High School Poems and Crap

It seems like autumn has fallen upon us once again. And whether it's because I'm still on a traditional school schedule or just the sun setting a little earlier in the day, the start of fall has always represented a time of new beginnings for me.

This year was no exception. As my new teaching semester began, I once again discovered myself in that extremely stressful nightmare of trying to find a new apartment. I'll spare you the details of the painful open houses, hours on craigslist, and tears that lent themselves too willingly to my cheeks through the process, and skip to the part where we found our new place. Wahoo!

But in preparation for the moving costs after spending a summer on a limited income, I found myself trying to take jobs where ever I could during this last month. And one of the jobs landed me as a substitute drama teacher for SOTA, where my partner in crime, Liz, works. While planning what to do in class I couldn't help but think about my own high school experiences and things I wish I could say to my fifteen year old self now that I've survived the teenage years.

Fifteen year old Ashley seems almost like a stranger to me in some ways as I remember those early years in high school as a time of displacement and confusion. I hadn't yet signed up for the school's drama class (an event that didn't happen until my senior year of high school and ultimately proved to be one of the greatest influences on my life) and I spent a lot of time doing a lot of things I was only okay at, unable to truly become passionate in any of them. Back then, I was a member of the field hockey, swim, and lacrosse team. I played flute in the school's marching band. I belonged to clubs ranging from helping drunk students find a safe way home to writing for the newspaper. But to be truthful, I spent more time than I'd really like to admit writing poetry in my room listening to the calming sounds of Simon and Garfunkel. I have the distinct memory of standing in my driveway at home dreaming of publishing my own book of poems by age 25. Well, here I am, weeks away from 26 and I seem to have strayed a little bit from that goal.

Walking through the halls of SOTA with my backpack and binder, I like to think that for a moment I was still able to blend in with the high schoolers. I couldn't help but smile as I observed the timelessness of student after student. Each seemed to be drenched in their own insecurities, hunched in awkwardness, just trying to appear cooler than the person next to them. It was humbling and enchanting to see these young high schoolers in search of what life really means to them and how they fit into it all. They all seemed to have a different way of expressing these feelings; whether it was the words of an outspoken class clown, the shy gestures of the brainiac in the back, or the ideals of the gossipy kids dressed in black attempting to prove their edge.

Having the opportunity to try and teach these kids a little something about acting was a pretty cool experience. I felt like I had come a long way from my days of relating all too well with S&G's lyrics: "I have my books and my poetry to protect me; I am shielded in my armor hiding in my room, safe within my womb. I touch no one and no one touches me. I am a rock. I am an island." Now granted, I still totally jam out to that song, but I can see now how desperately I tried to shield myself back then. Ultimately, I think I was just terrified of the future and full of hormones. And again, I still find myself dancing with fears for the future and unpredictable hormones, but I try to remember some advice my lovely friend, Kaitlin, told me once. She said, "when you're sad, think about how your fifteen year old self would think about the person you are right now. All the cool things you've done, places you've seen, people you've met. I bet that person would excited for the future and proud of the person they get to become." It's an idea that always brings me a little bit of peace when I'm feeling stressed and overwhelmed about what I'm doing with my life. And in any case, if that's not enough for you, let's listen to some additional wisdom from Paul Simon, shall we? "When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school it's a wonder I can think at all..."

Happy Days, Thoughtful Nights

Theatre of the Absurd. It's a type of art that always strikes me most when I stop looking at it as such. Commonly understood through a variety of characters who share a common thread, Theatre of the Absurd features those who seem to be forever tangled in hopeless situations, living in repetitious action devoid of known importance. The text may surface simply as it's often full of nonsensical dialogue and small talk. And Mr. Samuel Beckett seems to dance through absurd ideals with grace and power as he appears to center his work around the concept of loss; and as I remember learning in college, Beckett was drawn to exploring how man's failure of overcoming the idea of absurdity ultimately dictated how he lived in it.

Yikes, right? What I find so fascinating about the idea of absurdity is the boundary in which it lies... so often I find myself in situations or discussions that seem destined for the content of an absurd piece and just as often I will read something deemed as absurd and find true honesty. So when I learned that Cal Shakes would be putting on Beckett's "Happy Days" outside in their beautiful theater, I was anxious to see this challenging work brought to life.

