determination · tenacity · vision

What Would Hitler Do?

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I heard a friend ask this last week, trying to indicate how
we can choose to behave in the world—e.g. if we’re driving on the highway, and
someone cuts us off… well, What Would Hitler Do?
His point was that we can choose to align our negative thinking with that Master of Disaster and flip them off, seek vengeance, and our own kind of selfish order; or we can choose to go another
way with it, a way more forgiving, generous, loving.
Last weekend, I saw The Monuments Men, a movie about a group of Allies who endeavor to
save the art that Hitler and the Nazis were ransacking from all around Europe,
and intended to destroy if he was unsuccessful in his global domination.
He and his troops acquired and housed hundreds of thousands
of sculptures, paintings and artifacts—at least according to the film. All
diligently organized, categorized, catalogued, and stored.
And here’s what I’ve been thinking about, at the risk of
stepping into a hornet’s nest:
All human achievement rests on the ability to bring about
our will and our plans onto the earthly plane.
Let us for a moment, if you’re able, think about the
achievement of this one man: he rallied a country in the midst of an economic
collapse; he held one vision as the goal for his endeavors; he organized one of
the highest levels of precision of action over a grand piece of land and over a
series of years.
There is a saying about folks like me, that though we had
self-will galore, we had the utter inability to point it toward a worthy goal.
And, I think the same is true for Hitler.
The man was organized.
The man had vision. The man
attempted to wrest out of the chaos of the world the kind of order he deemed
positive.
IF this same man had been guided by the principles of
forgiveness, generosity, and love… what on earth could he have accomplished?
If you can conceive of a Germany that pulled itself out of
economic collapse by organizing itself around principles of helping one
another, creating opportunity for all their people, celebrating inclusion of
people of all religions and sexual orientations and ancestral background…
If, instead of the destruction of people, Hitler’s same
brain and ambition were aimed toward the Jewish value of “tikkun olam” (to
repair the world)—What on earth could have happened??
I get that I may sound daft, offensive, and totally
inconsiderate of the crimes and atrocities that were in actuality wrought upon
the world.
But, I also think there’s a huge lesson to be missed if we
dismiss the fact that one man, one man who ate, and shat, and slept just like
all of the rest of us, changed the entire world. Here was a simple and flawed
human, just like us, who woke up every day with one goal in mind. It was a
horrid goal, I concur and admit and agree and support. But, each day, Hitler
decided that what he wanted to do in the world was the very best thing, and he
didn’t let ANYTHING deter him from that. He continued on, like a (rabid) dog
with a bone, and said, No, World, I’m going to do what I believe I was put on
this earth to do.
That kind of certainty, if aimed toward the “right”
objectives…? It boggles the mind.
Now, the important thing to remember, here, is the “right”
objectives. The proper use of the will, as they might say. I wonder if Hitler
had ever sat in meditation and tried to understand what the highest good was
for him and those around him, if he would have had a different goal. I wonder
if Hitler had tried to exercise, even ungracefully, the qualities of compassion
and vulnerability, if he would have sought a different aim. I also wonder,
if he had, if he would achieved anything at all.
But, then again, there are plenty of examples of compassion
leading the way toward change.
If instead, with his proficient, tenacious,
resourceful, determined, magnanimous personality, Hilter had had the heart of a Mother Theresa, a
Ghandi, or even a Jesus, I believe we would have a much different answer to the question,
What Would Hitler Do?

beauty · love · poetry · writing

Grandfather/advised me:/Learn a trade/I learned/to sit at desk/and condense/No layoff/from this/condensery ~ Niedecker

