Tuesday, February 10, 2009
A Night to Remember
It was Friday, the second production night of the Merchant of Venice. It was towards the end of the second act, right before I went on for the last time. The trial scene of the play was a highly emotional time for the entire cast, and because of my character, I was unable to participate in this scene. I was always regretful that I couldn't be in a scene that demanded so much connection and emotionality from everyone. The last time I appeared was directly after the trial scene, in the very last part of the play. I played Lorenzo, and it was just me and Jessica on stage for several minutes, in which I was charged with communicating the most intense feelings of love for Jessica. This was always a challenge for me. The show had opened the night before and we had been rehearsing late every night that week. I was very tired, and I remember feeling glad that the show was almost over. It was in this mindset that I was preparing to go on stage; needless to say, this was a very bad way to be thinking in preparation for a scene. As my time grew near, I rethought the situation. I reconsidered how I was thinking, and decided that it was truly an honor to be part of something as wonderful and deeply engrossing as theater. I remember thinking that my love for Jessica had to be real, and I had tol apply myself to the emotions and feelings of this deep love. For the few minutes remaining, I thought about love, and thought about the people I love and the people Lorenzo loved. I purposely blurred the borders between my loved ones and Lorenzo's loved ones, so that when I finally went on stage, I was simply in love. I played the scene and even tried to convince the actress playing Jessica that I was in love with her, if only for a second. I have never felt so in touch with a scene, and I have never had so much fun on stage. This was the first time I experienced such connection with someone on stage, and I will continue to strive throughout my acting career to replicate this feeling every time I am on stage doing anything.
From Anonymous
Anonymous said...
Breathing in the cool night air, I gazed out into the distance beyond the moon-lit sand dunes that surrounded me. Exhaling slowly, I turned back to face the teenagers who were sitting with me. These four people were unlike any other teens I had ever met before. The time was nearing three in the morning, I was in the middle of the wild, it had been six months since I had been to school, and I was completely confused.In June of 2005 I was completely fed up with school. I found eighth grade be outrageously boring, exhausting, and un-original. But what frustrated me most of all was that I felt that much of what I was learning would never help me as an adult and a filmmaker. I was in desperate need of something new, something original, something different than anything I had ever done before. I decided to leave traditional school to try home schooling. Earlier that year, my family had heard about a wilderness program for kids who were home schooled. This program known as The Wilderness Awareness School met twice a week for eight hours a day out in the wild. I decided to take a big risk and try out the program. When I first arrived at the Wilderness Awareness School, I was very nervous. The program was so unlike anything that I had ever done before. My first few days at Wilderness Awareness School were more interesting than I ever could have imagined. The other teenagers in this program viewed life differently than anyone I had ever known. It was almost as if they were from a completely different culture. The people in this program changed the way I view life. Part of me felt like I didn’t belong in this program, but the other part loved every moment. In late October the Wilderness Awareness School took a trip to the Oregon Sand Dunes. It was on this trip that I spent an entire night discussing life with four other teens on the sand dunes, culminating in a moment of complete of confusion, regret, frustration, and joy. I regretted leaving traditional school, I missed all my friends I had made there and was feeling lonely. I very much enjoyed the new people I was with, but I was unsure what would happen after this year was over and that uncertainty scared me. Questions started to build up in my brain: What was my life leading up to? What was I going to do next year? I loved the people I had met through this wilderness program, but at the same time I felt out of place here. It was in this moment that I realized what I needed to do. I chose to return to the school I had been at originally. That is where I belonged.
Breathing in the cool night air, I gazed out into the distance beyond the moon-lit sand dunes that surrounded me. Exhaling slowly, I turned back to face the teenagers who were sitting with me. These four people were unlike any other teens I had ever met before. The time was nearing three in the morning, I was in the middle of the wild, it had been six months since I had been to school, and I was completely confused.In June of 2005 I was completely fed up with school. I found eighth grade be outrageously boring, exhausting, and un-original. But what frustrated me most of all was that I felt that much of what I was learning would never help me as an adult and a filmmaker. I was in desperate need of something new, something original, something different than anything I had ever done before. I decided to leave traditional school to try home schooling. Earlier that year, my family had heard about a wilderness program for kids who were home schooled. This program known as The Wilderness Awareness School met twice a week for eight hours a day out in the wild. I decided to take a big risk and try out the program. When I first arrived at the Wilderness Awareness School, I was very nervous. The program was so unlike anything that I had ever done before. My first few days at Wilderness Awareness School were more interesting than I ever could have imagined. The other teenagers in this program viewed life differently than anyone I had ever known. It was almost as if they were from a completely different culture. The people in this program changed the way I view life. Part of me felt like I didn’t belong in this program, but the other part loved every moment. In late October the Wilderness Awareness School took a trip to the Oregon Sand Dunes. It was on this trip that I spent an entire night discussing life with four other teens on the sand dunes, culminating in a moment of complete of confusion, regret, frustration, and joy. I regretted leaving traditional school, I missed all my friends I had made there and was feeling lonely. I very much enjoyed the new people I was with, but I was unsure what would happen after this year was over and that uncertainty scared me. Questions started to build up in my brain: What was my life leading up to? What was I going to do next year? I loved the people I had met through this wilderness program, but at the same time I felt out of place here. It was in this moment that I realized what I needed to do. I chose to return to the school I had been at originally. That is where I belonged.
