Go Joe!

My little cousin Joe (I say little but he's like...what, 21 now?) is embarking on his quarter life crisis. He sees an amorphous view of a future he's not sure he wants.  He thinks about things he might want to do but feels unable to go for it because "it's too late" and he "doesn't know where to start." Sound familiar?  We've all been there.  That kept me away from New York for so long.  It kept me away from filmmaking for so long.  From pursuing all my goals and hopes and dreams for myself.  It still does. Nary a day goes by that I don't feel daunted by those two doubts in regards to my career, and I've already passed them by!

I mentioned to Joe that I happened to meet with a nice Gestalt therapist in New Orleans who gave me the very simple assignment of writing down the things I want to be.  Put it on paper.  Make a list, a chart, whatever, just do it.

It wound up looking kind of like one of those brainstorm things my teachers always made us do in writing classes.  I used to hate those. I used to just write.  Call me a convert though, because it worked for me! Just simply putting down on paper the things I wanted for myself made me able to create a plan to get where I wanted to be.


Now, my feet set firmly in the direction I need to go to reach my primary goals (being a healthy and fit assistant director who lives in New York City and maintains successful, mutually supportive relationships with friends and family) I find myself wondering about filling in the cracks.  Where does dance fit in? I love it and I want it in my life.  How about Manhattan? Let's not kid ourselves, Brooklyn is nice for now but I want to live in Manhattan.  And I'd like to lose the roommates sooner rather than later.  What about love?  I find myself examining my nascent relationship and getting ahead of myself. What do I really want with Columbia? I mean, I know what my ideal is, but I like taking it a day at a time once a week.

Like I told Joe, it takes a lot of hard work to be who you want to be (and indeed to figure out who that is).

My first big race.

I love dark, quiet mornings. My alarm woke me with a jolt and I was up and sliding into my clothes before the second one came a few minutes later. I tied my hair back into pigtails, my favorite way to wear it. I pulled on a long sleeve t-shirt from a race I ran with my big sister. I covered my legs with the pajama pants I wore after Katrina, when all my other clothes were too small. Now they practically fall off my hips. I coughed--a lot. So much it hurt. I tied on my well-worn shoes, silently regretting I hadn't made room in my budget for newer ones and praising myself for at least having SuperFeet to protect against Plantar fasciitis flare-ups. I slipped out the door. I always feel like I'm leaving in secret when I leave before dawn.

I had been sick for over two weeks with a terrible chest cough that racked my body, stripped my appetite, and generally made me feel like death. The day before had been spent in this miserable state, resting up as much as possible while working the usual thirteen hour day. Nonetheless, that night I laid out my new eggplant-colored running shorts, my green striped bra, my favorite white cotton t-shirt and packed my bag full of cough drops, tissues and granola bars. I ate some noodles in spite of my poor appetite and went to bed by 8:30. I was terribly nervous about being sick, knowing that nobody would be there with me if anything happened to me, but I had trained formally for 9 weeks and casually for 9 months for this. I was resolute.

Having checked the timetables, I made it to the station just in time for my train. I regretted not bringing my book as I sat there among the few people who were on their way to work early on a Sunday, trying to nibble at my granola bar. I could only take tiny nibbles; I just wasn't hungry. I tried sipping my water to get it down, but I just couldn't be bothered with it. There was a girl sitting across from me who I recognized from my neighborhood; she was wearing fancy tech running clothes and shoes that looked freshly broken in. She was lean, like you expect runners to be. She looked calm, listening to her iPod, chomping on a breakfast bar and staring off into space. I coughed deeply into a tissue, feeling plagued.

Finally we made it to Bowling Green and I bee-lined for the ferry with, I noticed, dozens of other runners who had collected onto my train. I secured a spot on the floor of the ferry terminal as close to the doors as possible. I wanted to get the show on the road. I was nervous. I was really congested. I sucked on cough drops to keep myself from coughing constantly. I tried again to eat my granola bar, successfully getting through half. I finished my water bottle.

On the ferry I tried to watch for the Statue of Liberty, but I just kept gazing at the orange haze of sunrise over Brooklyn and abstractly thinking about how thankful I am that I got out of my old life and made this new one for myself. I tried another bite of granola, but had to force it.

