My schedule is often frenetic and as such, I don't eat as well as I should. Depending on rehearsal schedules, I'm often searching for a quick bite in between rehearsals or workshops or photo shoots or whatever else is going on.
So it was that I happened to find myself in downtown Phoenix with 20 minutes to spare before my next call time. My choices were a Subway, Taco Bell or McDonald's. I should have gone for the Subway, but I was in my sweaty rehearsal clothes and I didn't want to offend anyone within the scent range. The drive-thru line at Taco Bell wrapped completely around the building, so I continued down the road to where I knew there was a McDonald's. I didn't fare much better there as it was the peak of the lunch hour, but I glanced at the mostly-empty inside and opted to park and walk in without fear that I'd be smashed up against a counter in close proximity of the innocent.
Now, I can't eat a whole lot before a dance rehearsal or a show. It's a bit of a change from my younger years. (During my run of Victor/Victoria, I would regularly consume a bacon double-cheeseburger, fries, large Coke and 3 eggrolls between double shows. By myself. No joke.) Just the thought of that now makes me want to yak. And... over the years, my body has decided to take the route of 'tough love' in reminding me vehemently that I shouldn't overeat before I abuse it.
I also suffer from an addiction to potatoes. It is something I believe was handed down by my Irish ancestors through many generations. No less than twice a week, I want one. I don't care if it's french fried, baked, mashed, hashed, herbed or au gratin. I gotsta have my root.
This was one such day.
And because the chicken snack wrap and fries would cost more than just getting a Happy Meal, I opted for the latter. It wasn't until I had ordered from the apathetic teen girl behind the counter that her expression became (dare I say) suspicious. I've ordered Happy Meals for my kids tons of times... but not recently. It made me nostalgic for the days when the kids were younger.
I realized with more than a little awkwardness that I (an adult) was ordering a kid's meal. For me. My mind justified it with, "This girl doesn't know I don't have a kid at home waiting for his or her Happy Meal. Single females walk in and order a Happy Meal every day." I made eye contact and she must have seen the doubt in my eyes because she cocked her head to one side, smacked her lips and said, "Do you want the toy?"
I hung my head and muttered a quiet "no".
I paid and got out of there as quick as I could.
They gave me the toy anyway.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Tiger Crucifixion
I'm really tired of hearing about Tiger Woods.
First it was all about his infidelity, then it was about his rehabilitation, then it was about his tantrums at the Masters... enough, people.
I'm tired of hearing about Tiger and Jon Gosselin and Eliot Spitzer and whoeverthehell managed to slip up and make a mistake (or twenty) in the public eye.
I'm tired of the public gasping and pointing fingers while they cry, 'We feel so betrayed!'
Why is it okay to hold people to a higher standard because they are a politician/celebrity/athlete? They are still people. Humans. Flawed and fallible.
I have an issue with idolizing people. I look up to many and strive to follow some of the better examples, but I can't imagine holding someone to a higher standard than I've set for my own self.
It's much more important to me to love someone for who they are, flaws and all, than to love the perfect representation of someone.
If you are that desperate for a role model or an example, I urge you to remember Jesus, Allah, Buddha, etc.
There is your story of a perfect human being.
As far as I know, another Christ hasn't come along yet, and if he had, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be masquerading as a politician or a golfer. Just my opinion.
Leave the mortals alone.
I've had enough.
/end rant.
First it was all about his infidelity, then it was about his rehabilitation, then it was about his tantrums at the Masters... enough, people.
I'm tired of hearing about Tiger and Jon Gosselin and Eliot Spitzer and whoeverthehell managed to slip up and make a mistake (or twenty) in the public eye.
I'm tired of the public gasping and pointing fingers while they cry, 'We feel so betrayed!'
Why is it okay to hold people to a higher standard because they are a politician/celebrity/athlete? They are still people. Humans. Flawed and fallible.
I have an issue with idolizing people. I look up to many and strive to follow some of the better examples, but I can't imagine holding someone to a higher standard than I've set for my own self.
It's much more important to me to love someone for who they are, flaws and all, than to love the perfect representation of someone.
If you are that desperate for a role model or an example, I urge you to remember Jesus, Allah, Buddha, etc.
There is your story of a perfect human being.
As far as I know, another Christ hasn't come along yet, and if he had, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be masquerading as a politician or a golfer. Just my opinion.
Leave the mortals alone.
I've had enough.
/end rant.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
A New Attitude - FTW
'FTW' is cyber-slang that has two meanings. I use it often with my geek-speak gaming intention to mean 'For The Win'. Just to clarify.
I hate being an actress between projects. It is said that an actor is really a professional job-seeker. We are never not marketing ourselves for the next paycheck. Right now, I'm sitting in the middle of my second longest 'dormant' period in the last 12 years. And it sucks.
I've had my corporate gigs and special events, outreach projects and workshops... and my oh-so-flourishing career writing copy (sarcasm)... to pay the bills (barely), but it's not the same as having a well-worn script within five feet of me at all times for six weeks straight. As an actress, those are the projects that give me a sense of purpose and drive. When that script disappears, my mood plummets. I no longer have tricky dance combos to practice in the kitchen or lines to run in the shower. The house gets a little quieter and there are no funny anecdotes from rehearsal to share with my partner.
Jay and I do our best to keep one another motivated and entertained during the 'in-between' times, but my constant demands for him to 'up the ante' are taking its toll. He's already perfected his juggling skills and has added many of my celebrity requests to his impersonation repertoire. I don't know how much more the poor man can take... he's doing his Tim Gunn as we fold laundry nowadays just to keep me smiling.
So, I've diagnosed myself as having PPD (or Post-Production Depression) as is common with many actors. The problem is common and can be exacerbated by an exceptionally great experience. It's easy to say 'goodbye' to a show that was a ton of work with little reward (either personally or monetarily) but it's not so easy to bid our farewells to the dream jobs. The last show I did was a dream job. Even the corporate and special events I do with PT are dream jobs, so I'm certainly not complaining.
I've lost some of my sass and verve lately. I'm lacking some of my usual confidence and it has taken its toll on me both professionally and emotionally. I still see the joy and beauty in life and in each day, but I've lost some of my faith in people and relationships (more of the friendship variety than romantic) and have become a bit cynical in the past couple of years. I either need an electric rod to jolt my brain or a project I can get enthused about.