A Moment
A double-decker bus lumbered through the rocky desert of central Chile. The bus passed through sleeping villages, and the sky flaunted its sidereal artwork across a dark canvas. I sat in the front seat of the top level of the bus, and my journal was cradled urgently in my lap. Most of the pages contained verbose, whimsical observations and lost threads of thought, extracted from my erratic imagination. The wide windows provided a perfect view of the labyrinthine map of constellations above me, and the stars were always my most trustworthy muse; yet I didn’t write about the sky or the country around me. I curled up in my chair, and I cried.
I had been looking forward to coming to Chile ever since I heard that my school would sponsor a trip for ten students and two teachers. I had wanted to go to South America since I learned my first word of Spanish. I spent my entire freshman year harassing my Spanish teacher for details, and I was the first student to sign up. Yet sitting in that seat, I had never felt unhappier.
My misery began on June 27th when we arrived at our first hotel in Santiago, Chile. Three of the girls raced to pick their own room; I shared a room with the remaining two girls from our group. We tried to get to know each other, but eventually the only chatter in the room rattled out of the cheap TV. I heard rowdy laughter through the thin walls. I knew that I could leave my dank, fusty room; I could knock on the other girls’ door; and I could enter their secret-laden world. I flipped to the next page in my journal instead, and I began a new paragraph about loneliness.
The teachers let us find our own dinner that night. I joined a motley mix of kids; we didn’t know each other at all. Since nobody had any ideas for dinner, we wandered through bleak strip malls for most of the evening. We shuffled past countless, matching stores as they completed their nightly closing-time routines. When we drifted back to the hotel, with no food in our stomachs, I saw the three tight-knit girls talking and laughing in the lobby; the contrast between their dinner experience and mine was razor-sharp and painful. I dragged myself upstairs to my room, and I fell asleep in an onerous silence.
I glanced back at the seats where these girls slept in peace; I wished that I had said something to them that first night. Ever since, I had to wordlessly listen to them gush about the same movies and music that I adored. However, even when I heard one girl mention that she loved the Blue Scholars – my favorite band – I didn’t have the courage to talk to her.
I turned on the weak reading light in the bus, and I brought my attention back to the crowded journal in my lap. I had written accounts of everything our group did, and a detailed report of every emotion that I experienced. Every quieted opinion and angst-ridden question had raged through my pen onto the patient page. I lifted the book closer to the pallid light, and I wrote: Always I feel that I am boring; the sense is all-consuming, and my loneliness is ever-present.
Throughout elementary school and middle school, I had a close group of friends, and I hadn’t needed to extend my social comfort zone; I was a confident and outgoing girl. Freshman year, however, my best friends embraced the bigger social circle of high school, and they bonded with older students. Girls that I had seen every weekend began to cancel plans with me in order to hang out with seniors instead. I began to doubt every joke or comment that came to me when I was with my friends, and I constantly tried to keep them entertained. I was sure that whenever I was with my girlfriends, they were thinking about where they would rather be.
I twisted to look out of the steamed side-window. I smeared my hand across the glass, and I watched the dark roadside. I was in the country of my dreams, but I had spent my time in hotel rooms while the other kids in my group explored the city. A billboard appeared along the road ahead of us. I automatically began to translate the foreign words; I loved Spanish, and my translation games had become a safety blanket for me in Chile. As the billboard receded behind the bus, as I worked on the ad’s new vocabulary, I realized that I was here. I was in South America. I had waited my whole life to be on this bus, in this moment.
I sat up in my seat, and I opened my journal again.
