Stringing the little things together

Today I opened a time capsule dated June 3rd, 2009. Four years ago, I thought of where I sit now. Four years ago, I thought it would be a good idea to leave myself a video. Today, I am so glad that I did that. 

The first still image I saw as the unused DVD whirred to life was shocking. My face was shorter, my cheeks more chipmunk'd, my hoop earrings wildly indicative of which sartorial phase I was going through, and my chin sporting one of my mythical mountain-zits. Little-me even said something funny about this reaction: "Wow, it's been four years since you had to see this in the mirror."

I was terrified to watch this video. I remembered snippets of incriminating things I said, and knew to wince when I brought up stale crushes and silly eighth grade inside jokes. I ended up surprised. Although I've changed–I've lived–I'm still very much the same. That feeling is... stabilizing. It reminds me that my feet have been, are, and will likely continue to be on the ground.

I've changed quite a bit. My voice isn't as... well, middle school-ish. I'm a better singer. I don't want to go to Berklee anymore. I promise myself now that I will never work at American Eagle Outfitters if I can help it. My skin doesn't rebel against me anymore. My hair doesn't fall in my eyes, nor do my braces inhabit my mouth. 

I'm still the same in so many ways. I'm still sassy. I still roll my eyes and laugh at my own lame jokes. I get caught up in the beauty of the world around me just as I did back then. I still want to see the world and fall in love. I really love that girl who left me a video.

I found myself chuckling at my own uncertainty at the path ahead. I had no idea what the next four years of my life were going to be like--they were this big blank in my mind at the time. Funny how I kind of feel the same way now. I marveled at how much about me would change: how I'd feel, who I'd meet, what I'd do. 

There was so much ahead of me then, and there is so much ahead of me now. That's a nice feeling. 

I've been sad about graduating. That much is clear from my previous posts. This week, however, I find that I've reached the point at which I'm ready. I wasn't ready two weeks ago, but I'm ready now. My school is really easing me out of here, and I have no inclination to stop them.

I'm feeling the closure. I've come full circle in so many ways.  I've learned that I have to move on. I've learned how to say goodbye.

Tomorrow is my last day of high school. It feels so fucking good to type those words. My CAQ (application for a study permit in Quebec) was passed today. The red carpet to my future is unrolling before my eyes. It starts on the graduation stage. Who knows where it will lead? 

I'm ready to take those steps.

Forever young

 One week.

How strange indeed that six years will officially be behind me in seven days.

It should come as no surprise that I spend a lot of time thinking about "growing up"--or rather, growing old (because who ever really grows up?).

One of the highlights of my day was helping out with a voluntary strike call in the theatre. There was only a little bit left to do, but it was very important work, and I was honored to actually be useful to our lighting designer. He taught me how to drive a scissor-lift and together we struck the vertical strip lights that were easily 50 feet in the air.

A side note: I'm terribly scared of heights. The fear can be crippling. Honestly, I'm more scared of falling than I am of heights. Strangely enough, my strongest memories with this fear are of the times that I boldly faced it head on. Today was one of those times.

I had to be brave, recall my dormant technical knowledge, and work quickly while keeping everyone around me safe. It was all quite exhilarating.

But the lighting designer kept getting nostalgic on me. I don't blame him; he was my first acting teacher freshman year and continued to teach me right up until now. He's directed me in shows, worked with me in production, and introduced me to the art of lighting design. Furthermore, I babysit his kid, adore his wife, and have confided in him when I felt most alone. Long story short: we're close.

He can be a bit of a grouch, but he's a man with the best intentions. He's more of a thinker. He's always been this loftier mentor-figure to me, but up in that scissor-lift, 50 feet above the Vinik stage, I had a revelation.

This guy was my age once.

I know that sounds so silly. Of course he was your age once, Shanti. Don't be dumb.

But for a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of the dorky theatre dude that he once was: a young, driven kid who felt the need to devote and donate his mind, body, and soul to the theatre. The great thing about being a kid is that you can do just that; you're not beholden to anyone and you can immerse yourself in late-night rehearsals, binge-level caffeination sessions, and a wonky schedule that revolves around what you do.