I just hate feeling like I'm busy, but not really 'doing' anything. I'm not happy unless I'm using my creative outlets. I know there's supposed to be downtime in which we absorb and learn and observe, but I learn so much better by doing and by observing those in action. There's really only so much education one can get from books and youtube... which is what my schedule has me confined to.
So, as if the PPD weren't bad enough, I'm also suffering old-lady syndrome. I just turned 35 last month. Yes. Thirty. Five. Honestly, it's not that I think thirty-five is ghastly old because it isn't. It's just that I never thought I'd live this long. Marilyn Monroe died at 36. I remember my mother's 36th birthday like it was yesterday. I remember how young she was. As a young adolescent, I always thought my irresponsibility or my lack of common sense would have me in some kind of fatal situation by the time I was 30. So, at this rate, I suppose I should be incredibly thankful that I have my health, my kids, and the ability to pay my rent every month... since that's infinitely more than I thought I'd be capable of.
However, at this age, society tells me I should have a 401k and life insurance and my kids' college funds taken care of. So, I'm still way behind the curve on that one.
I need to get motivated. I need to get my butt in gear. And I need to recheck my attitude. FTW.
I hate being an actress between projects. It is said that an actor is really a professional job-seeker. We are never not marketing ourselves for the next paycheck. Right now, I'm sitting in the middle of my second longest 'dormant' period in the last 12 years. And it sucks.
I've had my corporate gigs and special events, outreach projects and workshops... and my oh-so-flourishing career writing copy (sarcasm)... to pay the bills (barely), but it's not the same as having a well-worn script within five feet of me at all times for six weeks straight. As an actress, those are the projects that give me a sense of purpose and drive. When that script disappears, my mood plummets. I no longer have tricky dance combos to practice in the kitchen or lines to run in the shower. The house gets a little quieter and there are no funny anecdotes from rehearsal to share with my partner.
Jay and I do our best to keep one another motivated and entertained during the 'in-between' times, but my constant demands for him to 'up the ante' are taking its toll. He's already perfected his juggling skills and has added many of my celebrity requests to his impersonation repertoire. I don't know how much more the poor man can take... he's doing his Tim Gunn as we fold laundry nowadays just to keep me smiling.
So, I've diagnosed myself as having PPD (or Post-Production Depression) as is common with many actors. The problem is common and can be exacerbated by an exceptionally great experience. It's easy to say 'goodbye' to a show that was a ton of work with little reward (either personally or monetarily) but it's not so easy to bid our farewells to the dream jobs. The last show I did was a dream job. Even the corporate and special events I do with PT are dream jobs, so I'm certainly not complaining.
I've lost some of my sass and verve lately. I'm lacking some of my usual confidence and it has taken its toll on me both professionally and emotionally. I still see the joy and beauty in life and in each day, but I've lost some of my faith in people and relationships (more of the friendship variety than romantic) and have become a bit cynical in the past couple of years. I either need an electric rod to jolt my brain or a project I can get enthused about.
I just hate feeling like I'm busy, but not really 'doing' anything. I'm not happy unless I'm using my creative outlets. I know there's supposed to be downtime in which we absorb and learn and observe, but I learn so much better by doing and by observing those in action. There's really only so much education one can get from books and youtube... which is what my schedule has me confined to.
So, as if the PPD weren't bad enough, I'm also suffering old-lady syndrome. I just turned 35 last month. Yes. Thirty. Five. Honestly, it's not that I think thirty-five is ghastly old because it isn't. It's just that I never thought I'd live this long. Marilyn Monroe died at 36. I remember my mother's 36th birthday like it was yesterday. I remember how young she was. As a young adolescent, I always thought my irresponsibility or my lack of common sense would have me in some kind of fatal situation by the time I was 30. So, at this rate, I suppose I should be incredibly thankful that I have my health, my kids, and the ability to pay my rent every month... since that's infinitely more than I thought I'd be capable of.
However, at this age, society tells me I should have a 401k and life insurance and my kids' college funds taken care of. So, I'm still way behind the curve on that one.
I need to get motivated. I need to get my butt in gear. And I need to recheck my attitude. FTW.
Monday, February 22, 2010
My Birthday... it's the shit.
Disclaimer: I have a conservative family that does not frequently use curse words. For the sake of this blog, however... I will be frequenting the word 'shit', both in the fecal translation and the contemporary slang for 'stuff' or 'things'. I mean no offense... only sophomoric humor.
That being said, my family... for as conservative as we may be in some ways... is incredibly 'open' in others. We have never known censorship or humility when it comes to bodily functions and speak openly about color, form, consistency, weight, odor and ingredient. With four kids sharing a bathroom, we became quite close... and gross.
My brothers have been known to take pics with camera phones and send them to family members when they are particularly proud or astounded by their fecal creations. My boyfriend is both awed and disgusted by my "poop humor", but is slowly being inducted into the fold of the unabashed. Slowly. And reluctantly.
And so it was, that I was on the toilet... after a 6-show week in which I had thrown out my back. I couldn't quite get my arm behind me and had to twist (which was painful and awkward) in order to merely wipe my own ass. After turning my adjustable showerhead into a makeshift bidet, I mused that it was almost 35 years ago when my mom wiped my butt for the very first time.
And then I felt it... age. Like a poltergeist or a lingering spirit of energies past, the last 35 years crept up my spine and weaved its tendrils throughout my limbs and joints before settling into my under-eyes, jowls, boobs, butt, hips and lower intestines.
My left ear is recovering from an infection that perforated the eardrum. My skin is awful from regular applications of greasepaint and sweat. My reconstructed left jawbone aches, my back is a mess and my knees are thrashed from so many years in character shoes.
And so it is that I take stock of my life and what I've accomplished and acquired. How much of it is quality and how much of it is.... shit? And where do I need to be in order to focus on more quality shit rather than the empty shit that just feels good at the time?
Holy crap. I'm starting to feel like I'm in my 30's.
But hey, I'm still ticking!... and shitting regularly. Concord Brown.
Some things never change.
