On the lesson learned by finding a doctor on the Internet.

I starting seeing Dr. C a year ago when I moved to Chicago. He was the first doctor on my insurance's online list of providers in downtown Chicago. He went to Harvard and received strong reviews and many awards. The first time I went to see Dr. C, I was forced to confront my own, well, not racism and sexism exactly, but what I'd call racial and gender expectations. Upon my arrival, it didn't surprise me in the least that the curvy, black woman working the front desk was, well, a curvy, black woman. It wasn't until an elderly, black Dr. C came into the waiting area that I noticed quite suddenly that I was the by far the youngest and the only white woman in waiting room which was adorned with paintings of black mothers and children. It was the tiniest of reactions, a small surprise, a reversal of a subconscious expectation I didn't know I had.

When I think of the word "doctor," a middle-aged white man in a lab coat and plaid pants comes to mind, even though surely throughout my life I've had male and female doctors of different races. My subconscious has little more imagination than a 1950's children's book about careers (which is strange, since knitter/fake patient/nanny/actress was never featured in such a book.) Understand, I don't care what race my doctor is, but I didn't expect my doctor to be black. I noticed it. So what does an experience like this mean? In Dr. C's office ( and in many neighborhoods in the still very segregated Chicago), my age and race place me in the minority. I imagine when Dr. C started practicing medicine years ago many white women would not be treated by a black gynecologist, Harvard degree or no Harvard degree.  As the years have gone on, his patients have aged with him, except for those of us new ones who wander in confusedly off the street because we found his name on the Internet.

While I could list all the reasons why I'm not racist to make myself feel better, it seems more productive to admit I found an inadvertent flaw in my social constructions of race. We shouldn't be afraid to start a dialogue with ourselves about our racial expectations or biases. How else can we confront, challenge and seek to change them? It is 2012 and this country has not only elected, but reelected Barack Obama as president.  When I think of the word "president," I see a black man in my mind's eye.  But I've never met Barack Obama. I do meet doctors, teachers, engineers, artists, scientists, lawyers, human resources managers,* business owners and psychologists. And these people are not all white or men. They do not default to white or young or male or straight, for that matter. 

When my daughter thinks of the word "president," I hope she can see a woman's face. I'd also like her not be surprised when her doctor is elderly, a woman, black, Hispanic, or gay. She'll learn that from me, that's a promise. 

*For the record, thanks to Miss Tina Le, HR managers will always be Vietnamese in my mind.

Emma's Tardis Mitts

Not to get all sentimental on ya'll, but this is my 50th post! Wooooo! Something special is occuring. I made these Dr. Who Tardis mitts for my boyfriend's lovely and talented daughter, Emma, who is a super fan of the show. I wasn't wild about any of the patterns that already existed for Tardis mitts because many of them lacked a thumb gusset, so I made my own pattern!

MATERIALS

Any 3 skeins of a DK or light worsted weight yarn in blue, black and white.
Mine use: Blue Primarily Speaking Merino Wool, Black Blue Sky Melange, and White Malabrigo Rios.
Size 4 DPN
Size 6 DPN
Stitch markers
Tapestry needle

The yarn. 1/3 from stash.

INSTRUCTIONS

PM: Place marker
K: Knit
P: Purl
M1: Make one stitch by knitting into the front and back of the stitch.

In blue and smaller (size 4) needles, cast-on 45 stitches using the long tail cast-on method. Place 15 stitches on each of three DPNs. Join in round, being careful not to twist sts.

Work for 2 inches in K2, P1 ribbing.

Round 1-4: Switch to larger needles (size 6). Continuing in blue, knit 4 rows in stockinette.

Round 5, 6: Holding 2 strands together if you are using sport weight Melange, K 2 rows in black

Round 7-8: Knit 2 rows in blue.

Round 9: Begin thumb gusset as follows...

• Needle 1: K2, M1 by knitting in the front and back of the stitch, PM, K to end
• Needle 2: Knit all.
• Needle 3: K to 3 stitches to end, PM, M1, K2

Round 10: Knit all stitches.

