Two years ago I was absolutely certain that I would be an actress for ever and ever. Now, however, I find myself wistfully comparing myself to the work of David Sedaris and feeling that, given a little polish, I could write like that.
Where did this change come from? And why was my mother right?
I spent hours playing Barbies with my sister. We came up with an entire universe filled rules that governed the hapless lives of the barbie and ken dolls. Most of the time I drove the plot of the story, acting out characters and scenarios as my sister gracelessly chewed on the rubber foot of her favorite doll. I've written in a journal since I figured out how to put pen to paper. My whole life is now documented in pictures, short paragraphs and pages of words and symbols. I started this blog two years ago and now have two hundred published posts and 20 thousand hits. My Mother, in her mother-y wisdom, saw this creative streak in me and predicted long ago that I would wind up with a pen in my hand. I, however, was hell bent on being the next Sandra Bullock: so there. Take that Mom.
Now I see that the joke's on me.
In an attempt at clarity, I spent the afternoon looking up my favorite writers to get a feel for how they got started. Where did they go for their MFA? Yale? Harvard? Oxford? And how much was I willing to shell out for the chance at the same? To my amazement: most writers went to state schools, or small private colleges I'd never heard of. When I searched the internet for the top 25 MFA schools in writing a school in Iowa was at the top of the list! What is this blasphemy!? Here I was looking at grad programs for acting and wondering whose cock I have to suck in order to even get an interview at Yale, when all it seems I have to do for writing is just show up with some of my favorite blog posts printed on nice paper.
Plus: Hunter College, here in New York, is DIRT cheap! I can go to their 2 year program to get my degree and the tuition costs range around 6 grand a year!
My mind is buzzing with the idea of getting better and better at expressing myself through language. The only worry about that is the feeling I got when I signed myself up for sketch writing 101 at the Magnet Theatre and the UCB Theatre. I took both classes and loathed them. I thought maybe writing wasn't my thing. Yet, I'm still writing a ton. Maybe I'm not in to comedy writing. Maybe I'm in to creative non-fiction... writing about myself, for instance? That actor part of me wanting the attention and laughs; no matter how I get them.
Honestly: I don't know what I want to do yet. I feel the summer ticking away and deadlines for the fall beginning to pop up. If I am going to make a decision I need to make it relatively soon.
I'll keep writing in the meantime.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Witnessing Revolution and Renaissance.
I was asked to write about a revolution or social change that I was a part of (and maybe didn't know at the time) as a prompt for a writing group I've joined. I thought this was a fascinating question to ask, because haven't we all been a part of a major change in some way or another? As Annie (the woman who was running the group) put it: "I was alive at a time when the president of the United States was black and the number one rap artist was white."
Annie gave us ten minutes to write after showing us another example of what she meant: A hand written account of a gay man who wrote about going to the Stonewall inn back in the early 80's. What an account! This was someone who was writing about what life was like for the LGBT community which was finding a home and community at the Stonewall Inn in a society that unabashedly hated them for who they were. He was at the Stonewall right as the riots began.
I got to thinking of the revolutions and changes I'm living through that give my voice and eyewitness account meaning in years to come.... As pictures flood the media and Facebook and twitter keep up to date reactions to life's top stories, it seems that the only unique thing is to be as honestly me as I can be. What did I think? Where was I when it happened? What was I doing?
I looked around at the group of women in my writing circle when we were given the prompt. Annie said we had ten minutes and we needed to start: now. Every woman scratched her head and began to write. My mind went immediately to the uniqueness of being a native New Yorker witnessing the change in the city I grew up in first hand.
I remember I was walking out of the G train station (not too long ago) and into the heart of Bed-Sty. "Bed Sty Do Or Die" was the name my friends and I called the neighborhood growing up. I never went on the G train as a kid. My dad always said that subway line was the harbinger of the last throws of the New York City that would make Batman gulp (the city from the big bad 80's and 90's). Why would I ever get on the G? I was a middle class, Upper West Side Manhattan white girl and my whole life growing up was the red 1 train or the occasional trips of the yellow line to Coney Island.