That being said, my family... for as conservative as we may be in some ways... is incredibly 'open' in others. We have never known censorship or humility when it comes to bodily functions and speak openly about color, form, consistency, weight, odor and ingredient. With four kids sharing a bathroom, we became quite close... and gross.
My brothers have been known to take pics with camera phones and send them to family members when they are particularly proud or astounded by their fecal creations. My boyfriend is both awed and disgusted by my "poop humor", but is slowly being inducted into the fold of the unabashed. Slowly. And reluctantly.
And so it was, that I was on the toilet... after a 6-show week in which I had thrown out my back. I couldn't quite get my arm behind me and had to twist (which was painful and awkward) in order to merely wipe my own ass. After turning my adjustable showerhead into a makeshift bidet, I mused that it was almost 35 years ago when my mom wiped my butt for the very first time.
And then I felt it... age. Like a poltergeist or a lingering spirit of energies past, the last 35 years crept up my spine and weaved its tendrils throughout my limbs and joints before settling into my under-eyes, jowls, boobs, butt, hips and lower intestines.
My left ear is recovering from an infection that perforated the eardrum. My skin is awful from regular applications of greasepaint and sweat. My reconstructed left jawbone aches, my back is a mess and my knees are thrashed from so many years in character shoes.
And so it is that I take stock of my life and what I've accomplished and acquired. How much of it is quality and how much of it is.... shit? And where do I need to be in order to focus on more quality shit rather than the empty shit that just feels good at the time?
Holy crap. I'm starting to feel like I'm in my 30's.
But hey, I'm still ticking!... and shitting regularly. Concord Brown.
Some things never change.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Theatre Vent
Okay, I just have to vent. (Big shock.)
I am on the email list for local auditions (durantcom.com) and even when I'm doing two shows and can't possibly think of another project, I still read her updates religiously.
So I was perusing the various projects and theatres offering auditions for their shows when I came across one that caught my eye... for all the wrong reasons.
It was a local theatre offering auditions for it's upcoming stage production and at the bottom of the audition notice was a note stating that actors would be required to pay a $180.00 Participation Fee.
WHAT WHAT WHAAAAT????
To clarify, this is NOT a college production in which a fee would be assessed to register for the required class.
A fellow actor-friend said that it was explained to her that the participation fee is assessed to cover costumes and supplies for the actors during the show. It also seems that their technicians are paid... and paid well.
I'm incensed by this.
So, my question is this: How good can the talent possibly be if they are PAYING to be in the show?? My second question is: Do the actors get to keep the costumes, shoes, and props they've paid for?
Even if the latter is true, it doesn't make me feel any better... especially if you're doing a 'brown show' like Big River or Fiddler on the Roof.
In my world (which I admit is vastly different from actual reality) talented actors are PAID to do what they do, not vice versa.
I believe it was Olivier that said "If you're good at something, never do it for free."
Now, I break that rule often. I take pictures of friends for free, I do belly-casts for friends for free and every theatre season I do one to two shows for community theatres 'for free' either because of the people involved or the project itself (in the case of MET, people I've known and worked with since I was a kid, or @Pro where my 'peeps' do projects that no one else in the Valley will touch.)
But I have NEVER.... NEVER... paid to be in a show.
As actors, we all end up spending our own money on stuff that is show related.
Makeup, shoes, personal props, transportation, etc. Isn't that enough??
I've never seen a show at this particular theatre and I probably never will. I can't imagine that the talent is all that great... since most career actors I know command significant stipends and contracts for what they do and would laugh at anyone who asked them to whip out their checkbook in order to 'participate' in the show.
For $180 bucks, that theatre better drive me to and from rehearsals as well so I don't have to incur more costs for gas and vehicle maintenance on top of paying my 'participation fee'.
What a crock of shit.
If any of my friends or contemporaries are involved with this company, please know that I mean no offense when I say you are ridiculous and so is your "theatre".
/end vent.
Whew.
I feel better.
I am on the email list for local auditions (durantcom.com) and even when I'm doing two shows and can't possibly think of another project, I still read her updates religiously.
So I was perusing the various projects and theatres offering auditions for their shows when I came across one that caught my eye... for all the wrong reasons.
It was a local theatre offering auditions for it's upcoming stage production and at the bottom of the audition notice was a note stating that actors would be required to pay a $180.00 Participation Fee.
WHAT WHAT WHAAAAT????
To clarify, this is NOT a college production in which a fee would be assessed to register for the required class.
A fellow actor-friend said that it was explained to her that the participation fee is assessed to cover costumes and supplies for the actors during the show. It also seems that their technicians are paid... and paid well.
I'm incensed by this.
So, my question is this: How good can the talent possibly be if they are PAYING to be in the show?? My second question is: Do the actors get to keep the costumes, shoes, and props they've paid for?
Even if the latter is true, it doesn't make me feel any better... especially if you're doing a 'brown show' like Big River or Fiddler on the Roof.
In my world (which I admit is vastly different from actual reality) talented actors are PAID to do what they do, not vice versa.
I believe it was Olivier that said "If you're good at something, never do it for free."
Now, I break that rule often. I take pictures of friends for free, I do belly-casts for friends for free and every theatre season I do one to two shows for community theatres 'for free' either because of the people involved or the project itself (in the case of MET, people I've known and worked with since I was a kid, or @Pro where my 'peeps' do projects that no one else in the Valley will touch.)
But I have NEVER.... NEVER... paid to be in a show.
As actors, we all end up spending our own money on stuff that is show related.
Makeup, shoes, personal props, transportation, etc. Isn't that enough??
I've never seen a show at this particular theatre and I probably never will. I can't imagine that the talent is all that great... since most career actors I know command significant stipends and contracts for what they do and would laugh at anyone who asked them to whip out their checkbook in order to 'participate' in the show.
For $180 bucks, that theatre better drive me to and from rehearsals as well so I don't have to incur more costs for gas and vehicle maintenance on top of paying my 'participation fee'.
What a crock of shit.
If any of my friends or contemporaries are involved with this company, please know that I mean no offense when I say you are ridiculous and so is your "theatre".
/end vent.
Whew.
I feel better.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The fragility of life
Both yesterday and today, I have been bombarded with images from the devastation in Haiti.