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For reasons unknown, I reached for the book of “Modern
Poetry” that I bought for a class during my undergrad days. It lines my shelf with the
Norton Anthology of Poetry by Women, one by Langston Hughes, and even a book on
Greek Mythology that I haven’t wanted to part with in the 10 (jeez, can’t
believe it’s been such a short time!) years since undergrad.
Maybe part of this memory-lane path was struck by my friend’s
photo on Facebook of an abandoned shopping cart in New Brunswick, New Jersey,
where I spent my undergrad years. Maybe I just wanted to read some poetry this
morning.
It was interesting to me in grad school, one of the teachers
asked us, poets all, if we had any books of poetry at home. My shelves, besides
those few relic anthologies I rarely look at, pretty much housed some novels and a bunch
of “spiritual” books.
I kept a few of the mandatory books we were required to
purchase during those two years at Mills, and even found myself going to the
poetry section of the bookstore once, purchasing from titles alone, Mary Karr’s
Sinners Welcome and one with this lovely
title:
            If
there is something to desire,/
            There
will be something to regret./
            If
there is something to regret,/
            There
will be something to recall./
            If
there is something to recall,/
            There
was nothing to regret./
            If
there was nothing to regret,/
            There
was nothing to desire.
by Vera Pavlova.
Tell me that’s not a great title! And message.
Poetry is a strange thing to “read.” There are some books you want to read page after page, because it does read like a novel, and you
are impelled forward through the pages of the “story,” the landscape.
But, much of poetry insists that you sit with each piece,
each page for longer than 30 seconds.
Much of poetry, in my own limited estimation, calls you to
allow the words to melt like a fine piece of dark chocolate. You sense the
bitterness, the sweetness, the texture, the mouth-feel. You turn it over and
under your tongue, attempting to pry all the secrets out of this square bit of
matter before it is gone. And afterward, you notice around inside your mouth
where the taste remains, what it reminds you of. If you “liked” it.
Poetry is like that.
A marathon, not a sprint. An 8-course meal, not fast food.
Here is a piece from Pavlova’s book I shall choose at
random, because I actually haven’t read the book, though I bought it two years
ago – because poetry requires that time, and most times, us modern folk won’t
allow it. So, here’s to taking a moment to savor the delicacy of language:
Eternalize me just
a bit:
            take
some snow and sculpt me in it,
            with
your warm and bare palm
            polish
me until I shine…

aspiration · authenticity · theater · vulnerability · writing

"With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility." ~ Stan Lee or Voltaire?

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I recently had this text exchange with a friend of mine:
You know, whenever you in particular “like” something I’ve
written, it makes me think that I have something worthy to say and a good way
of saying it. – This scares the crap out of me. – Knock it off.
“Both those things are true! And isn’t that kind of fear
thrilling?”
*thrilling*
I hoped the sarcasm carried through text.
Last night, I spoke to a group of gathered women, sharing
with them my experience, strength, and hope for a little while.
Afterward, the feedback included sentiments like, “That was
beautiful, eloquent, articulate. It was like a short story. You speak like a
writer. That was like a TED Talk.”
Little do they, or you, know, that a tiny little shoot of a
dream tucked inside my ambitious heart is to be a TED talk person – on what, ver vaist, but I suppose that’s not my business yet.
This Sunday, I’m scheduled to attend a small writer’s group
that’s just beginning, friends and friends of friends. It’s supposed to be supportive,
just evoking some words onto a page, doesn’t have to be Faulkner. But one
suggestion is to bring some writing we’re working on.
And, my brain says, I don’t write.
Here’s what I say when people ask me if I’m writing: Well, I
do this blog, but other than that, I’m focusing on theater right now.
I don’t really write.
I know this blog is something. And I know that it’s worthy
of being written for me and for those of you that enjoy it. I (sometimes) know it’s not a
“brush-away” thing, but it’s private, still, sort of. It’s not a public venue,
really; it’s not something to read at a writer’s circle, or submit to a
magazine or journal. And I feel really unclear about what kind of venue this, my, kind of writing belongs in.
I do also know that I am focusing on theater right now. To
use the metaphor again of my internal round table (well, it’s rectangular, but
you catch my drift), all of them/us want to act right now, and only
half-heartedly do they/we want to write, in a professional capacity.
I know one of the detractors is fear. And that’s alright, I
don’t have to tackle all my demons or desires at once.
A friend once told me this: The only difference between fear
and excitement is breathing.
That kind of fear, the fear that I might have something
worthwhile to say and share and give. Something people want to read and be
touched and changed by. Something that gets underneath the armor of separation,
and helps us all to feel a little more vulnerable, aware, to smile & laugh & relate. Yeah, the
fear of that kind of power, and responsibility, is pretty big.
So, I guess I’ll just keep breathing. 