Round 11: K to 1 stitch before marker, M1, K around to next marker, slide marker, M1, K to end.

Round 12: Knit all stitches.

REPEAT rounds 11 and 12 three more times so that you have a total of 55 stitches.

On the final repeat of round 4, knit to marker, remove marker, K2 and then cast off 12 stitches, K2, remove marker and continue knitting Round 19, being sure to pull the yarn tightly when you come around to join both sides. (42 stitches)

Round 19: Knit

Round 20: Knit in black.

Round 21-25: Work chart (see below) by K2, then beginning with the E. My version is K2 POLICE K5 BOX K6.

Round 26: Knit in black.

Round 27-29: Knit 3 rows in K2, P1 ribbing in blue.

Cast off!

*I used the chart for the letters from Sarah's rad pattern on her blog. CLICK HERE TO USE CHART.

I embroidered the windows on the top side of the gloves using a darning needle.

Emma proudly rocking her mitts!

On blissful surprises set to good music.

I love The Mountain Goats. I've seen them at The 400 Bar in Minneapolis, a school auditorium in Durham, Queen Elizabeth Hall in London, the Blue Moose in Iowa City, and Second City in Chicago. The Mountain Goats are coming to Chicago to play at the Vic this Saturday. I didn't buy tickets because I was being fiscally responsible, but I still put the date on my calendar, because it seemed important to note. I kept my schedule free for a concert I was not, in fact, attending.

I always say I went to first base with Ben Folds and all the way with The Mountain Goats. They are my musical true love. When I first met Scot, he was working on his play, thank u 4 a funky time, which has a passage in it about the Mountain Goats' break-up album "Get Lonely." His character says, "GET LONELY?! I don't want to GET LONELY. I already get it. I've already got it. I don't want more." He then proceeds to delete the album (and any others that remind him of or resemble his ex) from his iTunes. I've written before about how my favorite thing ever is to talk to boys about music. So my heart exploded a little when I met a man who was writing a play that had the line, "You can't take relationship advice from Fleetwood Mac!" in it.

Fast forward four months to yesterday, Scot West picked me up from work and asked me, "So Maura, do you like winners or losers?" He had entered a contest on his lunch break telling Reckless Records why he deserved a pair of tickets to see The Mountain Goats. He won. He won't tell me what he said, but it ended with "MAKE LOVE HAPPEN"and Reckless wrote on Facebook, "We have our winner- What a story!" Maybe one day he will share with me what exactly he said, but the man loves surprises and mysteries. I do too, in theory. I, to reference When Harry Met Sally, think I am surprising when actually I am completely transparent. We are a good balance, I suppose. Here is a short play based on a conversation we had which demonstrates my lack of ability to conceal anything:

 

A very earnest girl enters holding a glass bowl full of carrots covered in plastic wrap.

A boy (or a girl, a lover anyway) enters.

GIRL:

I love you so much I got you a secret present. You’ll never guess what it is.

BOY:

I can see what it is.

GIRL:

It’s a big surprise…

BOY:

You know that bowl is see-through, right?

GIRL:

Guess! Take a wild guess.

BOY:

Is it a bowl of carrots?

GIRL:

I’ll give you a clue… it might be a vegetable!

BOY:

Yeah, I bet it’s an orange vegetable. Probably similar to a carrot.

GIRL:

It grows in the ground…

BOY:

I don’t think you understand the concept of a surprise.

GIRL:

It’ll help you see better…

BOY:

I get it, it’s an effin bowl of CARROTS.

GIRL:

Bunnies eat it… nom, nom nom…

The BOY stares blankly. The GIRL holds out bowl, smiling.

BOY:

I give up, what is it?

GIRL:
A bowl of carrots! Don’t you just love it?

BOY:

(Sincerely) Yeah, I do. Carrots are my favorite.

Sometimes things come full circle. Scot's play involved The Mountain Goats darkest album which features the song No Children which holds the lyric, "I hope you die. I hope we both die." But time moves on. John Darnielle, the band's lead singer, is now married and has a gorgeous son who he is stupid fond of. When I first saw the band, it was Halloween in Minneapolis in 2007. A lot changes in 5 years. John now writes lyrics more like, "You'll never want for comfort/and you'll never be alone./See the sunset turning red/let all be quiet in your head/and look about/all the stars are coming out!" 