Meanwhile, my boyfriend of nine years is pacing the floor while his mother recovers in a Florida hospital from a stroke she suffered late Monday evening. It has all brought home how fragile and unpredictable life... and death... can be.
Life is short. It will end for all of us, whether we expect it or not.
Often people say we hate qualities in other people that we hate about ourselves. Psychologists call it transference, but no matter what label you put on it, it's still hypocrisy. I've spent the last couple of years in an attempt to rehabilitate myself from some of the qualities that I find least desirable.
I have been consistently guilty of deceit, manipulation, and gossip. I am weak-willed and indecisive and I procrastinate horribly. I have often been too concerned with what others think of me and have let it prevent me from making choices that I know are right, if less than popular. I'd like to think that I've made some progress. I've reassessed my priorities in life and my days are more joyous than they have ever been. I no longer take the things for granted that I used to feel entitled to. I now know they must be earned.
Next month, I will turn 35. In my short life, I have had times of great prosperity and have been completely destitute. I have betrayed friends and family and have been betrayed by those I was closest to. Life has seen its ups and downs and through it all, I've learned some very valuable lessons. And re-learned valuable lessons I should have mastered in my youth.
I've often questioned - in the most spiritual sense - what life is all about. Is it about converting others to God? Is it about constant worship and supplication, giving thanks for our short time on earth? Is it about paganism and the pursuit of sensual pleasures and material goods?
I believe it's a balance between the two. I believe that the best way to show thanks for our lives is to live it to the fullest. To answer 'the call' of what and who we love the most. To thank 'God' by doing.
When I go, I'd like it to be said that regardless of the scandals and controversies - that I lived and loved... and created things of beauty. That I gave selflessly to my art and to my family. That I stood by my friends and offered them joy and comfort.
Life is short. We do not know how it will end. But every day can be (and is) a new beginning.
I'm still working on myself and I'm sure that even when the end of my life arrives, I won't be satisfied. But in the meantime, I love and find joy in every day. I no longer obsess over what other people think of me, but rather I find it more important (and more satisfying) to love who I am, what I do, and what I stand for.
I haven't always been the perfect mom, daughter, wife, artist, friend. I probably never will be perfect. But my flaws have helped to shape who I am... and have offered me room to grow and improve. Not every actress gets the chance to actually 'live' the glorious arc that we are sometimes blessed with portraying.
For the family and friends who have stood by me at my worst and best, I can only hope to give them a return on their investment and pride in having shared in my life, my love, and even my drama.
I ask myself every day "what do you hope to accomplish?" and "is it positive and uplifting?" and if not, "why are you wasting your time?"
A natural disaster could hit at any time. Bodies can fail at any time. Make the most of it... and the best of it... now. While you can. That's what I intend to do.
Meanwhile, my boyfriend of nine years is pacing the floor while his mother recovers in a Florida hospital from a stroke she suffered late Monday evening. It has all brought home how fragile and unpredictable life... and death... can be.
Life is short. It will end for all of us, whether we expect it or not.
Often people say we hate qualities in other people that we hate about ourselves. Psychologists call it transference, but no matter what label you put on it, it's still hypocrisy. I've spent the last couple of years in an attempt to rehabilitate myself from some of the qualities that I find least desirable.
I have been consistently guilty of deceit, manipulation, and gossip. I am weak-willed and indecisive and I procrastinate horribly. I have often been too concerned with what others think of me and have let it prevent me from making choices that I know are right, if less than popular. I'd like to think that I've made some progress. I've reassessed my priorities in life and my days are more joyous than they have ever been. I no longer take the things for granted that I used to feel entitled to. I now know they must be earned.
Next month, I will turn 35. In my short life, I have had times of great prosperity and have been completely destitute. I have betrayed friends and family and have been betrayed by those I was closest to. Life has seen its ups and downs and through it all, I've learned some very valuable lessons. And re-learned valuable lessons I should have mastered in my youth.
I've often questioned - in the most spiritual sense - what life is all about. Is it about converting others to God? Is it about constant worship and supplication, giving thanks for our short time on earth? Is it about paganism and the pursuit of sensual pleasures and material goods?
I believe it's a balance between the two. I believe that the best way to show thanks for our lives is to live it to the fullest. To answer 'the call' of what and who we love the most. To thank 'God' by doing.
When I go, I'd like it to be said that regardless of the scandals and controversies - that I lived and loved... and created things of beauty. That I gave selflessly to my art and to my family. That I stood by my friends and offered them joy and comfort.
Life is short. We do not know how it will end. But every day can be (and is) a new beginning.
I'm still working on myself and I'm sure that even when the end of my life arrives, I won't be satisfied. But in the meantime, I love and find joy in every day. I no longer obsess over what other people think of me, but rather I find it more important (and more satisfying) to love who I am, what I do, and what I stand for.
I haven't always been the perfect mom, daughter, wife, artist, friend. I probably never will be perfect. But my flaws have helped to shape who I am... and have offered me room to grow and improve. Not every actress gets the chance to actually 'live' the glorious arc that we are sometimes blessed with portraying.
For the family and friends who have stood by me at my worst and best, I can only hope to give them a return on their investment and pride in having shared in my life, my love, and even my drama.
I ask myself every day "what do you hope to accomplish?" and "is it positive and uplifting?" and if not, "why are you wasting your time?"
A natural disaster could hit at any time. Bodies can fail at any time. Make the most of it... and the best of it... now. While you can. That's what I intend to do.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Merry Christmas from the Barthson Household!
It has been a busy holiday season already, preempting any blogging for the last 10 days.
David had a very successful 16th birthday party with select friends and some family... and the comforts of most teenage boys; pizza, soda, ice cream, video games, lazer tag and bumper cars. Both of the working computers are monopolized during the day with the kids checking their emails, Facebooks, MySpaces, Twitters and of course... questing all the livelong day in World of Warcraft. Ah, the joyous sounds of Orcs in battle... it must be Christmas.
I haven't wrapped presents yet, but most of our Christmas shopping and crafting is done. I've never been organized enough to get Christmas cards out in time... and while I gather the kids and Jason every year for a 'Holiday Photo', it always ends up being a goof-off session for the family and no usable and appropriate picture has ever come out of it.