Late at night, alone in the front of that double-decker bus, I swore that I would enjoy myself. I promised my journal that I would focus on my own experience instead of focusing on the opinions of others. Even if the rest of the group had a terrible time, I would snap pictures, take notes, and saturate myself with Chile.
I fell back into my chair, and I breathed easily for the first time since boarding the bus. I refused to glance back at the girls, and I spent the rest of the ride enjoying the stars.
The next night, I asked the three girls if I could have dinner with them for the first time, and they agreed. We ate in a dark, empty restaurant. I didn’t notice that the food was bland, and I didn’t care about the off-tasting soda served to me. I returned to my hotel room with a stomach-ache and an ecstatic heart. I still shared a room with the other two girls on the trip, whom I did not get along with well, but that night I didn’t care. I had new adventures for my journal.
In the morning, our group began to drive to our next destination, Pisco Elqui. On the way, I finally told one of the girls – my fellow Blue Scholars fan – that I also loved the band, and we spent the rest of the car ride listening to music together.
Pisco Elqui sat wedged between two arid, steep hillsides, yet sunny, paradisal flowers surrounded our small, adobe-style cabins. As the teachers negotiated with the cabins’ owner, I heard the words that I had been hoping for:
“Hey, Katie, you should come share our room!” I smiled, and I rushed to the three girls’ cabin to claim a bed.
After everyone retired to his or her respective cabins, the three girls and I snuck out. We tiptoed through the slumbering, tropical gardens toward the covered pool. We sat in four canvas lounge-chairs, and we moon-bathed in the unusually warm, night air. Every planet and star marched past for our approval, and we tallied how many shooting stars we caught. After some time looking upward, we faced each other, and we began to speak. The star-freckled sky stripped us of our guards, and we began to share our lives, our troubles, and our secrets. I was honest; I was outspoken; I was daring; and I was myself for the first time in months.
The final entry in my trip journal reads:
I feel like we are truly, finally honest with each other – a real family. I am more alive with these people than I am at home, and I hope that in Seattle I’ll be different – more willing to seek life. I know that the more fun I have had, the less details I have written, but I hope that this journal caught some of who I am; what I saw; and how I felt. I had an amazing time laughing, stargazing, joking, crying, and ultimately changing. I hope that someday I can read this, and I can remember who I was from June 27th – July 20th, 2006.
I had been looking forward to coming to Chile ever since I heard that my school would sponsor a trip for ten students and two teachers. I had wanted to go to South America since I learned my first word of Spanish. I spent my entire freshman year harassing my Spanish teacher for details, and I was the first student to sign up. Yet sitting in that seat, I had never felt unhappier.
My misery began on June 27th when we arrived at our first hotel in Santiago, Chile. Three of the girls raced to pick their own room; I shared a room with the remaining two girls from our group. We tried to get to know each other, but eventually the only chatter in the room rattled out of the cheap TV. I heard rowdy laughter through the thin walls. I knew that I could leave my dank, fusty room; I could knock on the other girls’ door; and I could enter their secret-laden world. I flipped to the next page in my journal instead, and I began a new paragraph about loneliness.
The teachers let us find our own dinner that night. I joined a motley mix of kids; we didn’t know each other at all. Since nobody had any ideas for dinner, we wandered through bleak strip malls for most of the evening. We shuffled past countless, matching stores as they completed their nightly closing-time routines. When we drifted back to the hotel, with no food in our stomachs, I saw the three tight-knit girls talking and laughing in the lobby; the contrast between their dinner experience and mine was razor-sharp and painful. I dragged myself upstairs to my room, and I fell asleep in an onerous silence.
I glanced back at the seats where these girls slept in peace; I wished that I had said something to them that first night. Ever since, I had to wordlessly listen to them gush about the same movies and music that I adored. However, even when I heard one girl mention that she loved the Blue Scholars – my favorite band – I didn’t have the courage to talk to her.
I turned on the weak reading light in the bus, and I brought my attention back to the crowded journal in my lap. I had written accounts of everything our group did, and a detailed report of every emotion that I experienced. Every quieted opinion and angst-ridden question had raged through my pen onto the patient page. I lifted the book closer to the pallid light, and I wrote: Always I feel that I am boring; the sense is all-consuming, and my loneliness is ever-present.