 Point is, everything changes. Seasons, jobs, friends, facial hair. But sometimes, the soundtrack stays the same. Sometimes you get to listen to your band for the first time with someone new who makes you feel like the luckiest lady this side of the Mississippi.

So Saturday night, you'll find us at the Vic. Boom.

I never thought being an adult meant I would eat this much cereal.

"Let no one tell me that childhood is lived in a timeless present. Rather it is a fever of anticipations. Edwin stretched his arms greedily toward the future, bright with unopened presents. As his sixth birthday approached, he was quite unaware that more than half his life was over."

-Edwin Mullhouse by Steven Millhauser

 
I've been hounded by a dear friend for a blog post and it is certainly time to write again. Much has happened since my last post, and yet, I am not at all sure what to write about. I have settled back into a routine of sorts here in Chicago. Same apartment, same roommate, Eric. Life is much as it was before I left for Iowa City with a few differences. Audition season is slow right now and I'm hoping things pick up within the next month. For now, I am working hard for the money, taking improv classes at the Second City Conservatory, and marketing/costuming a show for the Vintage Theater Collective.

I am still working as a standardized patient (if you recall, that is where I pretend to be sick to train doctors). One week last month, I had meningitis on Tuesday, a yeast infection on Wednesday and a thyroid disorder on Thursday. I recovered miraculously by the weekend, only to be struck down by a seizure on Sunday morning. Oh, epilepsy... always sneaking up on you when you least expect it. I am currently working with the second-year medical students on the head-to-toe physical exam. This class involves me sitting in a fake doctor's office in a patient gown as three future doctors discuss how to listen to my heart and lungs with their stethoscope without exposing my nipples. There is really nothing like it. At most jobs, people are not allowed to say, "Now lift your left breast." I hear it every day.

Me at the office.

I am nannying for a new little boy in Wicker Park, who I affectionately refer to as "the 1%." A. is a very fancy, sweet baby who enjoys regular lunches at The Goddess and The Grocer and Miko's Italian Ice. At home, he delights in avocado and seltzer water. I have the guilt of the 99% on me as I order him his $6 macaroni and cheese lunch at the G&G. The hot dishes at this tiny cafe are served by weight a la carte. The first day we dined out, I only had the $6 in cash his mother had given me in my pocket. (I left my own wallet at home so as to not tempt myself to buy a meal I could not afford.) Despite asking for the smallest piece of macaroni and cheese, the total still came to $6.17. We all stared helplessly at each other as the cashier counted the contents of the "take a penny" cup and A. happily knocked over a stand of expensive toffees. The blonde, manicured woman behind me begrudgingly handed the cashier a quarter, more to get me out of her way than to be generous to a frazzled hipster. I thanked her and felt the need to explain to everyone involved that I was sent here by the boy's mother, not wanting to be perceived as a wealthy Bucktown socialite too cheap to carry around more than $6 to buy her son lunch. After this whole ordeal, A. proceeded to throw about $4.53 worth of the hard-earned dish onto the cafe floor. And yet, we return every week (with a pocket full of change.) I swear they cringe when they see me and his red stroller rolling down Damen. I will never take my own 14 month old out to a restaurant. Lil Clementine will just have to eat her pasta at home and drink her water sans bubbles.

When we aren't harassing upscale grocery clerks, A. and I love going to the dog park and reading Goodnight, Moon in Hebrew (I make up all the words, as I cannot speak Hebrew and refuse to read the book right-to-left, back-to-front. So really I suppose we read something more like Good Morning, Moon where the moon is rudely woken up by a pack of rabbits still in their pajamas.) I've become a regular at the Wicker Park playground, rubbing elbows with an Australian au pair, the homeless gentleman who play bongos at the park's entrance, and Hazel, a very cute baby who flirts with A. and wears her hair in a sprout at the very crown of her head. A. calls me "Mmmm" which is also what he calls 'milk.' Since it is I who provide him with his milk, our exchanges are quite efficient. In all seriousness, A. and his family are very nice and I'm thankful for the work.