And so it is that I once again give a 'nod' to the technological advancements of Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and Al Gore (inventor of the internet) and offer up my e-Christmas letter in the form of bloggery.
Dear Family, Friends, Friends of Family, Familial Acquaintances and awkward lost relations,
Welcome to the Barthson Family Christmas Letter! This year has been alternately very exciting and absolutely mundane in the lives of Jason, Andi, David and Christina.
At this time last year, Jason and I were performing in 'A Winter's Tale' with Southwest Shakespeare Company. Our body of work last year brought some AriZoni nominations and I took one home for Best Supporting Actress in a contracted play for the role of Nerissa in 'The Merchant of Venice'. The accolade was bittersweet as Jason and I left the company amidst a lot of hooplah and unnecessary drama at the end of the season. We were incredibly sad to cut ties with the company as it's really the only consistent Shakespeare gig in town and we loved the people involved . However, it has also opened up venues and vehicles that we may not have considered otherwise.
In addition to cracking our teeth in the voiceover market, I reintroduced myself to the world of musical theatre and was blessedly cast in Phoenix Theatre's production of 'Curtains'. In addition to working with an amazing group of people (cast and crew alike) I was able to get involved with some of their fundraising and outreach programs. It did my heart good to know that there is still plenty of work out there for plenty of good causes. http://ryanhouse.org/
During the day, Jason and I have been working from home with a company that offers proofreading and copywriting for various websites and 'E-how' forums. It has allowed us the flexibility to continue with our dramatic exploits and artistic ventures. We still dabble in creative photography and I have recently opened up a side business offering 'belly-casting' to pregnant women. http://livingartstudios.org/
We moved in June to East Mesa and are now living at Power and Brown in a cute little brick house with a fireplace and a converted office with a workshop in the garage for all of my crafting projects.
This year, David started his Sophomore year at Combs High School. He worked his li'l butt off in summer school to make up a necessary English credit and is now mainstreamed in all of his courses in High School. His art projects have become a focal point as his ceramics now decorate most corners of the house. His taste in music is stellar... and I say this because he dislikes Mariah Carey as much as I do. He is a typical 16-year-old boy in that he'd rather play Halo or World of Warcraft than do his homework, but he's still a snuggler who will watch sappy movies with his mom.
Christina is a blur these days as she juggles her schoolwork (all A's and B's), her social life (and current boyfriend Cody), with yearbook, Student Council, dance, theatre, soccer and volleyball. She is every bit as melodramatic as her mother, but thankfully smarter. Once she gets over her stage fright, we're all in trouble.
And finally... the cats... and we're down to four after losing Ozzy. Benedick, Sawyer, Claire and Spartacus (Sparkleberry) are spoiled rotten as usual. They are fat. They run the place and keep us on schedule.
And there you have our 'year in review' update. The economy tanked and we saw a lot of friends and family hit hard, which has us concerned.... but hopeful. Our lives didn't change much... we were poor artists last year and we're poor artists this year. And wouldn't have it any other way. We lost our car in August (on our way back from San Diego) and a couple of angels in our lives (Uncle Kyle and Aunt Pat) saw to it that we had transportation when we needed it. We left our positions with Southwest Shakespeare and opportunities opened up in places we never expected.
The year taught me about taking those leaps of faith. It taught me about standing up for what I know is right and good. It taught me about loyalty and persistence. It taught me about human frailty and personal victory. It also reinforced my belief that I am happiest when I am following my 'calling'. To sing, to dance, to laugh, to love... to spread joy.
I thank you, my friends and family, for being my motivation and my inspiration. Thank you for supporting me and loving me despite all my flaws. It is because of you that I have found such passion for life and art.
Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from my family to yours.
Andi
David had a very successful 16th birthday party with select friends and some family... and the comforts of most teenage boys; pizza, soda, ice cream, video games, lazer tag and bumper cars. Both of the working computers are monopolized during the day with the kids checking their emails, Facebooks, MySpaces, Twitters and of course... questing all the livelong day in World of Warcraft. Ah, the joyous sounds of Orcs in battle... it must be Christmas.
I haven't wrapped presents yet, but most of our Christmas shopping and crafting is done. I've never been organized enough to get Christmas cards out in time... and while I gather the kids and Jason every year for a 'Holiday Photo', it always ends up being a goof-off session for the family and no usable and appropriate picture has ever come out of it.
And so it is that I once again give a 'nod' to the technological advancements of Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and Al Gore (inventor of the internet) and offer up my e-Christmas letter in the form of bloggery.
Dear Family, Friends, Friends of Family, Familial Acquaintances and awkward lost relations,
Welcome to the Barthson Family Christmas Letter! This year has been alternately very exciting and absolutely mundane in the lives of Jason, Andi, David and Christina.
At this time last year, Jason and I were performing in 'A Winter's Tale' with Southwest Shakespeare Company. Our body of work last year brought some AriZoni nominations and I took one home for Best Supporting Actress in a contracted play for the role of Nerissa in 'The Merchant of Venice'. The accolade was bittersweet as Jason and I left the company amidst a lot of hooplah and unnecessary drama at the end of the season. We were incredibly sad to cut ties with the company as it's really the only consistent Shakespeare gig in town and we loved the people involved . However, it has also opened up venues and vehicles that we may not have considered otherwise.
In addition to cracking our teeth in the voiceover market, I reintroduced myself to the world of musical theatre and was blessedly cast in Phoenix Theatre's production of 'Curtains'. In addition to working with an amazing group of people (cast and crew alike) I was able to get involved with some of their fundraising and outreach programs. It did my heart good to know that there is still plenty of work out there for plenty of good causes. http://ryanhouse.org/
During the day, Jason and I have been working from home with a company that offers proofreading and copywriting for various websites and 'E-how' forums. It has allowed us the flexibility to continue with our dramatic exploits and artistic ventures. We still dabble in creative photography and I have recently opened up a side business offering 'belly-casting' to pregnant women. http://livingartstudios.org/
We moved in June to East Mesa and are now living at Power and Brown in a cute little brick house with a fireplace and a converted office with a workshop in the garage for all of my crafting projects.