Throughout elementary school and middle school, I had a close group of friends, and I hadn’t needed to extend my social comfort zone; I was a confident and outgoing girl. Freshman year, however, my best friends embraced the bigger social circle of high school, and they bonded with older students. Girls that I had seen every weekend began to cancel plans with me in order to hang out with seniors instead. I began to doubt every joke or comment that came to me when I was with my friends, and I constantly tried to keep them entertained. I was sure that whenever I was with my girlfriends, they were thinking about where they would rather be.
I twisted to look out of the steamed side-window. I smeared my hand across the glass, and I watched the dark roadside. I was in the country of my dreams, but I had spent my time in hotel rooms while the other kids in my group explored the city. A billboard appeared along the road ahead of us. I automatically began to translate the foreign words; I loved Spanish, and my translation games had become a safety blanket for me in Chile. As the billboard receded behind the bus, as I worked on the ad’s new vocabulary, I realized that I was here. I was in South America. I had waited my whole life to be on this bus, in this moment.
I sat up in my seat, and I opened my journal again.
Late at night, alone in the front of that double-decker bus, I swore that I would enjoy myself. I promised my journal that I would focus on my own experience instead of focusing on the opinions of others. Even if the rest of the group had a terrible time, I would snap pictures, take notes, and saturate myself with Chile.
I fell back into my chair, and I breathed easily for the first time since boarding the bus. I refused to glance back at the girls, and I spent the rest of the ride enjoying the stars.
The next night, I asked the three girls if I could have dinner with them for the first time, and they agreed. We ate in a dark, empty restaurant. I didn’t notice that the food was bland, and I didn’t care about the off-tasting soda served to me. I returned to my hotel room with a stomach-ache and an ecstatic heart. I still shared a room with the other two girls on the trip, whom I did not get along with well, but that night I didn’t care. I had new adventures for my journal.
In the morning, our group began to drive to our next destination, Pisco Elqui. On the way, I finally told one of the girls – my fellow Blue Scholars fan – that I also loved the band, and we spent the rest of the car ride listening to music together.
Pisco Elqui sat wedged between two arid, steep hillsides, yet sunny, paradisal flowers surrounded our small, adobe-style cabins. As the teachers negotiated with the cabins’ owner, I heard the words that I had been hoping for:
“Hey, Katie, you should come share our room!” I smiled, and I rushed to the three girls’ cabin to claim a bed.
After everyone retired to his or her respective cabins, the three girls and I snuck out. We tiptoed through the slumbering, tropical gardens toward the covered pool. We sat in four canvas lounge-chairs, and we moon-bathed in the unusually warm, night air. Every planet and star marched past for our approval, and we tallied how many shooting stars we caught. After some time looking upward, we faced each other, and we began to speak. The star-freckled sky stripped us of our guards, and we began to share our lives, our troubles, and our secrets. I was honest; I was outspoken; I was daring; and I was myself for the first time in months.
The final entry in my trip journal reads:
I feel like we are truly, finally honest with each other – a real family. I am more alive with these people than I am at home, and I hope that in Seattle I’ll be different – more willing to seek life. I know that the more fun I have had, the less details I have written, but I hope that this journal caught some of who I am; what I saw; and how I felt. I had an amazing time laughing, stargazing, joking, crying, and ultimately changing. I hope that someday I can read this, and I can remember who I was from June 27th – July 20th, 2006.
All of my life during the summer for as long I can remember I spent the summer at the theater camp Stagedoor Manor. Not as a camper though but just visiting due to the fact that my dad went there as a kid. I had always been interested in theater and always loved the idea of doing shows but had never perused these dreams. During the summer of 2002 one of my dad’s best friends, Michael Larsen, was directing there just like he had done for numerous summers before. This summer was special though because it was the summer I decided that theater was the thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Michael was directing the musical Little Me, I had been watching him direct it for about 1 week by the time I said, "Hey Michael, I have an idea!" He listened to my numerous ideas as my dad sat beside me obviously embarrassed because I would stop talking. After I was done with my many ideas Michael turned to my dad and said, "Your son has a knack for theater." For the next two weeks I sat by Michael feeding him ideas until i was blue in the face. At the end of the three week session it was time to go home, but with me i brought something back that I didn’t arrive with... the love for theater. In 2004 I was old enough to go back as a camper this time and ever since then I have continued to go and I plan to till I’m 18 and its time to go to college. The moment I left Stagedoor Manor in the summer of 2002 I began to eat, sleep, and live theater listening to every Broadway album I could get my hands on. That summer was the summer that changed my life because it was the time when I realized what I wanted to do for the rest of my life... theater.
