to. Each theater holds a part of the performer, and the theater itself gives something in return. 

I'm reminded of the way performers have given themselves to a theater in my hometown, the Civic Auditorium. It was built in 1952, and is connected to Idaho Falls High School, which as it happens, is the rival school of my dear old high school, Skyline High. Contrary to popular belief, the Civic is not owned by I.F.H.S., but is the property of the city of Idaho Falls. It seats 1,612 and is the home of many concerts, orchestras, musicals, and much, much more. The backstage walls of the theater are covered in the sharpied names of performers. Endless bricks of names and show dates, ranging from the auditorium's first years to present day. Almost every performer that has stepped onto that stage has written their name upon those walls - given a timeline, a small piece of a puzzle. Mine is right behind the stage left staircase, in green marker, and is tremendously ugly. It takes up three small bricks. I had signed it in the Spring of 2008, when I had sang for our church Easter service there. I went on to perform twice more in that theater, and had the great privilege of conducting and music directing Aladdin Jr. as part of a children's summer camp. I've worked with some amazing people in that space. My name on that wall signifies much, much more to me than I'm sure it ever will to posterity. But it was not just the Civic Auditorium that holds that piece of me. In fact, the Civic Auditorium possibly holds the least amount of that piece as possible. There is another theater that is near and dear to my heart,  my first love, the Skyline Little Theater. It is the least impressive venue, the one that sat only 80 people, the one that holds many of my dearest memories, the one that led to many tears, laughter, growth and change. The one that I trusted so much to. However, my experience tonight brought me to an important realization.

Tonight I attended "Rantoul and Die" in the Phoenix theater, home of the Actors Repertory Theater of Idaho, commonly known as ARTI. I love ARTI performances with a dear, dear passion. The ARTI theater is another place that I feel I owe a large bit of gratitude to. My old drama teacher and dearest inspiration, Rebecca Beck, is the "artistic director" for ARTI's board of directors. The entire board functions as a small family. Each of them is heavily involved in the theater, both acting and directing and doing whatever is necessary for the good of the theater. Last November ARTI burned down. I walked into my drama classroom to find Mrs. Beck almost in tears at relaying the news to us. They had lost a large deal of the theater. Their green room and the new restrooms that they had just renovated were completely destroyed; they had fallen into the basement. The fire happened to be just two months before they were scheduled to run "Messiah on the Frigidaire". With remarkable effort, the theater was cleaned out and maneuvered to suit the needs of the audience, and as it must, the show did go on. They're planning more aggressive renovations to be completed this summer, and it's hard to believe that just a year ago, most of the building was blackened and charred. 

Visiting the theater again tonight was wonderful. The show was crazy, hilarious, and very, very twisted. The cast performed beautifully as always, and I was rolling with laughter at the character of my drama teacher. But once again, as soon as I set foot inside that theater, I felt something of comfort. It was greater than the performances or auditions spent in this building. I've helped out at ARTI for years, helping house manage and host, seeing the shows, and falling in love with the devotion of the entire crew. The feeling of comfort was from the fact that I felt a sense of belonging I couldn't quite place before. One that I now recognize as affirmation and excitement for the love I have for performing. For tonight, I'm quite content to be the audience, but with all my heart can't wait to be on the stage soon. 

Keep it classy,
-Em

New York return: 8 days!

Monday, January 9, 2012

Everything familiar...

One of my favorite things to do is to re-read old journal entries. I usually find them quirky and odd, but they always fascinate me because I get to see how much I've truly changed and grown over the years. I've been rather slack in keeping a good journal this past year and a half, so the entries I have written are slightly scattered. During that time, however, I guess I figured that keeping some sort of documentation was important, so most of the entries have taken down at least the important events or milestones of my life.

Entry October 11, 2010 reads, "Believe it or not, I attempt to have a social life!" ... as though my journal is a comprehending being that would actually care about my acclaimed 'social life'. You see, I've never been the type to address my journal. "Dear diary, today I..." Instead, words just pop in my mind and I write them down as they happen. Many a times they're written in haste with a burst of emotion. This entry wasn't really written with a burst of emotion. It was just trying to commemorate the important event of asking Zach Peterson to a high school girl's choice dance.