That's the life that I'm headed towards right now, and I love that idea. That's exactly what I want my foreseeable future to look like. But the lighting designer? He's forty now. He has a beautiful wife and an absolutely heart-melting baby. He has a steady job. He teaches. He teaches kids like me the skills that they'll need in order to repeat the cycle that he already lived.

He and I have both felt this. And what's more: he and I probably could have been friends.

What if there are countless friends out there for you--they were just your "friend soul mate" at a different time in their life? Finding them would be like knowing an older you; they can give you advice and teach you things that twenty-years-from-now-you would love to throw at you.

This kind of thinking makes me feel more in tune with the people around me, regardless of age. Young'uns such as myself tend to think, "Oh look, they're older than me, they must be lame and washed-up." Not so, kiddo. That older person might have been your best friend, had you aged on the same plane.

Spend your time looking for the potential in people. That never goes away, regardless of their age.

Invincible

Sometimes it's just so easy to convince ourselves that we are invincible. 

Now don't get me wrong, I don't mind believing in my own invincibility. It helps me carry on. Believing in myself, my strength, my confidence, and my own abilities--that all keeps me going. I guess the mentality is something along the lines of "fake it 'till you make it": if you believe that nothing can hurt you, then maybe nothing can. 

I'm young. I'm on the cusp of a new beginning. I cannot wait to barrel forth into the metaphorical (and hopefully literal) sunset. 

I've been using big-girl words recently. The main one: "career". I'm ready to start building this future for myself, one that will undoubtedly require hard work and dedication to the things I'm passionate about. I fixate on my goals. I overachieve. I immerse myself in work. After all, my happy place is a big open space in which I can putter around doing something that I love. 

But when I do that, I forget about something that actually might be somewhat important. My heart. I don't know... I guess I convince myself that I don't need any of that mushy shit: it's a waste of time and boys are stupid. My work, my career, my goals--those will always be there for me when I wake up in the morning. Those are the kind of things in which I can place my faith. 

So I convince myself that I'm better off without some dorky dude in my life and I am happy that way. Until one day when I walk down the street and see one too many happy couples or hear about yet another person finding their soul mate in line at Citi Bank. It's then that I realize that maybe I'm not as invincible as I thought. 

As crushing as the realization that I'm not superhuman can be, I also really appreciate these moments. You have to understand, this is a pattern for me... 

1. Work obnoxiously hard.
2. Realize that I feel a little bit lonely.
3. Meet some guy and daydream just a little too much.
4. Get over it.

...And repeat cycle. I don't mind the pattern at all, though! It's a nice reality check, being reminded that I'm only human and all. Feelings, however messy and superfluous they may seem, can be the greatest quarries of inspiration. Of passion.

If you're getting anything from reading these blog posts, let it be this: my life's mission is the pursuit of passion. Without passion, you have nothing. Whether that passion is ignited through doing what you love or just loving someone else, let that passion thrive. And never write passion off. 

And finally: feel deeply, love endlessly, and live fearlessly. 

Time for just another moment.

Today was one of the most difficult days I've ever had to face, and I know this is just the beginning of the painful detachment I have to go through for the next two weeks. I say "difficult" with the tears in mind, but these tears were so different than the ones that I'm used to. I didn't publicly sob today because I was sad. Yes, I was sad, but I was also happy, hopeful, lonely, loved, and most of all, nostalgic. Feeling all of those things at once, it's no wonder I bursted a little at the seams (my seams being my tear-ducts).

I performed for the last time on the Vinik stage today. The tears started before I even made it to the dressing room. Reminiscing with old friends about what my school's theatre program has meant to me over the past six years got me started. The funny thing is, although I felt like a phantom walking through the green room, the minute I got into makeup and costume I felt sewn up again.

I performed without shedding a tear. I didn't think, "This is the last time I'll ever do this," as if I had already finished. Everything was present tense, and I threw my soul into it all. I lived the show more fully than I've lived my real life at times. I let go.

The tears came back for the Finale Ultimo, just as I expected. As I stood there under the lights, singing my last ever notes for an audience in that room, I felt all the time I had spent in that very same theatre whooshing by me. Set changes, tech rehearsals, performances, acting classes and other memories seemed to all be clanging together simultaneously: a cacophony of time, space, and growing up. I thought back to the awkward fifthie who was asked to step in for the title character one April day in 2009. That, in turn, makes me think of the passionate senior who proudly stepped into the light as the title character in 2013.