A. and I reading Steven Millhauser

Much to my joy, I am not waiting tables this fall. The money was good, but the late nights and the erratic scheduling is simply not conducive to living a real life. A life where I can see plays, cook dinner, get up before 11 AM, don't have to wear farming clothes (okay, I still do that anyway.) I am juggling about 5 jobs, so it is a hustle to pay for rent, food and my improv classes (not to mention my yarn...). As year two begins, the hustle, while being a little less difficult to assemble because of previous established contacts, is a little less fun. Not that it was all a barrel of laughs last year, but beginning year two out in the world reminds me of suffering through sophomore year of the BFA. I start to realize why alumni of the Program would tell us how hard it is out there for artists (and everyone). Because it is hard. And people can warn you how hard it is with a sad look in their eyes, but no one is going to be able to tell you the specific way it is going to be hard for you. That's the mystery waiting for you floating out there in the world, on the backs of discarded headshots and in the air of a sleepless night spent wondering how you will ever have health insurance to provide for your unborn children.

No one ever said it would be easy. But is it worth it? All the hustle and the moving and the pursuit? Today, I say yes. Yes it is. The dream must be pursued with energy and fervor. We just went to Taliesin, Frank Lloyd Wright's home in Spring Green, Wisconsin. Part of the home burned down three times and each time he rebuilt it. Because the home was his dream and no crazy person or act of God was going to defeat his dream. And so we must be grateful for our crappy apartments and endless job interviews. We must work on our audition pieces and read plays, even though we'd much rather watch 30 Rock. We must learn to cook things that could not be perceived as breakfast foods. We must celebrate our friends' successes, for they are great indeed. And we must end this post, because we have an audition at a theater company called Babes with Blades, and who wouldn't want to see this saucy minx speak some Shakespeare with a sword in her hand?

Much love to you indeed.

Enjoying a laugh with Breana, who just closed her first season at American Players Theatre

This post is dedicated to Melinda George, in recognition of her fierce pursuit of her dreams.

Something Special: a product review

The original intent when I began this blog was to create a space to post my original knitting patterns. Now, over 3 years later, I had no idea it would become so much more, a space for poetry, advice, stories and photos of my ever-changing, artistic life. However, today I thought I'd get back to my roots and review a new yarn and knitting pattern we just got in at Nina: a well-knit shop. Knitters, enjoy! All others, ignore or... better yet, get some needles and become a knitter. It will clear your pores and help you find love. Guaranteed.

BUCKINGHAM HAT, a blue sky alpacas royal petite knitting pattern

Completed hat, pattern, alpaca picture and leftover yarn.

First of all, the marketing of these new patterns is brilliant.  The pattern comes in a petite, sweet folder. All the designs have a vintage sketch of a handsome 1950's model on the front, echoing old Vogue dress patterns and Mad Men. They remind me of something innocent and lovely from my childhood, like my Playmobil Victorian dollhouse or a piece of sweet candy wrapped in pale pink cellophane. Simply put, the patterns are cute as can be! Inside the folder is the pattern and a picture of one of Blue Sky's very own alpaca. The Buckingham Hat pattern contains the proud image of Colonel Mustard, "a handsome boy with beautiful fawn colored fleece." Each pattern, depending on the garment, takes one, two or three skeins of Blue Sky Royal Alpaca. The yarn, oh the yarn, is so luxurious!! I loved knitting with it and I recommend using metal needles.

Practically, the pattern is written very clearly and the directions are easy to follow, but please read them twice or three times. I made a few simple, careless mistakes because I had not read the pattern carefully. I love that the pattern includes a ruler on the page so that I didn't need to carry around my tape measure. This is a company that knows that excellence is in the details!