Attending Cal Shakes is often a highlight of my month during the summer season as it combines two of my loves: plays and the chance to pack a picnic. Thanks to my job at The Magic Theatre, I am supplied with complimentary tickets to many of the great playhouses in the bay area, including this wonderful space which is easily one of my favorites. (And here's a tip, if you do go to see a show in the hills of this lovely Orinda theater, I suggest going on a "tasting evening" which are usually held on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. When I went to see "Happy Days" I enjoyed a nice selection of free cheese and figs which enhanced my experience even more. So if you like plays, picnics, and talking about the production, let me share a ticket with you and we'll go together. "A Midsummer's Night Dream" is the next one up...)

Anyway, whether it came from my joy of free delicious food or just the air up there, I found myself consumed in the material. "Happy Days" left me completely heartbroken and I drove back to San Francisco with tears still on my face.

Within the play, we meet Winnie, a woman committed to appearing optimistic regardless of the depth of her despair. Winnie is the only voice we hear throughout the play, excluding a few monosyllabic sounds from her husband Willie, and while she's buried up to her waist in Act I (up to her neck in Act II) she attempts to live in a "normal" fashion. Winnie references a romanticized past, flirts with trivial topics, and strains to smile at it all. She often proclaims, "This will have been another happy day," while fighting tears and speaking at length stopping only to ensure that her Willie is still alive and listening, appearing terrified of the idea of her words going unheard.

To me, the true tragedy of the piece is reflected by the mask of comedy. Winnie is literally becoming engulfed by the Earth but still searches for affirmations of faith and happiness, choosing to laugh when she really wants to cry. In Act II she states, “to have been what I always am – and so changed from what I was”, and my heart dropped for her. I felt honestly boggled to feel so connected to a character that spends most of her time in a land of endless chitchat and yet so close to a harsh reality of my greatest mortal fear.

It's a terrifying thought that we're all basically drowning in matter we can't control. We have no choice but to accept that we're all being buried by it, muster up all of our strength, and attempt a smile. I found myself tearing up a bit as the play closed with the thoughts, "life is so sad! It's all so sad!" passing through my mind. I felt I had been unmasked actually as I tried to understand Winnie. My biggest fear isn't death or being buried alive, it's simply being forgotten. To have spent hours speaking from my heart only to have the words vanish and never remembered, to have spent a lifetime trying to make some difference in this crazy world only to fail, or to have simply allowed myself to love only to completely disappear. Well, that, and I'm also terrified of snakes. But the beauty of witnessing the show, thus another reason why Theatre is nothing short of magical, is that seeing this play awakened these feelings. I was moved and changed after an hour and forty five minutes in the East Bay. What a gift. Seriously. I may have left weeping a little bit and questioning life... and what I'm doing with my own... but it also fired me up, gave me something to want to fight against and work for, and just something to think about. And come on guys, if Uma can get buried alive in Kill Bill Volume Two and then thrive, I'm confident that I too can escape being buried by doom (represented by sand) any day. And if not, I'm going to die trying.

Ah, and with that, I'll leave you. The next show's experience promises to be very different. Hopefully you'll consider sharing in the next "Midsummer" evening?

I Left My Toothbrush in New York City

I recently left the winter weather of San Francisco to return to the heat waves of the East Coast. After seeing my family and friends, attending a concert entitled Hippiefest, and going to a wedding that did not involve a Tony or a Tina, I visited my old home: NYC.

While the trip in it's entirety only lasted about twenty four hours it proved to be an amusing and awakening adventure. When I left the city on Harry Potter's Birthday in 2007 (that's July 31st for you creeps who aren't up on it) to move to California I felt like I was leaving prematurely and feared that I wasn't truly ready to abandon my New York life.

I had originally moved to NYC after I graduated from college. It wasn't a place I always dreamed of living in to tell you the truth but as a 21 year old actress looking for a life on the stage, it seemed like the most logical place to go. Earlier in the year, while I was still in school, my friend Dave and I took a night off from tech week for our acting senior project to venture to New York to audition for graduate programs. But because of the strain of our play and the stress of trying to complete senior year, we both bombed the audition. I can say that now without wanting to cry but seriously guys, it was probably the worst audition of my life. I remember leaving the audition room in a daze and walking out of the building alone with no idea of where I was or where to go. Both in a literal and figurative sense. I let the streets pass me by as I numbly tried to convince myself that I hadn't just thrown my life away. (Side note: our senior project went well and we both got A's in the class. The picture here is from that show, "The Fox".)

