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Girl on Fire

Did you miss me?

I missed you! Apologies for completely dropping off the face of the earth--graduation brought on a whirlwind of new adventures... Sometimes you have to step away from the keyboard and live life a little in order to have anything to write about.

I've been quite the busy lady. I work 40 hours a week opening at the Café. I am the Production Management Intern at a theatre company in Boston. I've started my own small theatre company.

You could say I stay active. 

And I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm not quite sure how to explain it without sounding too lame...  I feel as if my insides were made of embers. And every now and then, something or someone pours or spills lighter fluid everywhere and I find myself engulfed in an impassioned flame of propulsion. 

I love being aflame. I feel like I'm running at a thousand miles an hour, dragging a stream of light behind me. It's the way I built to be--impassioned. I love working on what I love. And when I'm inspired, nothing could dream of stopping me.

I got a tattoo since we last talked. I've been planning on getting this done for more than a year now; I have the very phrase taped inside the front cover of my moleskine. I knew exactly what I wanted and how I wanted it to look and I was lucky enough to have a tattoo artist who simply scanned my scrap of paper into the computer and made it a part of me.

"Riveder le stelle."

"To see once more the stars." These are the last three words from Dante's (no, not Dan Brown's) Inferno. When the narrator/Dante and Virgil come up from the fire and brimstone of Hell itself, they look up, take a breath, and see again the stars. 

It's meaningful for a plethora of reasons.

1. I love Italian culture. In many ways, I believe that my Rome trip taught me how to live when I most needed it.
2. I love poetry. Especially Inferno. And it only gets better when you realize that T.S. Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (my all-time favorite poem) was heavily inspired by Dante. 
3. It's the last three words of Inferno--they provide closure. At the same time, there is still more to come from La Commedia--just like there's more to come from my life. 
4. Furthermore, if Dante has withstood almost 700 years' worth of time's famed test, I believe he can definitely withstand a lifetime on my wrist without growing irrelevant. 
5. It's my own handwriting, which I believe is deeply characteristic of who I am, unfinished "S" and all.
6. It's on my left wrist, over where you'd feel my pulse, and near the most battered section of my skin.
7. It's positioned so that I can read it. It's a reminder: when Hell is burning me from all sides or even when I find myself consumed in the fire of my own fragile body, I need to take time to remember that I will see once more the stars. 

Sometimes I feel like the world is burning me and I'm stuck roasting on the spit. And sometimes I'm propelled by the fire that is constantly sizzling right behind my sternum. Either way, fire is intextricably intertwined with the way in which I interpret my life. 

This fire is driving my CoffeeSpoons Theatre Project (I'll post on that soon). It drives my almost-ceaseless Café cheer. It keeps me smiling at my internship, even when I'm doing heavy, thankless labor for unpaid hours on end.

I'll keep clicking the lighter as long as I can, and I hope that this flame won't burn out. 

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.

Sunny days and gentle waves

I'm sitting by the banks of the Charles, soaking in some sunlight, sipping an iced Americano, and taking a moment to breathe. 

Note to self: find more time to stroll down Pleasant St (literal and figurative) and feel the tree trunks swaying in the breeze. 

This is a short post, but don't underestimate its importance. It's easy to forget, but be sure to make some time to sit and think.