On Nina's suggestion (she had made the hat in black/brown as a shop sample) I did make a few ALTERATIONS to the pattern:

• The hat is intended to be quite short, as you can see on the cover of the folder. It ends well before the gentleman's ears. I wanted a longer version, so I knitted the hat to 7 inches before beginning my decreases.
• The pattern also calls for the decreases for the head shaping to be done using ssk (slip,slip,knit). I used knit 2 together, which worked just fine.

Blocking is absolutely necessary with this hat. Don't skip this step! Blocking really evened out my ribbing and the transitions between knitting and purling. The cascading ribbing is very unique, most hats for men are rather dull, but this one has a little flair.

This product also makes a unique, affordable gift. You can buy your favorite knitter everything they need to make a complete project for only $25-$50. The projects are classy, classic, and simple designs which are likely to complement any one's style. Knitting one of these patterns feels like an experience, start to finish. I made the hat for my boyfriend, Scot, who posted on his Facebook: "When you purchase wool from Colonel Mustard, you receive a picture of him standing resolutely on his farm, keenly surveying the distance. His noble countenance fills one with confidence that it will be a quality hat which will protect my head from the possibly brutal upcoming Chicago and Iowa winter months." If a man can be so moved by a knitting pattern, Blue Sky is doing something right.

A "petite luxury" indeed. 

On (good) habits formally known as bad habits.

Confession. I have a bad habit.  For at least 20 years or so, I've been a nail biter. Not proud of it. It's gross. But I'm not sure I can help myself. I've tried to quit; knitting or painting my nails helps a little. But a stressful day or scary movie sends my fingers to hide inside my mouth... because we all know that it is easier to win a argument with an official of the Chicago Department of Revenue or keep everyone alive in Inception if you have no fingers. In my defense, my nails are weak, so it's not totally my fault. All excuses aside, I may have to accept that I, Maura Elizabeth Clement, will always have the nails of a dirty, eight year-old boy from Fagin's gang. This is me accepting the things I cannot change... serenity prayer, right?

Truthfully, I have a number of bad habits. But I am not writing about those today because I want to explore a number of new good habits I am trying to develop out of my current bad habits.

Eating vegetables:

Actors (and everyone ever really) (blerg, we actors are so self-centered, another bad habit) seem to think that we have little control over our lives. As a result of late rehearsals, droll day jobs, pitiful stipends and general self-loathing, we eat most of our meals standing up, out of bags, with our hands. In the words of Valerie Mudek, "You eat what you find." Actors of the world (and everyone ever really), we must take control. Like our parents before us, we can sit down to a meal of different colored food, served on plates someone named Kurt left at our apartment before we moved in, at a table we bought on craiglist. It is our right. It is our privilege. It will help keep us from going slowly insane.

Have you tried ORANGE BEETS? I've been buying these orange beets from the Wicker Park Farmer's market. $3 gets you one bunch of beets which is enough for three meals at least. I've been dicing the beets and cooking them in olive oil, garlic, onions and kale. I know I'm like the last hipster in the world to discover kale but let me take a moment for my new found obsession with this crunchy green vegetable. It has the best of what broccoli and spinach have to offer! [While typing that sentence I discovered that I have no effin idea how to spell broccoli. I am no longer smarter than a fifth grader. Technology is making me dumb. See below.] Another confession: After I moved back to Chicago I only had butter to cook with. So when I say olive oil, I mean butter. But I ate my butter on a plate while sitting the dining room table. I even bought napkins. Fancy me.

Telling my technology to shut up:

 I recently noticed that upon waking up in the middle of the night for one reason or another, I reach for my iPhone and check for messages, Facebook notifications and e-mails. This is a bad habit if there ever was one. My body seems to stay the tiniest bit awake so I didn't miss any comets from cyberspace. This slightly conscious sleep feels similar to the unrest I feel when I have to get up very early for a flight or a big audition. I wake up and immediately reach for my phone... but unsurprisingly nothing important has happened since I fell asleep. Turns out, Broadway does not call at 2 AM.