November 14, 2010 entry is about 5 pages long and it serves as a really long letter to all of the people in my life at the time, each one of them addressed as "you". I don't use a single name once. I had a hard time figuring that one out. But it's now one of my favorite entries to read, because I read it over and over again trying to figure out when I change to a new person, and what I mean by all the pronouns I use. It's very passionate, too, so I find it fascinating to catch a glimpse of what was going on in my head at the time. Amusing.

After spending quite a bit of time reading my past journal entries, I stumbled upon possibly my favorite excerpt, and it led to the inspiration for the rest of this blog. As much as I enjoy being home, I cannot ignore the home that's awaiting me 2000 miles away. Everything here is familiar - both physically and relationally: friendships, old ties, even the buildings and roads. And it's nice - it's comfortable. But I can't quite wait to go back to New York. I can't wait to see the friends I've made and begin classes again, to stay in the temporary home that has become so familiar. I can't wait to jump back into the diverse culture and a different way of living. And aside from the obvious traits of the city that I miss, there is something in me that's now rooted there. The excerpt from my entry reads,

"I've come to realize that we are as passionately involved with this city as it is with us. We not only think, dream, live and breathe it, but we experience and change it as we go."

New York wouldn't be what it is without the dreams that feed its endless energy. We fuel the city with the diversity and life that it thrives upon. The same culture we all love and experience exists because of us - all of us. It's a little like a social contract, the relationship that one has with New York. It promises us culture, diversity, hope, success and failure; and we promise it dreams and creativity, life and death, love and hate. And in this social contract, we find the flaws of the city that we long to change. The flaws of the city that mirror the flaws within ourselves, and we're constantly changing and experiencing the antagonism between the two. And it's almost time to leave everything familiar and return to the new home and the new life that the city has begun to craft for me. I can hardly wait.

-Em

"Distance is as good a medicine as any"

Going back to New York in: 11 days

Friday, January 6, 2012

Roots

I am happy to report that Idaho is just as I remembered it. I do, in fact, remember how to drive a stick shift. I still know the shortcuts to anywhere you want to go, what roads to take and what lane on 17th street is the fastest. I have run into multiple people I know at every place I've been to, and the feeling of home hasn't changed a bit. Home itself has been a little shuffled and changed. My mother, staying true to her character has already rearranged our basement, but that just makes me happier.

Idaho Sign!

The drive from Salt Lake was filled with all the anticipation of arriving home, and I could hardly wait to walk through my front door after a night of no sleep, a 5 hour flight and a 3.5 hour drive. And the wait was worth it. Arriving home was wonderful. It was just as I remembered it, and I slept with my feather comforter for the first time in months. Since arriving home, I have made myself multiple cups of tea with an actual tea kettle (not a microwave!), taken baths, left my stuff around the house because there is actual space to do so, and baked! I happened to make the most beautiful (and tasty, if I do say so) loaves of banana bread. 

Yes, my state is gorgeous.

The only disappointing thing is the lack of snow... I'm really surprised that this is all we have. :( Normally there are piled up heaps by our driveway from all the shoveling we've done. However, the comforts of home have kept me so joyous and content that I've just tried to ignore the little snow we have. 


It's biting cold, though, and I certainly don't miss having to scrape windows and start my car 15 minutes before I leave to get anywhere. Ahhh the benefits of living in a big city...


This is my favorite view in my house - staring out the front window to the yard when the Christmas lights are on. :)


And the thing I leave you with...


Thank you, Lauren Krauss for the link to this video.

♥ Emily

Sunday, January 1, 2012

To a bright new start

Airports make me want to write a novel. The experience is just so odd that it’s difficult to fully take in all that you’re seeing and feeling at the time. I suppose, then, that this post is just a compilation of my observations and experiences from Terminal 2 at JFK international airport early on New Year’s Day.