Luckily, Dave called me after his audition and we commiserated and attempted to drown our sorrow over pizza. I would come to later learn the real healing powers of good New York pizza. While we sat consuming our slices, a man from outside made eye contact with me and entered the restaurant. He sat in a corner and continued to observe us as we both tried to cheer each other up from the disaster that was our morning. After a few minutes the man approached us; we both probably assumed that he was going to ask for money but he stopped before us and showed me what he had been working on in the corner. It was a picture of a crowd. All different types of people standing still and gazing out from the page. And then I saw it. I was there in his crowd. He pointed to the sketched version of me and said in broken English said that he had wanted to draw me. Suddenly, through some very kind and thoughtful strokes, was a new me standing beside other New Yorkers. It was within that moment that I decided to move to NYC after I graduated. Perhaps all I needed was to see that someone else could see me living there, I'm not sure. The man walked away and we finished our lunch, simple activities that forever impacted my life.

Dave and I both moved to NYC together a few months later and ate more slices of pizza than I can count. I went to more auditions. I met new people. I walked hundreds of miles through all five boroughs. I made a life for myself that I was pleased with for sometime. But I also couldn't help but wonder if there was something else for me to try out in the world, perhaps another crowd of people to associate myself with, and when the opportunity came up to move to California, I took it knowing that I would have to move 3,000 miles away from my city family for a place in which I knew not one soul without any guarantee of happiness.

I think you all know that story by now. And you know how things turned out. I believe I made the right choice but whenever I travel back to the city part of me wonders what life would have been like if I had stayed. There isn't a day that passes where I don't miss my friends that still walk those city streets or the possibilities that can unfold in one day of life there. So while I knew the visit would be a quick one I was grateful to have the opportunity to spend the day in my old stomping ground.

I met up with my friends over margaritas at one of my favorite places in the city, Blockheads. It's a great place to sit outdoors, dine with Broadway stars, and enjoy cheap but strong margaritas. It proved to be an evening full of many laughs and I'm beyond grateful to have had those few hours with such wonderful company. I later returned to Queens with my pal, Matt, and along with writing offensive comments on my facebook wall he graced me with his hairstyling abilities. I went to sleep that night in his air conditioned room with crazy hair and a warm heart. The next day we spent some time walking around the city before I had to catch my bus and I realized that I didn't feel anything "new" about New York. The city continued to be a place where I felt comfortable and content but lacked challenge for me. For a place that seems to be under constant renovation it hadn't really changed. And I think I have. There will forever be a little piece of myself that belongs to NYC but for now, I think my heart is truly in San Francisco and that's where I'm going to leave it.

A few hours later, I said goodbye to Matt at Port Authority, happy for the time we had and for the reassurance that I think I'm where I'm meant to be for now... as he walked away, it dawned on me that I had left my electric toothbrush on the windowsill of his bathroom. I was absolutely bummed to have forgotten it but I suppose it's a small price to pay for everything I took away from the city. So enjoy my toothbrush, Mr. Ravey, it'll have to be the only part of me in NYC for a little while as I'm back in California now and anxious to find a new way to keep my mouth satisfied without the city's pizza and margaritas.

Aphrodite vs. Athena, place your bets!

The ageless question: is ignorance bliss? It's a thought that has spent a great deal of time in my mind throughout my life. Recently, at the infamous tea reading, I was informed by the reader that not only do I possess a "male mind" but I'm also guilty of trying to hide my intelligence in fear that people will find it a less than attractive quality. She then went on to explain that I have a tendency of coming across as "goofy" to the opposite sex, which was a justifiable instinct considering "most men don't search for an intelligent woman". Her honesty struck me as harsh at first but it then got me thinking a little bit... as most things do... about what intelligence is worth. Perhaps life would be easier if we all knew a little less; they say "knowledge is power" but they never promise that power offers universal happiness.