aspiration · dreams · faith · perseverance · theater · trying

Voice of Dreams Past

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When I left South Korea in February 2004, my neighbor and
Canadian co-worker gave me a journal as a parting gift. I didn’t realize til
later on the plane back to America that he’d written inside, “Good Luck on
Broadway.”
I just searched my blog to see if I’d written about this
segment of my life earlier, and I have, but it’s worth revisiting today.
When I left my ESL teaching post in Korea, my first “real”
job post-undergrad, I had the idea I would come back to the States and “break
onto Broadway,” that I would work my way through the underworld of New York,
the clichéd waitress by day, actor by night.
As I was applying for jobs, I went to get my nails
done—because surely that’s a priority to someone looking for food service
work…? I was in the salon, and began to chat with the woman next to me. I
told her about where I’d been, where I thought I’d be going, and she said
something that infiltrated. To paraphrase: You know you have to start in
community theater, right? It takes years to do anything worthy of note. You don’t just
start at the top.
Her words, combined with a moment of clarity about my
ability to cope with life on life’s terms, led me to abandon my dream, drive
west, and set up a new life in California. You can read about that story here.
But.
Last night, I went to my first rehearsal for the new play
I’m in. It’s a staged mock-trial about the Rape of Nanking by the Japanese
during World War II. It’s not a Sam Shepard, or Shakespeare, or Kushner. It’s
not something I’ll actually advertise to my friends to come see, because I
believe there will be more plays, with better scripts and an actual plot that I
will want to encourage you to see me in. But, it’s a start. And, as I wrote
earlier, I’m happy to be in your bad plays. And really, I am.
But, this thing happened while I was waiting for my table-reading rehearsal to begin: I heard voices.
Specifically, I heard a woman, probably a young woman, as
the rehearsals are at SF State, singing operatically, and there was a chorus
behind her. When I heard it, I stopped short, and followed the sound.
I stood on one side of a wall, the theater on the other. It must have been the scenery shop,
with spray-painted borders on the walls and floors, immense pieces of mirror
and wood. The sort of haphazard array of items you think of in any work-shop. I
stood there, and I listened to them sing. To the accompanying pianist, the voice
of the director, telling them something I couldn’t quite hear. She lit up the
whole place, this disembodied voice.
And I remembered that part of this whole thing for me. That
part of the motivation, that part of the dream.
Because, as you may have (or maybe I should have) gathered by now, this theater thing
and this singing thing are related.
I do know enough to know that what that woman in the nail
shop said was correct. That it does take years. But what my 24-year old self
wasn’t able or willing or balanced enough to say was, So what? Yeah, And?
That’s what I’m doing here, lady—I’m beginning.
I could look around the room at the director and my fellow
actors and report that they’re all 10 years younger than me.
I could stand in that hallway listening to the voice of my
own aspiration and wail I should have studied theater in undergrad.
I could comb through my neglected childhood,
and poke a finger into the wound of not being encouraged to pursue my talent
and my dreams.
But, Julia Cameron wrote something very significant to her
naysayers (internal and external) in The Artist’s Way when she began learning to play the piano in her
50s.
“Do you know how old you’ll be by the time you actually get
proficient at this thing?”
Yes, the same age I’d be if I didn’t.
I saw my friend Matt onstage last week. He’s been working in
the theater industry since his 20s, went to school for it. He’s 50 now. He’s not famous. It’s his first SF play. But he’s
working. Always working. And he loves it.
And isn’t that the damned point. 