This year, David started his Sophomore year at Combs High School. He worked his li'l butt off in summer school to make up a necessary English credit and is now mainstreamed in all of his courses in High School. His art projects have become a focal point as his ceramics now decorate most corners of the house. His taste in music is stellar... and I say this because he dislikes Mariah Carey as much as I do. He is a typical 16-year-old boy in that he'd rather play Halo or World of Warcraft than do his homework, but he's still a snuggler who will watch sappy movies with his mom.
Christina is a blur these days as she juggles her schoolwork (all A's and B's), her social life (and current boyfriend Cody), with yearbook, Student Council, dance, theatre, soccer and volleyball. She is every bit as melodramatic as her mother, but thankfully smarter. Once she gets over her stage fright, we're all in trouble.
And finally... the cats... and we're down to four after losing Ozzy. Benedick, Sawyer, Claire and Spartacus (Sparkleberry) are spoiled rotten as usual. They are fat. They run the place and keep us on schedule.
And there you have our 'year in review' update. The economy tanked and we saw a lot of friends and family hit hard, which has us concerned.... but hopeful. Our lives didn't change much... we were poor artists last year and we're poor artists this year. And wouldn't have it any other way. We lost our car in August (on our way back from San Diego) and a couple of angels in our lives (Uncle Kyle and Aunt Pat) saw to it that we had transportation when we needed it. We left our positions with Southwest Shakespeare and opportunities opened up in places we never expected.
The year taught me about taking those leaps of faith. It taught me about standing up for what I know is right and good. It taught me about loyalty and persistence. It taught me about human frailty and personal victory. It also reinforced my belief that I am happiest when I am following my 'calling'. To sing, to dance, to laugh, to love... to spread joy.
I thank you, my friends and family, for being my motivation and my inspiration. Thank you for supporting me and loving me despite all my flaws. It is because of you that I have found such passion for life and art.
Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from my family to yours.
Andi
Friday, December 11, 2009
Yeah, yeah, yeah...
I love to write. I really do.
Just like I love to act, sing, dance, and generally make a fool of myself in front of large crowds of people.
But there is something about my psyche or egomania that loves to differentiate between the work I love to do and the work I do to pay the bills.
In my theatre career, the shows I have loved the most and the projects that have challenged me the most were (with a few exceptions) unpaid or poorly paid gigs. And the projects that pay the best (software voiceovers, corporate gigs) have little to no 'personal gratification' to them at all.
And so it is with writing. My part-time day job is reading and writing. No joke. Alternately, I get some jobs that are mere proofreading and others that are involved research and summary projects. I read articles, published columns and blogs and such (mostly about business, finance and politics) and summarize them into small blurbs that are easily understandable to the average Joe. I don't get to decide which topics I write about and very rarely do I come across a project that piques my interest. I get bored with the material quickly and lose the motivation to write about my own stuff... leaving all three of my blog readers and my Facebook fans in the lurch. Sorry 'bout that.
As Christmas nears, the need to make more money has me taking on more work than my ADD brain can safely handle. And unfortunately, none of the articles have anything to do with art, fashion, social trends or the theatre. Damn. I'm going a little stir-crazy.
If only someone would pay me to blog...
...then again, it would probably only lose its luster if they did.
And so it is that I must get back to my oh-so-exciting federal bailout summaries in the hopes that I can make enough money to support my acting habit. I'm keeping my chin up, though. It could be worse... I could be waiting tables. Experience has shown that I'm a pretty crappy waitress anyhow.
Just like I love to act, sing, dance, and generally make a fool of myself in front of large crowds of people.
But there is something about my psyche or egomania that loves to differentiate between the work I love to do and the work I do to pay the bills.
In my theatre career, the shows I have loved the most and the projects that have challenged me the most were (with a few exceptions) unpaid or poorly paid gigs. And the projects that pay the best (software voiceovers, corporate gigs) have little to no 'personal gratification' to them at all.
And so it is with writing. My part-time day job is reading and writing. No joke. Alternately, I get some jobs that are mere proofreading and others that are involved research and summary projects. I read articles, published columns and blogs and such (mostly about business, finance and politics) and summarize them into small blurbs that are easily understandable to the average Joe. I don't get to decide which topics I write about and very rarely do I come across a project that piques my interest. I get bored with the material quickly and lose the motivation to write about my own stuff... leaving all three of my blog readers and my Facebook fans in the lurch. Sorry 'bout that.
As Christmas nears, the need to make more money has me taking on more work than my ADD brain can safely handle. And unfortunately, none of the articles have anything to do with art, fashion, social trends or the theatre. Damn. I'm going a little stir-crazy.
If only someone would pay me to blog...
...then again, it would probably only lose its luster if they did.
And so it is that I must get back to my oh-so-exciting federal bailout summaries in the hopes that I can make enough money to support my acting habit. I'm keeping my chin up, though. It could be worse... I could be waiting tables. Experience has shown that I'm a pretty crappy waitress anyhow.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Homo Crucifixion
A friend posted the link to a news story regarding a movement in California to ban divorce.
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/12/01/politics/main5845245.shtml
It is being tied in with the overturning of Prop 8 and the state's decision to ban gay marriage. The argument has become one of 'morality' between popular religious groups, citing that homosexuality is wrong according to the bible and should be afforded no 'rights' in legislation. Sanctity of marriage, right?
I was raised in a conservative Christian household. I learned from a very early age that there were fundamental 'morality' guidelines that I was to abide by. It was a long list of what-not-to-do. Don't kill, don't practice idolatry, don't bone your neighbor's wife, don't be an asshole to your parents, the basic 10 commandments. On further inspection of the bible, however, I was riddled with the questions that I imagine every inquisitive young adult has regarding the sacred text. My confusion only grew as I became old enough to question the doctrine I had followed naturally in my youth.
I met my first gay couple when I was cast in a local production of 'Annie' when I was 12. For most of the rehearsal process, we 'orphans' were on our own rehearsal track, having very little exposure to the adult cast members. It wasn't until we were closer to opening that I met Rodney and David, both members of the adult chorus.