Rappers were born in Bed Sty. Murders happened in Bed Sty. It was said that you passed through Hart and Throop streets if you were a bullet. Race riots and gang wars and cop sirens happened in Bed Sty: not white girls.
So, coming out of the G train I felt all of this weight on my shoulders. Like, I knew with every step I took up to the street, that I was the wave of gentrification. I was there to meet my black friend, Cheryl, at her newly renovated apartment to smoke some weed and then walk around Brooklyn. Had someone told me they were going to do that ten years ago I would have gotten very worried about their potential future as a functional human being. Bed Sty was the murder capital of the United States when I was a kid. Yet, here I was years later walking into a neighborhood where an apartment recently sold for a million dollars (one of the highest purchases the area has ever seen). There are cafes moving in, white people on their iPhones walking through the neighborhood with an artisan wrap clutched in their left hand. And I was no different. I was there visiting a friend. I was the Upper West Side deciding it was totally cool to go and take a romp through the heart of Brooklyn.
My city is now completely different than it was when I was growing up. Its bigger, cleaner, richer, louder, more crowded, more expensive, and more of a place full of opportunity than ever before. Witnessing the revitalization of it has been a wonder. Yet, I read about where the people who used to live in these places go. It seems that the shelters are seeing wave after wave of families who can't afford their rent. Large swaths of the city are becoming too expensive for poorer communities. Even the rents I was looking at when I got back to the city a few years ago are laughable now. "$750 a month for a bedroom?! Get fucked! I'm not paying more than 650!" Now it's more like 850/mo and you're lucky to find that. I cannot believe the prices of rent here!
Given the fact that I lived here at a time when you couldn't pay someone to live in certain areas that are now charging upwards of 1300 bucks a month for a room in an apartment there, I feel blown away at the change. I am witness to the renaissance of New York City: and what a thing to see.
Annie gave us ten minutes to write after showing us another example of what she meant: A hand written account of a gay man who wrote about going to the Stonewall inn back in the early 80's. What an account! This was someone who was writing about what life was like for the LGBT community which was finding a home and community at the Stonewall Inn in a society that unabashedly hated them for who they were. He was at the Stonewall right as the riots began.
I got to thinking of the revolutions and changes I'm living through that give my voice and eyewitness account meaning in years to come.... As pictures flood the media and Facebook and twitter keep up to date reactions to life's top stories, it seems that the only unique thing is to be as honestly me as I can be. What did I think? Where was I when it happened? What was I doing?
I looked around at the group of women in my writing circle when we were given the prompt. Annie said we had ten minutes and we needed to start: now. Every woman scratched her head and began to write. My mind went immediately to the uniqueness of being a native New Yorker witnessing the change in the city I grew up in first hand.
I remember I was walking out of the G train station (not too long ago) and into the heart of Bed-Sty. "Bed Sty Do Or Die" was the name my friends and I called the neighborhood growing up. I never went on the G train as a kid. My dad always said that subway line was the harbinger of the last throws of the New York City that would make Batman gulp (the city from the big bad 80's and 90's). Why would I ever get on the G? I was a middle class, Upper West Side Manhattan white girl and my whole life growing up was the red 1 train or the occasional trips of the yellow line to Coney Island.
Rappers were born in Bed Sty. Murders happened in Bed Sty. It was said that you passed through Hart and Throop streets if you were a bullet. Race riots and gang wars and cop sirens happened in Bed Sty: not white girls.