The trip to the airport began at a slightly crazy pace. I left my apartment at ten til 4, gave a quick nod to the security guard in the lobby, and headed to the corner of Broadway to hail a cab. It seems simple enough, hailing a cab, but it’s actually an art form in and of itself. After several failed attempts, and a car offering to take me only if I pay $100 cash, I hop in the back of a taxi after striking a bargain with the driver. I say “bargain”, but I’d like to make it clear that “bargain” here is a loosely used term. The driver was off duty, he had to get home to his partner by 5:00, he says. I say he could make it. He doesn’t believe me. But he takes me anyway. Before we even leave the city, there’s some kind of a traffic holdup and I think to myself, there’s no way this is happening to me. I start silently freaking out and my driver starts honking, all the while swearing to himself. It turns out the little “traffic holdup” was some woman who didn’t turn left at a right, so at the next stop light my driver feels the need to express his feelings on her not-turn in a louder than normal decibel to the woman who caused the issue in the first place. That was followed by a few explicit words and obscene hand gestures. Great start to a day. The rest of the drive to the airport is a breeze, and I find myself relaxing a little bit. We make it to the airport in half an hour, at which point I pay and wish my driver a happy new year and a safe trip home.
I still have to check my bag and get through security, so I think I’ll make it in enough time to maybe grab some coffee before I board. I don’t know what I’m thinking, because apparently no one else is flying Delta from JFK on New Year’s Day at 4:30 am. It doesn’t take me more than 10 minutes to check my bag and get through security. On my way into security, the TSA worker compliments me on my hat. I politely say thank you, and he continues, “Yeah, I was hoping to get someone to make me a hat like that. Maybe one with music notes on it.” This ensues conversation.
”Oh, are you a musician?”
“Yeah, yeah, I play saxophone”
“Oh! That’s awesome, I’m an opera singer”
"Really?? No way!"
This conversation was probably the most time-consuming thing this morning save for the taxi ride. It resulted in me getting his business card and an invitation to hear him play jazz someday.
“That would be nice” or something of the sort is what I reply. His name is Johnny. Yes, Johnny James Jazz III. Vocal Performance-ers, I could hardly believe my eyes. Johnny Jazz. There’s something to the name, don’t you think?

It’s not yet 5 am by the time I head for my gate. Thinking it might be a long walk, (at least another way to stall some time) I look for directions to Gate 20. Gate 20 is right before my eyes. When in the world has my departure gate been 20 feet away from the security station? Not when I was running to catch my connection in St. Louis when I moved to New York, or the time I was heading home and almost ended up in the wrong terminal. Only the time I’m 2 entire hours early for my plane. God has a sense of humor. The airport is practically deserted, and I’m one of two people currently sitting outside Gate 20. I feel ridiculous, and I’d like some coffee, so I look for a Starbucks. For your future knowledge, nothing in the airport opens until at least 5 am. I’m sitting outside of an airport Starbucks waiting for it to open, that’s how cool I am. And who should I see when Starbucks opens? The now infamous Johnny Jazz. Not my dance instructor, (which would have been insanely hilarious), but the TSA worker/saxophone player that wants a hat like mine with music notes on it. This is where I make awkward small talk and stutter over my responses because I’m not quite awake yet and all I can think about is how close I am to coffee and breakfast.

After settling into my new seat at Gate 20, a family of four walks right up and settles into four chairs across from me. The dad is middle-aged with graying hair, and his wife appears to be maybe 4 years his younger. Their children appear pre-teenage, but it’s apparent the family has traveled before. They give off the “traveller’s vibe”Almost immediately, the woman plugs her cell phone into one of those cell-charging towers that are conveniently located in the middle of an airline gate, and the man pulls out his laptop. Each child has either an electronic device or book in their lap to entertain them, and I’m fascinated by the sight. I remember that I’m in New York, and I’m surrounded by tourists probably visiting for the holidays. It is New Year’s Day, after all. A younger woman walks up and takes her place to my right. She gives me the one-over and settles into the chair one seat away. I hadn’t realized that my stuff had taken up 3 chairs of space, so I graciously move my laptop onto my lap. Not that the open chair will do much, because people never sit immediately next to you unless they’re sufficiently awkward or have no sense of personal space. As soon as the thought is out of my head, a woman walks up and takes her place beside me. I always speak too soon. Her breakfast sandwich smells like ham and makes me feel nauseas. A woman in her early 20’s walks past me and I notice her shoes. Toms. I love Toms. She pulls out a yoga mat and begins stretching on the floor. The things people do in airports are beyond my comprehension at times. I admire that she has the gusto to begin yoga in the middle of an airport and am befuddled that she actually had the space for a yoga mat in her carry-on. But above all, my favorite airport people are the first-class fliers. The women who wear pearl earrings and cashmere sweaters are often the source of my envy. Maybe it’s my recent obsession with cashmere, but I’ve always wanted to be a classy flier. I never fly at the right time. My flights are either too early or too late, which makes glasses and no makeup a necessity. Someday, though, I’ll wear pearl earrings and a cashmere sweater, and I’ll feel like the classiest flier in the world.