I had watched Rodney (who I believe was the male dance captain) with awe through the rehearsals as he effortlessly kicked and leaped across the stage. He was a striking young man with piercing eyes, a chiseled face, legs for miles and perfectly pointed toes. He was probably in his mid-20's at the time, but I had an instant schoolgirl crush for the handsome dancing machine. He carpooled with another young man in the chorus who had one of the most amazing singing voices I had ever heard. As a young and naive girl, I naturally assumed they were 'BFF's.
I will never forget the tech rehearsal when I turned a corner to find them on the floor in a heap, giggling like little girls. Rodney had attempted a dance lift with David and had dropped him (they were both tall and built similarly.) Feeling like an intruder, I turned to leave when Rodney jumped up and asked if I'd try the lift he and David had just failed. I happily acquiesced, thrilled to have the chance to interact with the talented duo. We twirled and spun and they took turns tossing me this way and that before we eventually fell into a Rockette-esque kick line for our 'big finish'. From that day on, we were an inseparable trio.
I followed them around like a puppy, gleaning whatever information they were willing to share about dance, music, the theatre, etc. It was clear that they were the best of friends and they quickly 'adopted' me as their own orphan mascot. I was thrilled! The more time I spent with them backstage, the more their relationship puzzled me. I knew that theatre people were more affectionate and demonstrative than most people I had met, but their interactions were different. I finally got up the gumption and asked if they were related. They laughed and shared a 'look' before explaining that they were partners. "Partners in what?" (The only 'partners' I could think of were the partners at my dad's accounting firm and cowboys... I thought perhaps it was theatre lingo.) They clarified (in a whisper) that they were gay.
I'm sure now that they were having some fun at my expense with the conspiratorial whispers, but it somehow made the confession seem dangerous and exotic to my 12-year-old brain. Gay?? As in men loving men? No way. I'd only heard about such types in the briefest of instances and always in the context of the bible saying that such people were horrible sinners. I was both crushed and concerned, knowing that my new friends... these brilliant and beautiful people were going to hell.
I remember praying for them at night, asking God to help them not be gay.
Over the course of our production (which played for several weeks at Gammage and then again at the SunDome) I got to know several of the other adults in the cast. I was taken in by the charm of Bob Sorenson (who played our FDR) and the patient instruction of Noel Irick (the dance captain who taught me what a 'develope' was) as well as several other talented idols of mine (John Sankovich, Teresa Springer, Karen Morrow, John Schuck, Sarah Tattersall, and Molly Iforgetherlastname). But didn't get as close to them as I did my adoptive 'fathers', Rodney and David. I watched them for signs of evil, certain that the gay demon would expose himself if I was observant enough. But day after day, night after night, all I witnessed was love, acceptance and compassion.
At twelve, I didn't have a great understanding of sex. It was beyond my comprehension as I was just growing boobies myself, so I didn't think of relationships along the lines of fornication... though I knew that word was in the bible and had a bad connotation.
I can look back now and see that the relationship between Rodney and David started a chain reaction of questions that I would ask myself and respected elders as I struggled with the doctrine of my faith.
How could two people loving each other be an abomination to God? Wasn't there also a bible verse that says 'God is love'? How could that possibly be sinful? Were my brothers in danger of loving each other too much and being damned, too?? Gay didn't mean 'sexually deviant' to me as I had no notion of 'sexual normalcy'. All I knew was that these two beautiful men were damned for loving one another and it made me incredibly sad.
It wasn't until several years later (when I was experiencing the height of my own hormonal puberty) that I began to understand the moral repercussions of sexual deviance. I was able to research sexual abominations of the bible such as bestiality, homosexuality, adultery, premarital sex, and relations with a woman during her menses. (I love that word, menses. C'mon... say it out loud and giggle with me.)
I had spent a preponderance of my youth believing that sex was unpleasant, but a woman's 'Christian duty' to her husband. (I found out for myself at 17 that sex was indeed pleasant and only in the aftermath of losing my virginity did I seriously contemplate the moral sin I had committed by having premarital sex.) It only raised more questions, since I truly believed sex and physical intimacy to be an extension of or an expression of love and desire for another person. By engaging in premarital sex, I was now in the same 'sinner' category as the sexual deviants that raped animals and had butt-sex... which only raised more questions.
Being relatively sheltered, I wasn't allowed to listen to the radio or watch MTV, HBO, or anything that wasn't 'family friendly'. My Madonna cassette ('True Blue', which I received from a friend as a birthday gift) mysteriously disappeared from my room a week later. I saw my first Rated-R movie on a date when I was 16, unbeknown to my parents. So, I cannot blame my own promiscuity on my upbringing or the influence of sex on TV or in mainstream media. Was I genetically predisposed to like sex?
My relationship with the church and with God suffered because I knew it wasn't acceptable to 'pick and choose' parts of the bible to follow. I understood from family and church elders that the bible was to be taken in its entirety as a moral code for my life from start to finish. Being so 'black and white' meant that if I couldn't accept all of it, then I was following none of it.
For years now, I have been unable to classify myself as belonging to any particular religion. I still relate most closely with Christianity, but my grandmother will tell you that my soul is damned to hell because I no longer attend church regularly and disagree with some of the fundamental beliefs I was raised to accept as 'God's Law'. I cannot belong to a 'spiritual collective' that condemns, judges and rejects people who are valuable and viable children of God because they do not fit into the exclusive morality box we have developed in order to make us feel more like God's 'elite'.
I don't believe that homosexuality is immoral.
I believe that homosexuality is amoral and that homosexuals individually are either moral or immoral... just as heterosexuals are.
"God is no respecter of persons." (Acts 10:34 KJV) I believe that. And, I believe it applies not only to earthly appearance but also to physical expression, personality, and sexual orientation. I believe that He cares not one jot, iota, or yod about any aspect of our being human except that we try to reflect Him and His loving ways in all that we do. Spiritually speaking, love is the only real thing that can be multiplied and bear fruit. I believe that sexuality is, at worst, a parody of... or, at best, a parable of... the creative powers of God and the communion His saints have with one another in their "at-one-ment" with Him.
I believe that scripture interprets scripture... much like you find clues in Shakespeare to indicate and uncover meanings and motivations that aren't immediately clear to our understanding.