Once the ferry docked I felt like a horse out of the gate. I bolted from the doors straight to number pickup as soon as possible. Next I went straight to the massive line of port-o-potties. I looped my scoring tag on my shoe and pinned my number to my shirt while waiting in line (multitasking!), peed quickly, then checked my watch. It was only 7:30! It was still very cold outside and I felt like it was a little early for a warmup so I stretched a little first, then trotted off from the start line for a super-slow mile. I never used to be a warmer-upper, but my long distance runs have taught me that I always feel better after the first mile no matter how slow, and the same was true today. By the end of my warmup I could feel my muscles become more receptive to my will. I trotted back to the bag check, stashed my outer layer, then left my stuff for another port-o-potty run. From there it was just a few minutes to stretch a little more and line up.

When the gun went off I tried to stay calm, and walked to the start line since my tag wouldn't start timing me until I crossed it. Finally my section of the herd made it to the flags and off I went - a minor stitch creeping up on me almost immediately. I ran through it and suddenly found myself at the 2 mile mark, feeling great. My watch said 17:45 and I couldn't believe it. I hear my voice say out loud, "Oh AWESOME!" My brain kept repeating one word: "Sustain." I grabbed some water at the support station which slowed me considerably and I knew I couldn't sustain that pace the entire race, so I dialed it back a bit. But only just a bit--I was re-evaluating my goal of 2:10 and thinking I could try for 2 hours even.

Miles 3 and 4 were nearly on par with my supreme awesome pace, although they seemed to take forever. Mile 5 was tougher, a little bit of a no-man's land with no spectators and a really weird, desolate highway underpass. Finally I saw the water station up ahead and the crowd of spectators that lined the U-turn at the halfway point. I sipped a little water and forged on, but just after I tossed down my cup, my legs began to protest my pace. I slowed. Then I felt the stitch come on. I slowed more. I repeated the word "Sustain" over and over, but I knew there was no way...I had hit a wall.

I forced through the stitch as best I could, but by the time I got to mile 7 I knew 2 hours was probably out of the question. Not totally, but probably. I mentally changed my goal back to 2:10 and pushed through. I kept telling myself I was on the homestretch.

Mile 8 was another no-man's land, but two sweet volunteers were out in the most desolate far reaches cheering, and I couldn't help but cheer back. I really appreciated their being there. My cough was starting to wreak more havoc.

I felt good coasting through the marker for 9, but by the time I reached 9.25 several things happened. First, my inability to eat caught up with me, and I felt a distinct lack of calories. Second, my legs hit another wall. They wanted to be done. And finally, I was quickly becoming unable to breathe. For the first time ever, the thought of quitting a race entered my mind. My legs were burning. I knew I had over three miles to go. When I stumbled by the water station at about 9.5 I was a runny-nosed, wheezing, breathless, burning mess of pain. I grabbed a Gatorade, hoping the few calories in it would push me a little farther. I slowed to a trot as I sipped it all down, evaluating the situation.

Yes, I was sick. Boo fucking hoo ('scuse the language, Mom). I had watched my sister run a half-marathon sick in 80 degree New Orleans humidity. Sure, my lungs were full of phlegm, but if I could just get enough air in to cough productively, maybe I could take care of that. Yes, my legs burned, and that was my own fault for running too fast in the beginning. I had run five miles or more on no food plenty of times, why stop now? This was MY race. I didn't let anything get in the way of my training, not work, not fun, not dance, not illness, and definitely not my own self-doubt, so why should I let any of those things get in the way of finishing? There were a lot of people out there rooting for me. I'd received a ton of facebook messages and text messages that morning, and I wanted to make all those people proud of me for seeing my goal through to the end. I am Miss Adventurous, dammit. I don't quit.

Instead, I re-evaluate. So I threw out any expectation I had of a 2:10 finish and decided that I would run until the end even if it took me an extra hour. The clock said 1:33 and change when I saw the 10 mile marker up ahead and checked my watch. I told myself I had plenty of time. I could feel my pace dragging, but I cast my fate to the wind, turned my watch so I couldn't see it and forged onward. All I remember about mile 10 is that it sucked--it was slow and it burned. Somewhere around the latter part I felt faint and thought I might pass out so I dialed back the pace a little. I punched it back up a notch for mile 11. Near the end, I felt another stitch coming on, but I pushed through it and it was gone just before I closed on the 12 mile mark.

I'm not sure where I found the extra energy, but with less than a mile left to go I somehow reached far back into my muscles and employed my former high school method of finishing strong, and kicked into high gear for a sprint to the finish. I really think my final mile was 8:40 or so. I literally coasted to the finish line, barely seeing it coming--I just heard the annoying announcer guy, saw a bunch of screaming, waving people, and then suddenly it was over! I tumbled over the line with my hands over my head, instantly bursting into tears, finally able to release all the emotions that had gone into this personal victory.