So, coming out of the G train I felt all of this weight on my shoulders. Like, I knew with every step I took up to the street, that I was the wave of gentrification. I was there to meet my black friend, Cheryl, at her newly renovated apartment to smoke some weed and then walk around Brooklyn. Had someone told me they were going to do that ten years ago I would have gotten very worried about their potential future as a functional human being. Bed Sty was the murder capital of the United States when I was a kid. Yet, here I was years later walking into a neighborhood where an apartment recently sold for a million dollars (one of the highest purchases the area has ever seen). There are cafes moving in, white people on their iPhones walking through the neighborhood with an artisan wrap clutched in their left hand. And I was no different. I was there visiting a friend. I was the Upper West Side deciding it was totally cool to go and take a romp through the heart of Brooklyn.
My city is now completely different than it was when I was growing up. Its bigger, cleaner, richer, louder, more crowded, more expensive, and more of a place full of opportunity than ever before. Witnessing the revitalization of it has been a wonder. Yet, I read about where the people who used to live in these places go. It seems that the shelters are seeing wave after wave of families who can't afford their rent. Large swaths of the city are becoming too expensive for poorer communities. Even the rents I was looking at when I got back to the city a few years ago are laughable now. "$750 a month for a bedroom?! Get fucked! I'm not paying more than 650!" Now it's more like 850/mo and you're lucky to find that. I cannot believe the prices of rent here!
Given the fact that I lived here at a time when you couldn't pay someone to live in certain areas that are now charging upwards of 1300 bucks a month for a room in an apartment there, I feel blown away at the change. I am witness to the renaissance of New York City: and what a thing to see.
Monday, July 22, 2013
The Art of Being Compulsive
I can't believe it either. Really. This whole thing did come out of the blue. One minute I am a single, somewhat bitter, 20-something who was beginning to believe that cats would be the only means of companionship after all my eggs dried up and I was left to live off the meager wage of a poor and pathetic server for the rest of my days. And then the next minute I'm...
Gone: Just like that. My room is a museum of my old life. I come home to change my bra, throw my dirty shirt onto the neglected pile of sweaty clothes and then I'm off again in his arms for another solid week.
I feel like I have given new meaning to the idea that I've been swept off my feet. In a space of three weeks I went from Single to Dating, had him meet both sets of parents, took him up to the Farm my dad owns in Upstate New York, fell in love, came back to the City and decided (at 1:30 AM on a week night) that I needed to buy plane tickets to New Zealand to meet his family and friends. Oh, and by the way, I'll be gone a month: spending the Christmas/New Year holidays down there. That all just happened in less than 4 weeks.
What happened? Is it chemistry? Why this guy and not another? I have no clear answer other than I know in my bones that this is exactly what I want to be doing and who I want to be doing it with.
I'm no stranger to impulsiveness: I've done stuff like this in the past, and maybe that's why I'm not as wind blown and freaked out as some other people in my position may be. When I was 23 I decided that I needed to buy a plane ticket to Rochester, New York, and fly up there for 5 days to spend the time with a dancer I had fallen head over heels with. Prior to that I had only known him for a weekend. Only spent a few hours with him. He told me, once I was up there, that he had no intention of dating me after I got back to New York and that I needed to move on. Heart crushing, but I valued his honesty. And felt a deep sense of accomplishment in going.
I decided, at 24, that I needed to see the world. And, rather than discuss what we would do and map out how we would do it and where: I bought two tickets for my sister and I to fly to Thailand for a month. Fuck the rest, we'd make it work, right? And we did.
At 21 I decided that Grad school was not an option, so I drove myself up to Boston, in a borrowed car, to go and audition for theatre companies I had never heard of in the hopes that I would have something to do once I graduated university. I got accepted to Actors Theatre of Louisville in Kentucky (prior to that I had never even considered Kentucky a state worth knowing) and once accepted packed up my life and drove myself down with 2 thousand dollars and a bunch of bags to get me through the 9 month apprenticeship. On my own. I'd never lived outside of New York until then.