dating · fallibility · growth · honesty · humaness · learning

The Longest Lesson

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There is a phrase around here that says something like,
“Life is day at school: Some of the lessons are easy, and some of the lessons
are hard.”
I went back into my email this morning to grab an old
“Oprah/Deepak” meditation (because even though the last 21-day meditation
“challenge” ended a while ago… the link still works!). The one this morning
centered on the thought, “I attract that which I am.”
Sometimes I love this idea. I feel full of love and
potential and vigor, and love that I am attracting that into my world and
orbit.
Today, however, I heard that phrase, and my guts steeled a
little. I attract that which I am.
This isn’t a tear-down of myself, but these few days, I’ve felt
scared, inexpert, impulsive and mistaken. – I sent the blog that said I don’t
want to “escalate” things with the 25 y.o. to the 25 y.o. … I wrote with it, There’s
probably a better and more graceful way to let you know why I have to cancel
Saturday’s date, but here.
And like pulling the pin on a grenade and handing it to him,
I pressed send.
You can imagine this brought about a series of results and
reactions, which I am now attempting to repair. Inexpertly. And perhaps unsuccessfully.
Yesterday morning, I did some writing about my motivations
for doing this and had a conversation sharing this with someone else. It’s part
of the reason I wasn’t able to write yesterday morning.
It feels sucky, is how it feels. It feels shitty to know
that there are different ways to do things, and know you did it otherwise.
I feel sad because I (rightly) pulled the cord on a
potential relationship, and I feel ashamed of how I did that.
It’s okay. I’m human and inexpert, and learning and growing
and trying.
But, that also means I’m attracting into my world people who
are the same – AND WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST BE FUCKING PERFECT?? Be kind, and honest, and simple all of the time? It would
make this “lesson” much easier, wouldn’t it?
Can’t we all just get A’s, and “go to the head of the
class,” and all be valedictorians?
Can’t we all just stop stubbing our toes against our own
fears and hardships and boogeymen?
Can’t we all just have lives where we feel confident,
expert, proud, self-admiring, and kick-ass?
Why, in order to get to all the above feelings, must we go
through all the stubbing first?
It sense no make.
And I’m tired of being a flailing human being. I’m tired of
doing it almost right, of showing up almost fully. I’m tired of almost feeling
whole and complete and awesome.
Sometimes, I do. I won’t lie. Sometimes, I really really do.
Sometimes it’s for minutes, sometimes for hours. And even a few times, for
days, I feel like I’m really walking on a yellow brick road toward Oz.
And then the trees start to throw apples at me.
I *get* that “this is all part of the process.” But
sometimes the process sucks.
And in my attempts to wriggle out of discomfort, I land in a
higher degree. By being dishonest, abandoning my truth, trying to make someone
else deal with feelings that are uncomfortable or pave a way for me that is
less rocky, well—I know it’s the very absolute best that, as fallible,
learning, human, I can do today. But I wish, well, I wish I didn’t take that
person and potential friendship down in the process.
(End of tantrum)
(…maybe.)

acceptance · change · community · love · trauma · truth

in.to.the.light.