A race volunteer gathered me up as I sobbed and wheezed and gulped for air. "2:10?" I choked out. "Better!" she said, "2:08! Congratulations!" I was totally shocked that I had made it under 2:10. I stumbled on toward the water table, dumping a half a cup of water into a half a cup of Gatorade. Then came the apple...this sweet girl stuck her hand out at me with the most beautiful-looking Macintosh apple I'd ever seen. I just stared at it for a minute in disbelief until she shook it. Then I grabbed it and took a bite. It was the sweetest, most delicious fruit I'd ever tasted.

I hobbled to a bench and sat down, munching slowly on the magical apple. I glanced at my watch, vaguely remembering that I pushed the button as I crossed the finish line. It said 2:02:45.

2:02:45.

It made sense. The clock was at 5 minutes by the time I crossed the start... but I could barely believe it. It was nigh unbelievable that I could possibly have finished those last three miles in 28 minutes, feeling the way I felt, having already run myself into the ground for 10 miles. I wished the race would record my splits for me. I called my mom and bubbled excitedly over the phone, wheezing and coughing and nibbling little bits off my magical apple.

So that's the story of my first half marathon. I can't wait for the next one now - I'm hoping I can find a good local one toward the middle of November, maybe?

The full marathon? That will have to wait until my work schedule slows a bit. For now I'm just worried about getting healthy and recovering my aching muscles. And my knees are telling me new shoes are definitely on the agenda.

Why do I do this again?

I didn't make it into the DGA training program.

I found out last night. I knew when I saw the letter sitting on the table, before I even opened it. The envelope was too thin. Starlet made a big "oh no I'm so sorry" deal, but I just shrugged and said it was fine and went to bed.

It is fine. I'm disappointed, but I know I can get where I want to be on my own anyway. I'm also realizing that assistant directing is a stepping stone, not the end goal. I want to facilitate. I make things happen for myself as practice in hopes that I can make things happen for other people eventually. I want to make projects I believe in, stuff that makes me feel good about the world, the way i felt good and proud to work on Charlotte Doyle. I want to bring good things into being. I want to tell fairy tales and teach lessons and make someone joyful or tearful or even just thoughtful.

That's the answer!

I've been mucking about over a year now trying to find the answer to the question my coworkers ask over and over: "Why do we do this again?" The answer to that question is a key that unlocks a lot of mental doors that, lately, have been all around me, overwhelming me as I try to figure out what waits for me behind them without even looking. Each one is a daunting question: what career track should I take, what do I ultimately want to be, whether or not I should even stay in the business when I'm financially strapped, have no health insurance, no retirement plan and so little time for extras that other people take for granted.

The answer to all the questions is I want to make moving pictures with the light box.

I believe in their power to make people feel stuff. I believe in their power to explain how we feel in a way no other medium can. Like modern myths. So why not pursue that? Why not just try to make a movie? Why shut myself off to the possibility of being a good producer? What am I afraid of?

In the meantime I'll move to set, try to move up, try to do what makes me happy day by day, and do my best to stay open to the opportunities that are out there for me. Right? Right!


kyle the girl
(on iPhone)

Dehydration and The Bridge

Running in Prospect Park today was a-freakin'-mazing! It's gorgeous outside, and it seemed like all of Brooklyn was milling around in the sunshine or laying in the grass or riding bikes or strolling.

It started out as a great run; I'd already eaten, I'd sucked down a glass of water right before I left the apartment, and with the great springtime weather I felt good and strong. But after a long night of drinking and a long morning brunch at Bristen's with the girls (read: coffee consumption en masse), one glass of water just did not cut it. At about the three mile mark I hit a wall of dehydration. I felt like a cicada shell, all shrively and desiccated. It was kinda gross, and I just literally could not continue. I managed to walk about a quarter mile until I found a water fountain, where I drank and splashed so much I may as well have been a bird in a birdbath. People stared, but I was refreshed! Fresh fresh fresh!

Revitalized, I continued on, though still a bit dehydrated. And suddenly I remembered the bridge. I think maybe I've mentioned it before, but it bubbled up to the forefront of my brain today.

Please consider this Big Idea #2, although this idea has been floating amporphously around in my head for several years.

East of Cleveland, nearby to where I grew up, there is a large, beautiful park called the North Chagrin Reservation. By large, I mean upwards of 2,000 acres. I really like going to that park whenever I go back to Cleveland to visit my family; somehow I feel like it reconnects me with my childhood. During the two months I stayed in Cleveland between leaving New Orleans and coming to New York I spent a lot of time running the trails at North Chagrin and used that as my time to meditate on my dad and to talk to him. It was there that I started the process of coming to terms with having lived most of my life without him and began really confronting my feelings of loss.