I think, as I've gotten older, that the more I think and deliberate about things I could do, the more I feel I can't change. However, if I decide on a whim to make a change: I'll do it. I'll deal with the repercussions later (and I've found that there never are any negative repercussions: only the feeling of accomplishment and elation). Even when we were deciding about renting a car and going upstate to my Dad's farm, my boyfriend and I decided to just rent the damn car (at 2:30 in the morning) and pick it up at noon (that day) to drive up. Fuck it. Let's just go.
And here I am: only dating the guy for two weeks and I bought the plane tickets to New Zealand.
Because: Fuck it. I want to go.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Dear New Zealand
Dear New Zealand,
I'm Natalie, a New Yorker (not an American like someone from Ohio might be). Being that I'm a New Yorker, I pride myself on having a pretty sharp sense of sarcasm and a deep love of intelligence and experience. From what I've heard of you, you seem to share these attributes as well: Great! I think we'll get along just fine.
It's funny, I always thought of you as some far away land I'd never go see. I thought if I ever did get down there I'd go to Australia which seemed to have more of a draw and even that continent seemed impossibly far away. When I was growing up my dad would tell stories of his trip to visit you. He went with his brother back in the 80's for three weeks. He made it sound like a fairy tale, not a real place; I mean, as a New Yorker, I had to work extra hard to believe that New Zealand had some of the nicest and friendliest people. Nice, friendly people? They exist!? How nice! I love friendly nice people!
I must be honest: I'm a bit nervous about meeting you and yours. I'm going specifically to meet my boyfriend's parents and family. I'm not so nervous about the meeting, just more that I could wind up getting really overwhelmed. Then again, I think about the 10,000 people I was a part of while watching the Philharmonic in Central Park and the pandemonium over meeting up with friends and coordinating beer runs through the crowd, and then eventually walking home packed together like sheep because it's so crowded and I think: New Zealand? Bring it.
Dad always said I could do anything. Mom always said I could do anything. My boyfriend says I can do anything. So, that means I can do anything: including making the leap and flying down to you to spend a month. I'm feeling pretty excited about it overall. I can do anything. Including this.
On a selfish note, I'm stoked about having another country I can say I've been to. Thailand, Cambodia, India, and others will look quite nice when I add your shiny penny to my experience wall. You'll compliment them well.
Also, I'm a really big sucker for Lord of the Rings. I'm sorry if my American core flies her freak flag a little here, but the idea of putting on a white dress like Galadriel and standing on, I dunno, a rock ledge with sweeping mountains in the background and wind in my hair while I chant some Elvin song, sounds so incredibly epic. So epic, in fact, that the entire trip could go to shit but would be worth it if I got to do that.
Anyway: I'm really looking forward to meeting you and taking a ton of photos and writing a ton of stuff about you. You're not so ethereal any more, that's for sure. I've got airline tickets that tell me where to be and a plane will take me there.
Here's to us finally meeting! I can't wait.
Best-
Natalie
I'm Natalie, a New Yorker (not an American like someone from Ohio might be). Being that I'm a New Yorker, I pride myself on having a pretty sharp sense of sarcasm and a deep love of intelligence and experience. From what I've heard of you, you seem to share these attributes as well: Great! I think we'll get along just fine.
It's funny, I always thought of you as some far away land I'd never go see. I thought if I ever did get down there I'd go to Australia which seemed to have more of a draw and even that continent seemed impossibly far away. When I was growing up my dad would tell stories of his trip to visit you. He went with his brother back in the 80's for three weeks. He made it sound like a fairy tale, not a real place; I mean, as a New Yorker, I had to work extra hard to believe that New Zealand had some of the nicest and friendliest people. Nice, friendly people? They exist!? How nice! I love friendly nice people!
I must be honest: I'm a bit nervous about meeting you and yours. I'm going specifically to meet my boyfriend's parents and family. I'm not so nervous about the meeting, just more that I could wind up getting really overwhelmed. Then again, I think about the 10,000 people I was a part of while watching the Philharmonic in Central Park and the pandemonium over meeting up with friends and coordinating beer runs through the crowd, and then eventually walking home packed together like sheep because it's so crowded and I think: New Zealand? Bring it.