My mind wanders to the people in front of me who have each shown up individually, but appear to know each other. By the time the 4th person in their party shows up, I’ve heard the one lady say “I waited for 3 trains for you guys and you never showed up, so I left without you” a grand total of 3 times. From their conversation, I gather that they were at some sort of New Years celebration, and after hearing “man” “street” and “piss all over”, I deduce that they were at the Times Square ball drop, and judging by the bags under their eyes, not one of them has had a wink of sleep. It fascinates me, the celebration of a new year. I understand the logic of such a holiday, too. Bringing in a new year with new opportunities for change and adaptations is undoubtedly something to be excited about. I suppose that’s why we make resolutions. To provide the motivation for such change and adaptation.

Resolution, as a noun, is an interesting concept. The word resolution, according to the Oxford English Dictionary means, 
 "The ability of a device to respond to small differences in input and to indicate or represent them accurately in output; a measure of this, expressed as the smallest difference so distinguishable."
The idea of setting a list of standards each year to which we hold ourselves accountable is the biggest set up for failure. Eat healthier, lose weight, spend more time with family, etc... they're great standards, sure, but how often do we truly live up to our new years' resolutions? By December 31st the next year, they've been long forgotten, no matter how many post-it notes you wrote it on, or how many times you framed them for all to see.

Where do we fail in resolution-keeping, then? Maybe it begins with the conception of the resolution itself. The flaw is the intent behind our resolutions. Resolutions are written largely with the intent of representing them accurately in output - the second half of the definition. However, little regard is given to the part that precedes that - the difference in input. Our habits will not change overnight; and it would be impossible to expect our bodies to start producing different outcomes merely because we tell it to. And the word itself by definition is the ability to respond to differences in input. So maybe the problem doesn’t come from the motive behind writing the resolution, but the way we measure the success of a resolution. If a resolution is to be successful, by very definition, we should measure the ability of our self to respond to the changes that we instill, instead of deciding whether or not we completed the task. Instead of noting the places we failed and the resolutions that we didn’t fully accomplish, maybe we should focus on the minute, every-day resolutions that ultimately lead to our betterment. They say that it’s the journey, not the goal, that matters.

I’m not saying that one shouldn’t make resolutions. In fact, I find them amusing. If you were to ask me what my resolution for this year is, I’d probably think for a moment and then respond, “it’s to learn how to live more fully and love more deeply than I have before”. But that’s a life-long goal for me, not just the resolution of 2012. However, the input begins here, and it began a long time ago when my own Journey began.

Naturally, I’m placed on a flight with many children, most of which are exhausted and cranky, and the first half hour of my flight is filled with crying babies and irritated parents. I’m lucky enough to sit next to a nice family with two young ones, and an older girl that I assume is also theirs. The little girl sitting next to me is an adorable toe-head blonde that reminds me of a girl I used to babysit. She can’t be more than 6 years old, and she smiles at me when I sit down. She’s not a spoiled brat, but it’s apparent that she’s granted almost her every wish. I have a hard time not judging parenting styles, but I suppose that’s just another thing I’m learning.

Whether your New Year’s resolution is to manage your time better, lose weight, or obtain a cashmere sweater, I hope that the New Year brings you happiness and provides you with the opportunity to focus more and more on the journey that awaits.

Dreaming,
Emily