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Over the past two weeks, I’ve had occasion to sit with two
friends who shared with me about trauma in their past, as well as reading an article by a
sexual abuse survivor about the upswing of the Dylan Farrow case.
A little less than a year ago, after I completed chemo, I started reading a book
about healing that kind of trauma. As you may remember/know, it’s my
understanding that disease can be a function of underlying emotional or
spiritual dis-ease, and after my bought with cancer, I was (and still am)
determined to do all I can to root out causes and dis-ease that may underlie
the causation of cancer. The book suggested that before you really begin, you collect your army of support
because the work would be intense. So, I sought out a somatic therapist, as the
book suggested, and saw her a few times. I wasn’t a good fit, and I soon
stopped seeing her, and soon stopped reading the book, maybe a chapter or two
in.
However, this morning, I was toodling around on my phone,
compulsively checking my email for the rehearsal schedule for the play in which
I’ve been cast(!), and I clicked on the “Notes” app I have on there, wondering
if there wasn’t some old “to do” list that may have good ideas for me.
Instead, I found a series of quotations from that book. A
series of words that struck me, applied to me, and offered me compassion,
understanding, and hope.
I … don’t really want to do this. Read that, re-read that.
Tell you here. But, my friends, it is all related. Don’t worry, I won’t get
specific here—it’s not appropriate, and not necessary—except to say my abuse
was not incest or young child abuse, but simply a series of events from a youngish age into my 20s when I didn’t
understand what No was, how to stop things, how to not
go along.
But, apparently, several things in my current life are
pointing me back at looking in that direction. And, from my own understanding
and cosmology, the “Universe” tends to bring things up when you’re ready to
deal with them. … And, if you don’t, you’ll be given occasion to deal with them
later, we promise.
One of the quotes in my app says something about moving out of
isolation into relationships. Va voy, if that’s not what I’ve been trying to do. And
here is a hiccup I didn’t see coming. A gentle nudge from the Universe saying,
Hey, there are these unresolved things. I know they’re hard, but you’re not
alone, and we’ve already pointed some support structures your way, if you want
to work on this now.
I may say, Fuck you. I don’t wanna.
I may call on the language I read once that said, Stop
Identifying With Your Trauma. Don’t use it as a shield and a sword to say, LOOK
SEE THERE’RE THESE FUCKED UP THINGS THAT HAPPENED, SO YOU CAN’T GET CLOSE TO
ME, AND I’M TOO SCARED TO GET CLOSE TO YOU—BACK! OFF!
I could call on that language and say, see, I need to not look at this, because then I’m just wallowing in my
past, instead of moving out of it.
See…. but the thing is. I haven’t wallowed. I’ve avoided.
Plague-like.
Partly because “it wasn’t that bad.” Partly because it’s
so damned fucking common. Heartbreakingly.
Partly because there have been other fish to fry.
And mostly because it’s really really hard.
I have some Louise Hay “Affirmation Cards” over my kitchen
sink, so I can look at them when I’m doing my despised dishes. The one that
calls to me about this reads, “All these changes are easy to make.” These
patterns are easy to heal and change. Maybe. Maybe this is easier than I fear.
The big boogey man with a flashlight projecting himself on the wall much larger
than he really is.
It’s happened before.
I know it’s a heavy thing to lay out to you here, but I also
know some of you are there, were there, get it, and are curious, like me, on how to go
through this stage of healing. As always, I write this for us.

change · faith · letting go · life · surrender

And now for something completely different!

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in the eventuality of time, there is a sacrifice that must
be made.
we are never sure what we must give up in order to move
forward,
but we come to a bridge with a toll and are demanded a pound
of
flesh in exchange for passage to the new place.
it is never clear if this new place is where we intend or
want to go but our anima will impel us forward along
the continuity of movement.
how many bridges we already traversed
does not factor into how many we must pass again. 
we may have already sacrificed pride
love
pain
fear
desire
isolation. and this bridge requires from us another token.
perhaps you feel like the knight in a monty python sketch,
quartered from limb and limb and limb, a torso now, you are
asked to divest even more from what you carry. perhaps though,
you are a lancelot, fueled and lifted, freed by all you’ve
been asked to dispense with, grateful for the chance to
expel another pebble from your shoe.
in the eventuality of time, we will all offer this sacrifice.
we must, because we are alive
and so, we do. 