I have replaced this bad habit with a new, good one: I now turn the phone off when I get in bed and do not turn it back on until morning. Unfortunately, on the iPhone, the alarm doesn't work unless the phone is on. So on nights when I need to set an alarm, I put the phone on silent, face down and across the room. Although I have no way to prove this, I'm pretty sure I'm sleeping better. My body now knows that no shooting stars of information are going to be flying through my room on North Avenue, so we can all actually sleep. Ride, Sally, Ride.

Even during the day, I am a Pavlovian dog slave to my cell phone. It goes bing and I jump up to see what delightful tidbit has come my way. My reaction to it has become unconscious:
Bing. Jump. Blerg. I'm in love with a robot that has no feelings.

I am now practicing rules like:
No checking the phone during dinner.
Phone always on silent when reading.
Phone stays off during the intermission of plays.

Our brains have become schizophrenic. I've barely typed a paragraph of this post and without thinking, I just opened a new tab to check my email. WHICH I JUST CHECKED NOT FIVE MINUTES AGO. Tabs will be the death of me. I know I'm the billionth voice in the "don't let the robots rule our lives/cell phones are making us dumb/i'm afraid of the technology my children will have/sexting makes me really uncomfortable" dialogue. But seriously, try turning your phone off at night. It'll make you sleep better which in turn will make you look more attractive which will increase your ability to actually get someone's phone number. You can then call them on your iPhone, before 9 pm.

Sending thank you notes:

When a house manager, a stranger or a friend of a friend gets me into a show for free or at a discount, I promise to find out who to thank and thank them. I made their job just a little more complicated that day and they saved me money. I want our industry to continue to provide opportunities for artists to experience work they otherwise could not afford. If I say nothing, my ambivalence could make them feel taken advantage of or unappreciated. On the other hand, my thanks might ensure that the artist after me also has a chance to get to see the play.

Remembering that my siblings can also be my friends:

This one is simple. My siblings are the only people in the whole world who know who exactly the Knights of Shanara were or what anoxeric Peter looked like or where Secret Beach was or what the lunches that Jenifer Clement made tasted like or how Dave Clement looked at you when you were in trouble. Our siblings are the only people who perfectly understand the world which made us. So why is it that so often our siblings are the last people we go to for advice or to share about our lives? Are we afraid that they will judge us... or worse, tell our mothers what we've been up to? Over the last year, I made a promise to myself to include my siblings in my life. I mean my whole life. I want to tell them the things I would tell my friends. The things I don't write about on this blog because I may want to teach children or run for president (of a knitting club or thespian [not lesbian] society) one day. Relationships are built out of habits. If you get in the habit of not talking about the important things, eventually you will stop talking about anything important. I didn't have a big sister to explain the hard stuff to me. I was on my own for the first time I got sick at a party, or left the party alone, or worse, left the party with the wrong person. So if you are a big sister or brother, make sure your kidsiblings know that, in the words of Irving Berlin, "Anything you've done, I've done worse..." That's how that song goes, right? 

Lastly:

Especially during a time when so much senseless violence is plaguing our country, the best habit of all is gratitude. When I feel let down or indignant or sad or selfish, I must remember that I am grateful for the farmers who grow the vegetables I eat. I am grateful for my family that loves me enough to tell me when they think I am wrong. I am grateful for my job at the yarn shop where I get to teach people how to do something with their hands. I am grateful for my boyfriend who believes in me and inspires me to create art. I am grateful for the technology which makes my faraway friends appear in the palm of my hand. I am grateful for the art which surrounds me in this amazing city. I am grateful for the god who gave me this one precious life.

And, dear reader, I am grateful for you. I wish you good habits and happy days.