The funny thing is, right after I got off the stage, I felt the loss. The magic has disappeared. Vinik became a room again; the hallway just a hallway; the props just objects. The Theatre Collective would never be mine in the same way.

When I was very young, I had this dream about a toy coming to life. It was extremely vivid, and I remember just how attached the living toy and I had become. We loved each other. At the end of the dream, however, the magic was lost. I remember that the dream ended with me shaking the suddenly lifeless toy, pleading for time to rewind so I could be so happy again. I woke up sobbing. And I never forgot that feeling.

This chapter of my life, doing high school theatre, has closed. It's gone. My director will never be the same guy to me. I will never act with many, if not all, of these people again. Some may never do theatre again. We're all going to get older. We're all going to continue moving. With or without one another.

I was thinking today; there will be so much room for so much more in my life. When I think of who I am, I think of all the anecdotes that brought me to where I am. But hopefully my life will be five times as long as it had been. I've lived so much, felt so much, learned so much, and I might only be 20% of the way through. I can't linger in the beginning forever. I need to let the plot develop and thicken--allow the characters to develop more. Such a great beginning deserves to be seen through to its ending.

Light 'Em Up

Here we are. Opening night. The last opening night I will be sure of for a long time. My last opening night in the beautiful Vinik Theatre. You can bet your ass I made it count.

Opening night is a beautiful yet terrible thing. Beautiful because you can watch, see, and feel something magical coming together for the first time. Terrible because as soon as the first strains of the overture begin, you realize that this beast is out of your hands.

I suppose that's me thinking like a director. This big, snarling beast of a musical is no longer in the place where you can yell "STOP!" and run a number five more times. You've got 200 pairs of eyes, and one shot to make an impression. 

A new friend summed it up quite nicely: "Compared to rehearsal, performing is easy." 

I'd agree with that for the most part. Rehearsal is the learning. The teaching. The envisioning. Performance is the doing. The culmination. The end game.

But performing adds something entirely different to an equation that we've tinkered with for weeks. Performance adds the audience. Those other humans for whom we make our art. 

They bring this indescribable energy to the room. I believe that the theatre is the most human place in the world. You bring hundreds of different people into the room for one thing: an experience. You know going into it that this experience will be different for everyone; we celebrate that difference. 

Theatre is art made for, by, and with people. As a director, I proudly call myself an artist. My medium is humans. We strive to find emotion, drama, movement, narrative--all while asking our audience to open their eyes and see themselves on the stage. Everyone's a bit of a Man in Chair. People dream of spontaneous tangoes and Show(ing) Off. We all put monkeys onto pedestals. We all just want to be taken away sometimes.

This night poured some serious lighter fluid on my passion for theatre. Those lights you see in that picture caused the fire to catch. 

Life is uncertain. The future can be scary. Friendships don't last forever; people come and people go. You'll wake up one day and wonder how you got there. I can't promise that there will always be advice that is coherent and relevant to the situation. But I'll give it a shot...

Follow your passions. Do what lights you up. Live while you can.

I can promise that as long as we can hear our own little bluebirds, there will be a fucking song.

As we plumble along.

Wonderfully Woozy

We had our very first dress rehearsal today for The Drowsy Chaperone! There I am, all dolled up as the Chaperone herself. I wish my hair looked like that all the time. 

Playing this role has been quite the adventure for me. Drowsy, who is played by the fictional über-diva Beatrice Stockwell (think a 1920s Patti Lupone), is a cartoon character in many ways. I spend the entire show with an alcoholic beverage in one hand, making cynical quips, and showing off my newly harnessed belting abilities. 

Whenever I play a new character, I find myself becoming more like my character in real life. For example, in becoming Drowsy, I've become more of a diva. I walk with a little bit more confidence and I don't give a crap what others might be thinking. If I'm having a good time, I'm doing it right.

In the free time I had between getting into costume and getting my places call, I had a minor panic attack. Summer's going to suck if I can't do theatre! I applied for an internship at the American Repertory Theatre, but it didn't work out, and I hadn't done anything about it since then. But sitting there in my costume and feeling the pre-show adrenaline rushing through my veins, I realized that I have to find an excuse to spend my days working on a show whenever possible, and this summer is no exception! 