adulthood · authenticity · choice · courage · sex

The Wrestler

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Do you ever notice how Jews tend to answer a question with a
question?
Why shouldn’t we answer with a question?
Call it the Jew in me, call it the Libra, call it the
overactive thinking machine tucked behind my eyeballs, but I question things a
lot. And repeatedly.
Little though I know about Judaism and even littler about
other religions, Jews are purported to “wrestle and grapple” with G-d. This is our purpose—not necessarily to obey a god, as perhaps some religions require,
but to wrestle, argue, question, mull, and ponder.
I have a date with the 25 y.o. on Saturday. We haven’t seen
one another since our “State of the Union” conversation last week when it was
decided that we don’t see a relationship happening, but we genuinely enjoy one
another’s company and also are very attracted to one another.
This led us to the conclusion that we won’t see one another
less, and be in the ambiguity of friends but not friends. Until one of us
doesn’t gel with the ambiguity anymore.
I think that one is me.
See, I sort of know this scenario: Now that we’ve agreed to
be more “casual,” that probably means sex, which we haven’t had yet. In my
experience, here’s how casual sex goes: You have good to great (and
occasionally lackluster and regretful) sex with someone a few times. Maybe
twice, maybe three times. And soon, since the investment isn’t really there,
the communication begins to wane, you text one another less and less, until
soon you don’t communicate at all, and sort of fall out of the orbit of one
another’s lives.
So, for me, in my own experience (and I know this isn’t
everyone’s), casual sex = the end of a potential friendship. It just does.
What I wrestle with right now, then, is how important is
that potential friendship to me? How important is this person in the mosaic of
my life? For now, not very, but as I said, we do have a lot to talk about and a
lot I’d like to continue to talk about – beyond all the theater intel I
want to glean.
So that’s not a very good measuring stick, then. Because
it’s ambiguous.
Let’s try another model I use to tease out information from
myself.
In meditation, I sometimes go to this long dining table in a
small house. It’s a large, wooden, old-time crafted, dark stained table with divets and
dents in it. A long-loved and -used table. Seated around this table are all the
disparate parts of myself I’ve been able to gather so far: the brain, the nymph, the baker, the child, the
sorrow, the jokester, the anger, love, vanity, warrior, healer, to name several.
So, I asked this gathered group: All in favor of sleeping
with the 25 y.o.?
Up go the hands of the nymph and the brain.
All in favor of not
sleeping with the 25 y.o.?
Up go the hands of every other entity at the table.
Hmmm. … Well, nymph, yes, of course, you lovely and talented
minx you. I expect as much, and that’s okay. You’re at the table because you’re
valued, and your vote has been heard.
Brain—I get it. He’s a wildly smart guy. The interest in
long and winding pillow talk; the desire to be in close contact and proximity
to someone who fires synapses you rarely use. I get it. I know you miss that
fuel.
But… everybody else
says we don’t want to do this.
So, still, this hasn’t been the clearest exercise in coming
to a conclusion.
Finally, I ask the big question: Which action supports my
highest good? 
And thus, it is clear to me, in this situation, to not sleep with
him. If we can forge a friendship, great, and if not, I tried.
Because as I reported, I had some pretty great casual sex
recently (well, a few months ago now)—with casual sex as my intention and feeling very good and happy with my
behavior and outcome. And, don’t get me wrong, when I can get it on the regular, please, I’m down. But otherwise, I’m okay without it. Sometimes I
miss it, the connection of two bodies. But I also had some disappointing casual
sex recently, and, well, not all sex is great.
I have previews that this sex could be great. I really think
it would be. And I know the vixen inside me is just mewling to get some
sexy-time on. To wield the tools and tricks we’ve learned, to sharpen them
against someone who is well-matched, to exude Level 10 sexuality that I keep to
a 4 (max) in regular life outside the bedroom.
I know it would be fun. But I know it doesn’t support my
highest good, and my highest goals for myself. It doesn’t undermine them, per
se, but it simply continues a pattern of behavior that isn’t the most
fulfilling—and I think what I’m saying is that I’d like to be fulfilled. And
therefore “filled” by someone where there is a mutual understanding of
continued partnership and exploration.
I also know that I have often and many times been involved
with folks and situations that my “dining table” wasn’t fully behind—and I’ve
felt that … loss? emptiness? disconnect. I know this road.
I am a wrestler. I grapple and wrestle and tease and shimmy
my way into and out of every eventuality. And though I have run the gamut of
“pros/cons,” my ultimate guide can only be my highest good. Even when it means
I miss a savory, delectable, oh-so-mouth-watering meal.

acting · clarity · commitment · consistency · dreams · growth · perseverance

Get Real.

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

Blogger lets you see what posts are being read, how many
times, and where in the world the reader is (HELLO! Those of you in Poland, Germany & Israel…whoever you are!). This morning, I saw that someone had read
“Pulling a Carmen,” my first blog-a-day in November of 2011. I haven’t stuck
with it daily, but fairly enough.