Transformational Moment
I used to try new things; I knew what I liked and didn’t like, and I was satisfied with my life. About two years ago, however, my friend and I decided to make lists of the 100 things that we wanted to do before we died – a “bucket list,” if you will. Judy and I sat in her Vashon home, drank peach tea while wrapped in her warmest fleece blankets and big fuzzy socks, and we began to brainstorm. We thought through our lives, and what we wanted to accomplish. My goals were all ambitious, while Judy’s were more domestic. At the time, Judy was 51 and in the middle of the adoption process – her goals were for her daughter-to-be and for a home and a family. My goals were more thrilling: I want to climb mountains, eat new foods, have different jobs, and experience other worlds. My list totaled out to about 60 goals, big and small.
After I wrote my list, my life changed. I began living my life by my list. I began to try new things constantly. I went sailing. I tried sushi. I laid out for a disc in Ultimate Frisbee and caught it. I began to try things that weren’t even on the list, just because I loved the thrill of trying new things. I ran for School President, and I won. I went to the film location of the Goonies, took a road trip with my girlfriends, and I had the perfect birthday party. I spoke at a rally. I acted in the school play, I had a New Years kiss, and for the first time, I kissed in the rain. I even went to a monster truck rally.
My list has grown to define me; trying new things makes me truly happy because I feel like I’m living my life to the fullest extent possible. My friends have joined me in my adventures, and our friendships have grown as we’ve had more adventures away from the television and the computer.
A year after we made our lists, we met up again to see how far we’d come. Judy and I had both completed at least 7 of our goals. I still have a long way to go, but my list drives me to take risks, to push myself to have adventures.
This spring, I'm going skydiving.
After I wrote my list, my life changed. I began living my life by my list. I began to try new things constantly. I went sailing. I tried sushi. I laid out for a disc in Ultimate Frisbee and caught it. I began to try things that weren’t even on the list, just because I loved the thrill of trying new things. I ran for School President, and I won. I went to the film location of the Goonies, took a road trip with my girlfriends, and I had the perfect birthday party. I spoke at a rally. I acted in the school play, I had a New Years kiss, and for the first time, I kissed in the rain. I even went to a monster truck rally.
My list has grown to define me; trying new things makes me truly happy because I feel like I’m living my life to the fullest extent possible. My friends have joined me in my adventures, and our friendships have grown as we’ve had more adventures away from the television and the computer.
A year after we made our lists, we met up again to see how far we’d come. Judy and I had both completed at least 7 of our goals. I still have a long way to go, but my list drives me to take risks, to push myself to have adventures.
This spring, I'm going skydiving.
Moment of Transcendence
It was Friday, the second production night of the Merchant of Venice. It was towards the end of the second act, right before I went on for the last time. The trial scene of the play was a highly emotional time for the entire cast, and because of my character, I was unable to participate in this scene. I was always regretful that I couldn't be in a scene that demanded so much connection and emotionality from everyone. The last time I appeared was directly after the trial scene, in the very last part of the play. I played Lorenzo, and it was just me and Jessica on stage for several minutes, in which I was charged with communicating the most intense feelings of love for Jessica. This was always a challenge for me. The show had opened the night before and we had been rehearsing late every night that week. I was very tired, and I remember feeling glad that the show was almost over. It was in this mindset that I was preparing to go on stage; needless to say, this was a very bad way to be thinking in preparation for a scene. As my time grew near, I rethought the situation. I reconsidered how I was thinking, and decided that it was truly an honor to be part of something as wonderful and deeply engrossing as theater. I remember thinking that my love for Jessica had to be real, and I had tol apply myself to the emotions and feelings of this deep love. For the few minutes remaining, I thought about love, and thought about the people I love and the people Lorenzo loved. I purposely blurred the borders between my loved ones and Lorenzo's loved ones, so that when I finally went on stage, I was simply in love. I played the scene and even tried to convince the actress playing Jessica that I was in love with her, if only for a second. I have never felt so in touch with a scene, and I have never had so much fun on stage. This was the first time I experienced such connection with someone on stage, and I will continue to strive throughout my acting career to replicate this feeling every time I am on stage doing anything.
Monday, February 2, 2009
POSTING TO THIS SITE
WE WANT YOUR STORIES OF PERSONAL TRANSFORMATION. THE MORE DETAIL INVOLVED THE BETTER. GIVE US A SENSE OF YOUR CULTURE, YOUR FRIENDS, YOUR LOVES, AND CHALLENGES.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