I don't really know as much about him as I wish I did, but I do know that he loved the outdoors and nature. And I know that the time I feel closest to him is when I'm in the woods by myself, rather than the few times I've gone to the large, impersonal cemetery where he's buried. And one day the idea popped into my head, that I want to build a bridge in the park for him.

Today, as I was running in a different park, the idea developed more. I realized that the bridge wouldn't be as much for him as it would be for me. It would be a place I could go and really feel connected to him and my feelings about him, and where I could talk to him quietly and miss him without any anger or fear...not that I can't do that anywhere, but this place would be really special to me.

And then I thought maybe it wouldn't be just for me, but also for anyone who's lost a parent. I thought maybe it could be a place that reminds people that it's okay to miss someone, or be a place where other people feel like they can talk out loud to someone who isn't there... And maybe it could be a place where Salty and Mrp can take Peanut and tell him about his Grandpa Steve.

So I want to build a bridge. I don't know how to start. I don't know where to get the money. I don't have any idea where I'll get the time to do it. But I want to at least try... And maybe it won't happen, but maybe it will. If I don't try, I'll never know.

The New Big Idea again.

Here it is, folks. Ya ready?

Giant Disco Party.

You heard me, I said disco.


Now I need a few things:

1) A place.

2) A DJ

3) Roller-skating cocktail waitresses

4) A ton of money (sponsors!)

So...anyone have any suggestions for any of those things?

P.S. -

Tomorrow I take the test.

Also, soon to come - I will blog about Fuerza Bruta! I will, I promise.

I fell in love today and I had polenta for brunch.

Today after Brunch Club Roommate #2 decided to accompany me to Brooklyn Heights for the Cranberry Street Festival, where the Squirrel Girls were performing. We wound up missing their performance but were able to catch up with them to visit at Park Plaza Restaurant. Afterward, Roommate #2 decided to take me on a tour of Brooklyn Heights, since she used to live there and I'd never been.

Once we started walking around I couldn't believe I had not been to this part of Brooklyn before. As we walked up and down the streets I could feel the water in the air. When we approached the Promenade, I immediately realized that I had finally found a neighborhood I liked as much as I liked the Marigny in New Orleans. Now I'm in love! I want Brooklyn Heights to be my home!

This gives me something to work toward. I've been saying for some time now that I'm saving to buy my own place, but I hadn't really felt sure about where I wanted to live. Now I feel pretty sure...and I know it might be a loooong time before I can afford a teeny tiny little place there, but I want very badly to live in Brooklyn Heights. Of course, who knows - I'll probably change my mind a dozen times in the next few years as I save up that down payment!

We also had a New York Moment and ran into Make Me a Supermodel, which was shooting on the Promenade. We took some pictures of our fun time and submitted them to Filming In Brooklyn, which is one of my favorite blogs. Woohoo!

Miss Adventurous is doing fine. Except for the pleather dress she's missing.

Yay, I'm unemployed for a time. Fortunately I can collect unemployment, so I don't feel the need to panic or anything. I don't need to go work in PDF's tanning salon or find a table waiting gig or anything. I'll sustain just fine. Which absolutely does NOT mean I'll be resting on my laurels!

My plans are to write a bit, look for more work, get things done around the house... And also to do my own laundry for once!

Meanwhile my social life is doing just ducky and keeping me busy, which is mostly why I haven't written here much. I'm spending a lot of my time with my friends and less time dating, which is a very good thing. I'm tired of all that stuff and much happier hanging with people who aren't A) only interested in me if they think I'll have sex with them, B) intimidated by my brains and emotional intensity, C) turn me into some googly-eyed, lash-batting retard, or D) all of the above. I like to think that if I continue on this vein of quality friends over "making up for lost time" (which is totally a euphemism for being constantly on the prowl) I'll wind up having a lot more fun.

Also, I keep thinking of shutting down Miss Adventurous and moving to a new blog and a new (less emotionally intense) format. Or I guess what I would do is take Miss A private so I would still have a place to bitch about stuff. I know people read, I have more unique hits per day than ever. But my life has changed a lot since I showed up here in New York nine months ago and this super personal stuff could come up and bite me in the ass sometime. That threat has actually loomed a bit.

I'm thinking a lot about what I want to focus on though. What my next project will be. Miss A has gotten me through the tough part of relocating, but now I'm ready for something bigger and more focused. Something less intense, less diary-like. But what?