I pulled together two more internship applications during the show call and now am crossing my fingers. It's really tough, trying to catch a break in this world. Theatre (like any profession, I suppose), is mostly about who you know. I can't help but be frustrated when despite my being more qualified, I was denied an internship that my friend (then a high school junior) got thanks to his grandmother calling in a favor. 

I won't be dissuaded, though. Nothing will keep me out of the theatre for long. Even if I have to go to every theatre company in Boston this summer with a resume, cover letter, a headshot and a smile, I will find some small slip of opportunity. 

There's my advice for today, kiddies. If you want something, don't let anything stop you from going for it. Rejection is part of this great game we call life, and if you can learn to handle that, you're all set! Worst case scenario: you hear the word "no." So what? That just opens you up to go find someone else who might just say "yes."

Lights up

We're deep in the midst of tech for our theatre collective's mainstage production of The Drowsy Chaperone. Since I'm in the actor's shoes this time around, I found myself dreading the start of tech; in a way, it's the technicians' time, and we're there to make their lives easier. But when we got started, I realized that this is one of my favorite parts of the rehearsal process.

Technical rehearsals are when we begin to slide the formerly separate working components of the show together, and a lot of the time we close our eyes, cross our fingers, and pray under our breath that things will work out. It's a time of compromise, elation, disappointment, and stress. However, it is primarily the time when the theatre magic begins to happen.

I love sitting in the house and watching the production team work together in the same space for the first time. Every single aspect of production interests me; there's so much to learn from everyone in the room.

What I love the most, though, is working with people who care so deeply about what they do. The theatre is a house of emotion, and that emotion doesn't just come from the actors. People who do theatre don't just do it because they want to. For many of us, it's because we absolutely HAVE to (I'm referencing something a mentor once told me). I feel that burn of HAVING to do theatre, and it's always so comforting to know that there are others who are just as desperate for the theatre as I am.

Sitting in this multimillion-dollar theatre makes me scared. This is my last show in this space, and I have no way of knowing when my next show will be, and if I will ever work in a comparable space and environment again.

Knowing I want to pursue theatre is deeply frightening to me. There's no question of "if" in my mind, but rather of "how" I'm going to go about it. I can plan all I like, but in the end none of that matters. A lot of this world is being in the right place at the right time.

The fervor with which my enthusiasm burns is worrisome to me. Why? Because regardless of how much I love the theatre, that doesn't affect my talent.

In a way, that's not really important. I love theatre. I'm going to do it. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

She's only 18: Red Hot Chili Peppers

I am eighteen. I know that doesn't seem like much, but to me it means the world.

My maturity is something I really love about myself. It didn't come easy, but I've learned to see it as a great asset to whom I believe myself to be. To phrase it as a friend once did, "for better or for worse, you grew up really fast." As a result, I've acted like a twenty-something for the past couple of years.

In a way, it's fun being older than my years. Some of my closest friends are 4-6 years older than me, and I already feel comfortable with the young adult lifestyle that many of my peers are going to have to adjust to slowly. You always hear people say that they'd give anything to have more time to spend in their twenties--so in a way I guess I'm lucky to have begun to live this life before I was even seventeen.

But in many ways my maturity has felt like a curse. A lot of the time I feel like a twenty-something trapped in a high schooler's body. I have to adhere to the strict schedule that comes with adolescence, without having unfettered freedom to make my own choices. Until today, I didn't even technically own my own body! I couldn't sign for things myself, couldn't buy medicine (seriously: I was once carded for cold medicine when I had a fever of 102º), couldn't fully take care of myself in the eyes of the law. To some of the adults in my life, I was just a little girl who could play the part of an adult.

Usually twenty-one is the big one, but hell, I'm moving to Montréal. Eighteen is the big one. I have no problem with being eighteen for a while. Children always talk about how they just want to be grown up (see my "when I grow up" post). I feel like I've kind of made it in a way. Now, I'm not saying that I'm fully grown up--I like to think that I'll never be--instead I'm saying that I'm ready for time to go a little bit slower now. That's ridiculous of me, though, because from here on out I know that time is only going to slip away faster with every passing second.