Amazingly, a) it’s the same things I talk about now (wanting
to act and perform; letting myself be in a relationship; owning my dreams), but
b) it also shows me where things have
changed: I have been a bass player in a
band – I certainly wasn’t in Winter of 2011 when I wrote that; I wasn’t until Spring of 2013.
In that blog, I write that my
relationship with others is reflected in my relationship with myself: how am I not committed to myself and my goals? And here I am present-day, whittling down my goals to only theater, finally. 
This week, I
wrote the lead singer in the band I play bass in that I can’t be in the band
anymore. It’s sad, but I know it’s ultimately for the best. It’s a pruning
game—like a bonsai. Or fichus. (cuz who doesn’t love the word fichus). And I
think it will ultimately help me in my attempts to focus on and even achieve
anything at theater.
I write about all the same things that I write about now,
but I do think I’m at a different place with them. I mean, I guess I write
about the same things all the time: relationships, healing, self-care,
self-derision, past experience, authenticity, perseverance.
Perseverance. I’ve written a bunch about that before, but
without one goal to head toward, the whole thing becomes dispersed, scattered,
and ineffectual.
Yesterday, I put down a deposit for real headshots.
The friends I’ve had who’ve helped me out over the years
produced incredible photos, artistic, fun, and fun to shoot—but they’re not
“acting headshots.” And there just is an industry standard. I’ve been trying to get the name of someone from an actor
friend of mine, but her voicemails are all garbled, and somehow it hasn’t been
working.
Enter Yelp. Yesterday after some searching and
clicking and emailing, I sent half of the $350 fee to this woman in Berkeley.
Later that day, I got emails back from my other inquiries,
friends, who would be willing to do a much reduced rate, or photos in exchange for
babysitting.
I cursed myself (mildly) for being so impetuous and
imprudent, for not being patient and thereby “wasting” money.
And then, I looked at these friends’ websites, and I said,
ya know, it’s worth it.
As Maybelline says, I’m worth it. (or is it clarol?)
Because, after hm, 3 years of headshots that I felt either
okay, or less than okay about (fine photos though they were), I’ve been being prudent and cutting corners and trying alternatives–It’s time to put
my money where my mouth is. And I mouth about being an actress.
Does this mean I’m suddenly an actress? No. Does it mean
that I’m taking myself seriously enough to invest in myself? Yes. Does it mean
that I can focus more on what I’m showing the auditors rather than what I’ve
handed them, or emailed them? YES.
Because it IS my calling card, my first impression. And if I
want to be a professional, I get professional help. If I want this to be real, then I get real.
I could look at that first blog and laugh/lament that I’m
talking and writing and working on the same damned things 3 years later. And a
little bit, I do. But I also recognize that big things have shifted since then,
too. I’m glad to have this kind of record to mark my progress. Even when
progress looks circuitous and labyrinthine.
The last line in that first blog is that maybe there’s a
tall attractive employed funny Jewboy who is looking for a
“writer/singer/actress…bass player.” At the time I wrote that, “bass player” was only a
vague hope and notion, a funny, last second, “doorknob comment” throw-away, because you shouldn’t really know that it’s important to me. Today, I get to own that mantle. I am a bass player. I
play bass, I’ve been in a band. And I am now hoping to own the mantle of
actress.
If you glue it, they will come. 

fate · god · grace · sobriety

BFGOG

Molly Daniels HayesLeave a comment

This’ll be a short one, due to time, and that I feel quite
drawn today (insert cartoon image of me—get it?).
I’ve been sitting with this phrase since last week, when two
work occasions brought it to mind: “But For the Grace of G-d, there go I.”
The 16-year old sister of a student got locked up in a 5150
last week, for mental and drug-related reasons.
An unstable woman my age sought to get all bases of her soul
covered by coming to my work before she gets sent away to jail.
It’s been 10 years, nearly 11, since I was in a padded room
or a barred cell.
But for the grace of god, there go I.
Call it grace, call it luck, call it divine intervention, call it none of these. I don’t know why, and I don’t test my chances. As best I can, I stay in
the middle of the boat, make phone calls, meditate, get outside help, and just continue to try, because there is a gossamer slip of distance between those
lives and my own.
Call it whatever you want, including random chance. Just
call me grateful.