The thing I keep coming back to is relationships and sex. I'm terribly fascinated with those two things, relative to one another and also separated. I feel like I have some insight there. I feel like I have something to say about it. I don't know for sure though. I'm uncertain because my current personal situation is not what most would call "successful" in that particular arena, although I feel like rejecting my unhappiness in favor of a new life in pursuit of a new happiness is definitely a success. I'm single and I love the freedom. I'm happy without a partner. I'm irritated only by the social norms that say I oughtn't be happy when single or that my life is somehow incomplete without a man or woman to make it complete.

Also there is a girl wearing pleather skinny pants on the 4 train. She's falling asleep while standing and I can't help but wonder if her pleather pants aren't contributing to her sleepiness by cutting off oxygen to her lower abdomen.

Really I'm just jealous though and I wish I had the stones to wear pleather skinny pants. I'd be much better off in a pleather dress. I used to have a red pleather dress and it looked awesome on me. I wonder what happened to it?

It's probably in that f'ing storage facility in Texas.

Goddammit. That's just one more thing I lost out of this whole hurricane/breakup/getting-screwed-by-buying-a-house-with-someone-I-didn't-marry thing.

Let me tell you about my promotion!

Psst, I'm not a production assistant anymore! Now I am the production secretary!

What does this mean?

1 - I am the Queen of Documents and Paperwork instead of being everybody's bitch.
2 - I get paid a buttload more!
3 - All those in need of filing and lists will bow before me.
4 - I get perks like kit rentals ($) on my personal equipment - also known as "They gave Dude a beeper."
5 - Steady(ish) hours!
6 - I'll be stationed right outside Payroll's office!
7 - I'll learn way more stuff because I'll be allowed to know way more stuff
8 - Less running around means less exhausted all the time!
9 - I can tell the PAs what to do! (sorta)
10 - This is only my second New York job. It's also a humongous film, especially for an indie being shot in New York. If I can hack it here, hopefully it won't be long before I move up the ladder to APOC. And then...and then?

Then I will either have a catharsis of lament that I am an APOC and not on set, or I will figure out what a bum deal live action is and move into coordinating for video game production or animation or something. I need to talk to the Grecian's equivalent of the Producer....he's not a cartoon producer (like my Producer was), but he's involved somehow in commercial animation I know. And I'm not attracted to him in the LEAST, so I feel confident that I'll be able to have a real conversation with him about what that side of the business is like and whether or not I want to get into it.

Just where do I think I'm going, young lady?

I have a demanding job that offers little stability. I somehow balance working 65+ hours a week with being a dancer. I also I have a social life, even if it is mostly populated with people I work and dance with.

So why do I feel like my life isn't full enough? Why do I feel like Miss Adventurous is drifting through a lazy lagoon instead of sailing the high seas? Can it be that I'm...bored?

I'm eager to get my claws into something new. A new job will certainly be welcome. Maybe I just need to do something fun. I have plans all weekend; I have a (my) dance show Friday, the Mermaid Parade Saturday and the Brooklyn Bridge on Sunday. Maybe I'll feel better after that?

I feel out of touch with the world. I feel kind of unalive. I think I need a jolt of crazy to shake me out of it. Thinky got me all excited to go out dancing and wild nights on the town and tasting the New York fabulousness, but it keeps not happening. Why? Why does New York eat time? Why are we all always so busy? Why can't I date awesome people instead of losers? Why is it that the one awesome person I've dated is still a loser? QUIT BEING A LOSER AND BE MY FRIEND, PLEASE!

Someone pinch me, I'm having a nightmare. I can't have done all this work for nothing; why do I still feel bland and unsatisfied? What can I do to fast track my success? I'm growing too slow! I can't take the waiting! I feel so behind! I want to make up for all the time I wasted on the lies and empty promises of some naiive jerk in a backwards Southern city that sucks all the ambition out of people!

There's so much pressure that I sometimes feel my body buckling under the weight of it. I want to get out of the financial baby pool and into the deep end. I want to start making the kind of money I need to live my dream the way I dreamed it. The way the sellouts like PDF live.

I know this sulking and futility are contrary to the style of my Adventures, which are all about possibility and courage. I know I am being desperate and fatalistic and blame-y. I know I'm acting like an entitled little brat, my own pet peeve. This, though, these feelings, are fuel for my fire. This is what motivates me to work hard and challenge myself. This is why I'm a daredevil and a thrill-seeker and a goal setter. If I settle for anything less then I'll wind up being a complainer instead.

The way to head off my dissatisfaction at the pass is to find the next goal and then get to work. I am drifting because I don't have a particular destination in mind. It's time to set my sights on a thing. Something difficult but within reach. Something specific and definable. Something I can control. An apartment? A job? I need a quest!