I found myself more focused on the idea recently while rehearsing a play for the San Francisco Theater Festival. In the production, I had the great opportunity to play a woman struggling with endless questions about this world around her full of people who don't mind being without the answers. She comes to assume that she's the ignorant one because she's so different from everyone else and yet still searches for meaning in it all. Being apart of the show was a delight and I found it something that I could easily relate to... especially after hearing the words of that tea leaf reader. I remembered being back in sixth grade. Picture me, much more awkward and insecure, complete with braces, and dorky glasses, and some long bangs I was trying to grow out. It was right before puberty hit lunging me into another land of awkward insecurities but after the quaint simplicity of grade school. I'll never forget sitting in my English class and actually thinking, "I wish I could trade in being smart so that I could be pretty." This thought breaks my heart a bit now and I find it just so sad that my eleven year old self truly believed that I would be happier without all of my good grades and love of scholastic development if I could just be desirable for my appearance. Confessing that thought embarrasses me a little now but whatever, I'll admit it because it's the truth. As I've grown up, thank goodness without the braces and glasses and occasional bang disasters, I've come to accept who I am and I'm trying to gracefully embrace it. At times I am insufferably inquisitive and restless to find answers to questions that haven't even been asked. But it's the reality of who I am, I guess, and as the tea leaf reader put it, I need be truthful about who I am and stop wasting my time on those who are uninterested in that quality. (Which again, is greatly disheartening because, as I previously mentioned, she actually said that most men are just ultimately not attracted to intelligence in women.) So while I know this isn't my darn husband shopping blog, I felt compelled to verbalize these thoughts here in my artistic quest for culture and meaning. Honestly, I also find that I am quite attracted to intelligence, often before being physically interested, in the opposite sex. I'll also admit that I find talking about books to be amazing foreplay and it made me wonder if I was completely alone in that one... hmm, did that just get awkward?

Through my never ending thought process, my mind wandered to Greek myth. (And, I'm not going to lie... I have a habit of encouraging my thoughts to go there...) I concluded that I'm an Athena and not an Aphrodite, no matter how much I may have originally wanted to reverse that reality. Aphrodite, undeniably alluring and sexy, who was believed to make any man fall instantly in love with her and Athena, the goddess of wisdom and peace, a true friend to all! Amusingly enough, Athena was also known for being attended by an owl (and by now, you should all be aware of my love for owls) and as a patroness of weaving and other crafts (and duh, I was born to craft)! But even though Aphrodite was also painted as rather vain and ill-tempered, she had seemingly endless love affairs and romantic trysts and Athena remained reasonable and intelligent and was never made a fool by love. And while yes, I do admire Athena, because come on, guys, she seems GREAT... it appears like Aphrodite had a lot more fun getting her mack on while Athena never got passed the friend card with any of those Greek hotties. Which brings me back to my initial question: is ignorance bliss? Is love meant only for those who are not smart enough to avoid it or can knowledge provide a powerful love of it's own? I don't know. I guess it's just one of the many questions I still have. Eeesh, sorry to have kept this entry so serious, it feels sort of unnatural to not have thrown in more silliness! But not to fear, I will undoubtedly be back to my old tricks soon.

Hope the week is treating everyone well and if anyone wants to talk nerdy sometime let me know... just be prepared if you DO talk nerdy, I'll probably try to kiss you.

Mother, May I...?

After spending some time living like an old lady, the children's theatre that I work for asked me to revisit my role as old Mother Goose in our original play "The Real Mother Goose" for a few summer performances. As teaching drama to children is my main real source of income, the summer months can be trickier for me in the financial sense as my teaching hours are cut significantly. So when YPT offered me a few more paid performances as Mother Goose, I willingly accepted knowing that it may not be considered the "coolest" summer job.

Now, I often consider myself a rather silly person, but this show tends to push my silly limits. The play is intended for preschoolers, mainly, and to appeal to its audience we have a very broad and extensive series of props ranging from a giant goose in which Mother Goose is supposed to "fly in on", a spider that is twice the size of my dog, and a separate hat for almost every rhyme. My costume is a green dress my boss found in our costume shop; it is extremely wide and short and the tight arm sleeves end several awkward inches from where my wrists begin. I also wear a bonnet and crazy itchy collar that I have to pin on the neck of the dress and it really couldn't be any more uncomfortable. So in other words, I've probably never looked better.

My performance on Tuesday was at the Park Branch of the San Francisco Library on Page Street in the Haight. Because of all of the props, it's sadly impossible for one person to manage transporting them alone and since I don't have a car I had to rely on the other teacher of YPT to take me and my show supplies to the big venue. And because she has another teaching obligation she had to drop me off several hours before my scheduled performance leaving me plenty of time to really get into character and realize that my poor hideous green dress didn't make it along with me...