Dad always said I could do anything. Mom always said I could do anything. My boyfriend says I can do anything. So, that means I can do anything: including making the leap and flying down to you to spend a month. I'm feeling pretty excited about it overall. I can do anything. Including this.
On a selfish note, I'm stoked about having another country I can say I've been to. Thailand, Cambodia, India, and others will look quite nice when I add your shiny penny to my experience wall. You'll compliment them well.
Also, I'm a really big sucker for Lord of the Rings. I'm sorry if my American core flies her freak flag a little here, but the idea of putting on a white dress like Galadriel and standing on, I dunno, a rock ledge with sweeping mountains in the background and wind in my hair while I chant some Elvin song, sounds so incredibly epic. So epic, in fact, that the entire trip could go to shit but would be worth it if I got to do that.
Anyway: I'm really looking forward to meeting you and taking a ton of photos and writing a ton of stuff about you. You're not so ethereal any more, that's for sure. I've got airline tickets that tell me where to be and a plane will take me there.
Here's to us finally meeting! I can't wait.
Best-
Natalie
Monday, July 15, 2013
Kiss
Talk. Stare. Hand touch.
Kiss.
Blush. Smile. Wink.
Kiss.
Run my hand through his hair...
Where did I go? It's been three weeks and I've forgotten I had a life before this guy.
Friends? Appointments? Things I wanted to do? I should do them...
Kiss.
I need to do them! Stop Buggering around and Get out of it ya' mongrel! I'm getting my face pashed off and with the pashing comes the forgetting, comes the bliss of relationship adrenaline, comes the "I'll do it tomorrow".
Pash. [Pa-shh.] Verb. To passionately make-out with someone. Which is what I can't seem to stop doing.
When we first met we agreed kissing in public was disgusting and we'd not subject New Yorkers to the sight.
Whoops.
Kiss.
My dad asked if I've hit any red lights with the Musician. Any bumps? Red flags? Things he's done that make you second guess? Nope.
I went onto Facebook and looked at my old crush. He seemed distant. Fuzzy. And my mind threw a blanket over him and I flipped to a picture of my boyfriend and I and I... sigh because my god this is what cocaine feels like.
Kiss. All I want to do is Kiss.
And Talk. Discuss. Chat. Laugh. Be disgusting on the train. Both groan over the ooze of cheese that seems to be created when we sit and stare into each other's eyes and the world goes away and suddenly it's all... gone.
Kiss. Watch. Repeat.
Kiss.
Blush. Smile. Wink.
Kiss.
Run my hand through his hair...
Where did I go? It's been three weeks and I've forgotten I had a life before this guy.
Friends? Appointments? Things I wanted to do? I should do them...
Kiss.
I need to do them! Stop Buggering around and Get out of it ya' mongrel! I'm getting my face pashed off and with the pashing comes the forgetting, comes the bliss of relationship adrenaline, comes the "I'll do it tomorrow".
Pash. [Pa-shh.] Verb. To passionately make-out with someone. Which is what I can't seem to stop doing.
When we first met we agreed kissing in public was disgusting and we'd not subject New Yorkers to the sight.
Whoops.
Kiss.
My dad asked if I've hit any red lights with the Musician. Any bumps? Red flags? Things he's done that make you second guess? Nope.
I went onto Facebook and looked at my old crush. He seemed distant. Fuzzy. And my mind threw a blanket over him and I flipped to a picture of my boyfriend and I and I... sigh because my god this is what cocaine feels like.
Kiss. All I want to do is Kiss.
And Talk. Discuss. Chat. Laugh. Be disgusting on the train. Both groan over the ooze of cheese that seems to be created when we sit and stare into each other's eyes and the world goes away and suddenly it's all... gone.