Along Lake Calhoun, Minneapolis August 2012

On a Blessed Summer in Iowa

“For life is the best thing we have in this existence. And if we should desire to believe in something, it should be a beacon within. This beacon being the sun, sea, and sky, our children, our work, our companions and, most simply put, the embodiment of love.”
-Patti Smith

The joy of being unemployed every few months is that I have time to spend time with the people who made me and the people who made them. A day after the Riverside Theatre in the Park’s season closed, I land in Louisiana, the birthplace of my father. Within five minutes on the bayou, the gate attendant has called me “baby” in that sweet, albeit slightly condescending way that only Southern women of a certain age can. As in, “Get out of the way, baby.” Even in the airport, the air smells of caramelized sugar folded around fresh pecans. I’m craving a praline already; perhaps Yiya has some from Christmas in one of her three deep freezers. I’ve not been back to Opelousas in almost three years. We get out of the car on Hibiscus Street and the first thing my grandmother says to me is, “Well if it isn't Ethel Barrymore... You look so skinny!!" She quickly seeks to remedy my starving-artist-induced-weight-loss with an entire plate of ham, a sheet of heavenly hash, and caramel pecan topping with sweet potatoes under it. After all this food, I insist on doing my yoga in the garden… her response: “Well, that will be a treat for the neighbors!”

208 Hibiscus Street. Opelousas, Louisiana

Coming back to the home my father grew up in and the only place I’ve known my grandparents to live has helped me maintain my grounding during yet another transition from one job, one city, one relationship (or lack thereof) to different jobs, a new old city, and a new relationship. Endings and beginnings. Everyone’s lives are full of them; however, as an actor, my work revolves in two or three month cycles... so the endings and beginnings just keep on coming.

When I accepted the apprenticeship at Riverside this March, I focused everything toward that goal: On May 15, I move to Iowa City. I couldn’t have been more thrilled to quit my day job(s), sublet my Wicker Park  apartment and work only on my art for two months. I packed my Honda Civic, affectionately known as Elliot Smith, to the brim groceries from Trader Joe's, my sewing machine, bags of yarn and books on Shakespeare. (The car was bought for my pensive older brother when he turned sixteen. He named the silver car in homage to the ill-fated singer and the freedom a junkyard car provided for Good Will Hunting at the end of the film by the same name. Fortunately, the car continues to be in better shape than it’s namesake… and allows me to “go to see about an acting job.”) With the fierce tunnel vision which is simultaneously my greatest ally and fatal flaw, I was completely focused on getting to Iowa City and playing a fun, classic role at a theater I'd never been to. I arrived and began to play.

But it only took me a week here to realize that this job too would end. Eventually I would have to begin my second year out of school, which would look a lot like my first year. It’s amazing how the obvious can be so insanely surprising sometimes. WHAT?!? You mean I have to do all this over again? You mean I can't live in Riverside board member Natasha's basement forever? I have to move back to Chicago, work a day job, audition, mail out headshots, send email after email??? Chasing a dream sometimes feels like just that, a chase. I guess I’ve got to learn to love it because building a career is a marathon, not a sprint. And you don't really know if you are winning or what the prize is at the finish line. The prospect of another year in the theater is exciting and intimidating, isolating and hopeful.

I gotta say, things do get easier. Work begets work. Because of my job this summer, the Riverside artistic staff has cast me again in an upcoming new play. I shall return to Iowa City in the middle of December to be a part of The Exit Interview by William Missouri Downs. Riverside's production is a rolling world premiere produced through the National New Play Network. This production not only marks my first new play, but also my first professional show at an Equity house where I am not an apprentice. I feel I have graduated and for that I am truly grateful. But boy, do I appreciate being an apprentice with this fantastic group of human beings. These young artists are going places. 

Apprentice Class of 2012. Photo by Kelly Gibson

So it's back to Chicago for me for the fall. I'll be back at the yarn shop and standardized patient work and some other way to make money yet to be determined. I will say that if I'm going to do this vagabond actor thing, I must learn to pack lighter... I have too much stuff. Stuff is weight. Weight is burden. Burden is bondage. Bondage is slavery. Slavery is not freedom. I want freedom. To be fair, I did not think I’d be bringing back a person from Iowa as a souvenir. But I did and for that I am grateful. More on that later.

As I look back on my five years in college and my first year as an actor, I am amazed at how time and integrity change all things. Time changes us without our knowing or consent. Integrity ensures that we become the people we intend to be. I am grateful for this summertime and the splendid integrity of the artists I had the honor of playing with.

Residents of Arden during intermission on closing night. Photo by Kelly Gibson.