But I'm an professional, right? I need to be able to think quickly and problem solve... so I kept on the pink skirt I was wearing, put on my black sweater, fastened on a ridiculous feathered cape meant for our "Mary Had a Little Lamb" section, put that bonnet on my head, vowed to grit my teeth, and tried to smile. And then in came my audience. And an endless supply of strollers. Baby after crying baby and their parents and nannies. Now, like I said earlier, the show is designed for preschoolers; Mother Goose shares a nursery rhyme and its history and then invites someone up on stage to help act out the words while giving the child the chance to put on a costume and enjoy the spot light. So when the wave of babies entered the room I wasn't quite sure how the show would work out.

Part of me took the time to just laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Here I am trying to become a "serious actor" longing for dramatic roles, Shakespeare verses, classic musical theatre songs, and the opportunity to share the stage with people who share that same hope. Instead, I'm alone in the basement of a small library in a makeshift costume surrounded by babies and their parents (composed mostly of people who may not speak English on a daily basis). But a performance is a performance and I knew I had no choice but to make it work. Luckily, a few children came in late who were able to stand up on their own so I was able to put costumes on them and seeing their child in a silly hat seemed to be enough to fool the parents into thinking this was one great show. The real test came a little later into the show when a very large and rather gruff woman in the front row called her daughter over to her and tried to breast feed her. The child was old enough to walk and talk (though I'm not totally sure the language she was speaking...) and I was right in the middle of explaining the history of "Jack and Jill" when out popped a region of this woman that I would have been happier not to see. When her child didn't take this free lunch opportunity, she whipped, um, the region back out and put it under her shirt. Yikes, guys, yikes. I did all that I could to just keep going hoping that one day, when I have my own Tony Award, I'd be able to celebrate that real test of performance focus.

Fortunately, the rest of the show fell into place and I managed to get out of the library with some of my self respect. The library told me that they would love to bring the show back for some additional performances and I just smiled and sighed, thankful to leave my character of old Mother Goose for the day and return to my life... of tea, knitting, baking, and all the other fancies of old lady living. Old Mother Goose when she wanted to wander would fly through the air on a very fine gander...

Food For Thought: Lovejoy's Tea Room

I often feel that despite my true age I often act as if I'm already an old woman. I enjoy knitting, I would not think twice about choosing to spend an evening reading rather than out and about, and I like verbalizing expressions that the elderly commonly use like "the cat's pajamas" and "the bees knees" in my every day speech. Today in celebration of my dear friend, Mariah, I got to embrace that older lady inside of me with a tea party. Proving my hunch that tea parties don't have to just be a jam of the elderly.

Located on Church Street, Lovejoys Tea Room truthfully fufills the intention of its name. With an eclectic style of mismatched tea cups in a room full of cozy furniture pieces, one has a hard time not entering without feeling a little like Alice exploring her Wonderland and a member of England's royal family all at the same time. For a very reasonable price, we spent the late afternoon (because let's face it, that's when the old folks are eating) dining on tasty sandwiches, salads, biscuits, scones and an unlimited amount of delicious tea that kept us all lovingly and joyfully jittery. (My personal favorite was a tie between this Vanilla Chamomile mix and a creation we attempted using their Gingerbread Tea and a new Chocolate Chip Tea they had introduced.) Mariah also treated the group to a tea leaf reader which proved to be an amusing and thoughtful experience for most of us. I was interestingly informed that I possessed a "male brain". Ah, how it all makes sense now...

The true love and joy of the day, however, came from the company I shared it all with and the time we spent after our tea just sitting around Mariah's kitchen table back at her apartment. Led only by the way Miss Castle can, she helped gracefully encourage all of us to talk about some of the things we've learned throughout the year and additional goals and hopes we each have for the next few months. We laughed, we shared stories, and we all continued to use her bathroom... because, wow, we drank a lot of tea. Reflecting on it all now, I think it's a great idea to unleash that little old lady living inside of all of us from time to time by spending an afternoon with fancy teas and mature discussions... and then delight in the thought that you're not actually there yet. You still have the chance to embrace so many more adventures, laughs, and bathroom breaks before it's time, and if you're lucky enough to share it with good friends, well, then thank your lucky tea leaves even more for blessing you with such a beautiful design.