Kiss. Watch. Repeat.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
6 Things I'm Glad I Never Said
In a late night reflection of life's choices I've collected:
6 Things I'm Glad I Never Said
in no particular order:
1. "Don't marry her!"
I run up to their door, it's pouring rain, I'm soaked in my white cotton shirt, I'm shivering (even though it's summer). I peak inside to see if anyone is home. They all are: him, his fiancé, her kid, their dog, and, I dunno... a gerbil. They're all about to sit down to dinner. I knock. He answers. I say the fatal three words as the door opens thinking somehow by hearing them from my lips he'll change his life, take the devastation of our break-up by the preverbal balls and go on a grand tour of South East Asia in order to find himself. Life never works that well.
2. "I think you're a trite, ignorant, flop of-a-turd"
...anytime I've worked with someone I find incompetent. Especially bosses.
3. "Sure, I'll move in with you."
Giving up my apartment, my amazing rent, my balcony, my life; to move into a stuffy one bedroom where the guy I was willing to give my life up for would eventually wind up sleeping with another girl in a drunken night of loneliness while I was off staring at Noh theatre in Japan for three weeks. Dodged that bullet.
4. "Please don't kiss me, my breath stinks and I have to poop."
Instead I stuff a piece of gum in my mouth and gently excuse myself to "tinkle" for ten minutes. Ladies must always be dignified until you trap a man in your web of lies and reveal you're actually a filthy nose-picking slob who farts after eating the third slice of pizza.
5. "I LOVE YOU"
Except it's a totally inappropriate time to bring that up. Especially in the past when I really thought I would go under a bus for a guy who spent more time staring at his rippling pecs in skin tight tighty-whiteys than keeping track of what my life goals were. Or to get the attention of a guy I really want to date, but don't know how to get his attention.
6. "I was the one who farted"
Said no kid, ever. In grade school and middle school, if I wanted to commit social suicide, all I would have needed to do was admit that sentence. I'd be a dead bug smudge on the windshield of life for ever and ever.
6 Things I'm Glad I Never Said
in no particular order:
1. "Don't marry her!"
I run up to their door, it's pouring rain, I'm soaked in my white cotton shirt, I'm shivering (even though it's summer). I peak inside to see if anyone is home. They all are: him, his fiancé, her kid, their dog, and, I dunno... a gerbil. They're all about to sit down to dinner. I knock. He answers. I say the fatal three words as the door opens thinking somehow by hearing them from my lips he'll change his life, take the devastation of our break-up by the preverbal balls and go on a grand tour of South East Asia in order to find himself. Life never works that well.
2. "I think you're a trite, ignorant, flop of-a-turd"
...anytime I've worked with someone I find incompetent. Especially bosses.
3. "Sure, I'll move in with you."
Giving up my apartment, my amazing rent, my balcony, my life; to move into a stuffy one bedroom where the guy I was willing to give my life up for would eventually wind up sleeping with another girl in a drunken night of loneliness while I was off staring at Noh theatre in Japan for three weeks. Dodged that bullet.
4. "Please don't kiss me, my breath stinks and I have to poop."
Instead I stuff a piece of gum in my mouth and gently excuse myself to "tinkle" for ten minutes. Ladies must always be dignified until you trap a man in your web of lies and reveal you're actually a filthy nose-picking slob who farts after eating the third slice of pizza.
5. "I LOVE YOU"
Except it's a totally inappropriate time to bring that up. Especially in the past when I really thought I would go under a bus for a guy who spent more time staring at his rippling pecs in skin tight tighty-whiteys than keeping track of what my life goals were. Or to get the attention of a guy I really want to date, but don't know how to get his attention.
6. "I was the one who farted"
Said no kid, ever. In grade school and middle school, if I wanted to commit social suicide, all I would have needed to do was admit that sentence. I'd be a dead bug smudge on the windshield of life for ever and ever.
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