I feel like my life is beginning. I know that life-as-I-know-it is ending (the graduation countdown is frighteningly real), but I like to think that life-to-come will be full of amazing and wonderful surprises. Plus, I'd rather look forward than linger on the past. There will be time in my nursing home to brood and reminisce and ponder. For now, I'm going to enjoy what's going to be a hell of a ride if I have anything to say about it.

When I grow up

This video is a song from Matilda: The Musical. The good stuff starts at 0:45. I'm feeling a little dreamy-eyed and musical theatre-y, so bear with me. (Disclaimer: I'm always dreamy-eyed and musical theatre-y.) 

I just saw my beautiful friend's production of 13: The Musical. I'm so proud of her; she had a lead role and took every risk she could. She's grown in so many ways since that awkward September day in 2008, and I feel lucky that I got to see it all happen. Aside from the ineffable pride I'm feeling as a result of her performance, I found myself more affected by this show than I expected to be. Let me explain.

13 is about a (shocker) 13-year-old Jewish boy who has it tough at home and finds himself at a new school in suburban Indiana--a completely different world from the buzzing paradise of Manhattan where he grew up. He struggles to fit in, and the show is basically his middle school adventures and misadventures. Other wonderfully stereotypical yet shockingly relatable characters punctuate his monologues. They include: a moronic jock and a moronic cheerleader (who really just means well), a hot girl who is as conniving as she is slutty, a terminally ill kid on crutches who steals the show, and a nerdy girl-next-door who for some unnamed reason is shunned by the majority of the middle school.

While I'm neither Jewish nor a boy, I don't live in Indiana (thank goodness), and I'm not thirteen anymore, I found myself relating with this show on a few too many levels for my comfort.

It's been five years since I earnestly walked the halls of a middle school, and yet I still feel the abuse of those who are what I like to call, "middle-school-mean." I always say that, but only now after reliving middle school do I truly know what that means. "Middle-school-mean" is the girl who strokes someone's leg just to get to you, who lowers her voice and turns away when you ask a question, who plays stupid because she thinks it's cute (or maybe just plays up her own stupidity) and then mocks you for being sharp and smart, who pours poison into the ear of anyone who'll listen, who leaves you alone on an empty stage with a spotlight on you and no script.

A few hours I posted about how sad I am to be leaving this life behind me. That's still true. However, I am not sad to be leaving many people behind me. My aunt asked me today if I plan on keeping in touch with my high school friends. I answered more honestly than I realized; I'll keep in touch with no more than three or four. There is no more than a handfull of people that I will miss as I move forward.

I fervently hope that someday I'll find real friends. The kind that value your wit and sarcasm, who stand by you, who don't let their lives be governed by infatuation but instead by real pasion. Maybe someone in the real world will actually be able to love someone like me. I sure as hell haven't met anyone who'd be willing to do that--love me--yet. Someday I won't have to deal with not-so-silent judgement and chastising. Someday, maybe, I'll be able to just walk away from "middle-school-mean." Until then, though, I'll just sit here with my eyes stinging (half from a torn contact lens, half from loneliness).

Post-post-prom Ponderings

So I'm not the most adept at this whole "Prom" thing. It's kind of sad... There's not much to "doing prom": standing still for pictures, smiling like a normal human being, and dancing somewhat gracefully. Oops. As much as I love dressing up and looking fancy, sometimes I'd just rather be hanging out in jeans, studded boots, and big shades. Nevertheless, prom ended up being a blast. My friends are the people who are last to leave the dance floor, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Last night got me thinking though--this is the beginning of the end. I will become a legal adult in five days. Childhood is officially behind me. I'm going to graduate in four weeks. I have to say goodbye to a school that has been my home for the last six years (that's a third of my life to date, for those of you who are keeping score at home). I'm leaving the country for university. Life as I know it is ending, and a new life is about to begin.

Here's the thing: I'm ready to go, but I'm not ready to leave. Does that make sense? Saying goodbye to all that is familiar, safe, and trusted is harder than I could ever have imagined. That first picture up above this post is of my circa-2008 friend group five years later. We all changed; we grew; we lost those braces and that baby fat; we found out who we were, but not without some bumps and bruises along the way.

I was going to say, "April just flew by." But that's not true; the past six years have just flown by.

I guess that just means I'll have to savor every moment to come that much more.

Om.