As the truth that God loves and accepts homosexuals is revealed to the Christian community, those who victimize and bully homosexuals in the name of religion will no longer have a cloak for their trespasses. Coming to an understanding that God loves everyone... and that God accepts everyone for who he or she is, and what he or she is in terms of sexual orientation... is crucial to countering the lies that have been spread about the irreconcilability of Christianity and homosexuality. Unfortunately, those lies have kept many homosexuals from Christ and Christianity. Hell, I'm not even gay... but that idea has kept ME from attending church for fear that I would be condemned by my peers for loving and accepting homosexuality as non-threatening and so very much less than deviant.
Homosexuals and heterosexuals are like cats and dogs. I have known many cats and dogs that are able to coexist. They just don't always understand one another. Most homosexuals have been thoroughly exposed to, and indoctrinated by, the interests, experiences and belief systems common to the dominant heterosexual culture and climate. It's no wonder we're fighting a morality war.
It is my true and heartfelt belief that God loves everyone. I am fairly certain that I am not going to hell because I've performed sodomy (very well, too). I'm fairly certain that God's only concern is that I love... not how I love...
I love both of my ex-husbands for many reasons, though I'm infinitely glad that separation and divorce was a viable option for me. Rather than banning divorce, I'd much rather see the Christian collective practice the love, acceptance, tolerance and compassion that God teaches.
I also hope that one day the gay community will forgive the harassment and injustice they have suffered at the hands of ignorance. In many cases, seven times seventy may prove to be the correct statistic.
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/12/01/politics/main5845245.shtml
It is being tied in with the overturning of Prop 8 and the state's decision to ban gay marriage. The argument has become one of 'morality' between popular religious groups, citing that homosexuality is wrong according to the bible and should be afforded no 'rights' in legislation. Sanctity of marriage, right?
I was raised in a conservative Christian household. I learned from a very early age that there were fundamental 'morality' guidelines that I was to abide by. It was a long list of what-not-to-do. Don't kill, don't practice idolatry, don't bone your neighbor's wife, don't be an asshole to your parents, the basic 10 commandments. On further inspection of the bible, however, I was riddled with the questions that I imagine every inquisitive young adult has regarding the sacred text. My confusion only grew as I became old enough to question the doctrine I had followed naturally in my youth.
I met my first gay couple when I was cast in a local production of 'Annie' when I was 12. For most of the rehearsal process, we 'orphans' were on our own rehearsal track, having very little exposure to the adult cast members. It wasn't until we were closer to opening that I met Rodney and David, both members of the adult chorus.
I had watched Rodney (who I believe was the male dance captain) with awe through the rehearsals as he effortlessly kicked and leaped across the stage. He was a striking young man with piercing eyes, a chiseled face, legs for miles and perfectly pointed toes. He was probably in his mid-20's at the time, but I had an instant schoolgirl crush for the handsome dancing machine. He carpooled with another young man in the chorus who had one of the most amazing singing voices I had ever heard. As a young and naive girl, I naturally assumed they were 'BFF's.
I will never forget the tech rehearsal when I turned a corner to find them on the floor in a heap, giggling like little girls. Rodney had attempted a dance lift with David and had dropped him (they were both tall and built similarly.) Feeling like an intruder, I turned to leave when Rodney jumped up and asked if I'd try the lift he and David had just failed. I happily acquiesced, thrilled to have the chance to interact with the talented duo. We twirled and spun and they took turns tossing me this way and that before we eventually fell into a Rockette-esque kick line for our 'big finish'. From that day on, we were an inseparable trio.
I followed them around like a puppy, gleaning whatever information they were willing to share about dance, music, the theatre, etc. It was clear that they were the best of friends and they quickly 'adopted' me as their own orphan mascot. I was thrilled! The more time I spent with them backstage, the more their relationship puzzled me. I knew that theatre people were more affectionate and demonstrative than most people I had met, but their interactions were different. I finally got up the gumption and asked if they were related. They laughed and shared a 'look' before explaining that they were partners. "Partners in what?" (The only 'partners' I could think of were the partners at my dad's accounting firm and cowboys... I thought perhaps it was theatre lingo.) They clarified (in a whisper) that they were gay.
I'm sure now that they were having some fun at my expense with the conspiratorial whispers, but it somehow made the confession seem dangerous and exotic to my 12-year-old brain. Gay?? As in men loving men? No way. I'd only heard about such types in the briefest of instances and always in the context of the bible saying that such people were horrible sinners. I was both crushed and concerned, knowing that my new friends... these brilliant and beautiful people were going to hell.
I remember praying for them at night, asking God to help them not be gay.
Over the course of our production (which played for several weeks at Gammage and then again at the SunDome) I got to know several of the other adults in the cast. I was taken in by the charm of Bob Sorenson (who played our FDR) and the patient instruction of Noel Irick (the dance captain who taught me what a 'develope' was) as well as several other talented idols of mine (John Sankovich, Teresa Springer, Karen Morrow, John Schuck, Sarah Tattersall, and Molly Iforgetherlastname). But didn't get as close to them as I did my adoptive 'fathers', Rodney and David. I watched them for signs of evil, certain that the gay demon would expose himself if I was observant enough. But day after day, night after night, all I witnessed was love, acceptance and compassion.
At twelve, I didn't have a great understanding of sex. It was beyond my comprehension as I was just growing boobies myself, so I didn't think of relationships along the lines of fornication... though I knew that word was in the bible and had a bad connotation.
I can look back now and see that the relationship between Rodney and David started a chain reaction of questions that I would ask myself and respected elders as I struggled with the doctrine of my faith.
How could two people loving each other be an abomination to God? Wasn't there also a bible verse that says 'God is love'? How could that possibly be sinful? Were my brothers in danger of loving each other too much and being damned, too?? Gay didn't mean 'sexually deviant' to me as I had no notion of 'sexual normalcy'. All I knew was that these two beautiful men were damned for loving one another and it made me incredibly sad.
It wasn't until several years later (when I was experiencing the height of my own hormonal puberty) that I began to understand the moral repercussions of sexual deviance. I was able to research sexual abominations of the bible such as bestiality, homosexuality, adultery, premarital sex, and relations with a woman during her menses. (I love that word, menses. C'mon... say it out loud and giggle with me.)
I had spent a preponderance of my youth believing that sex was unpleasant, but a woman's 'Christian duty' to her husband. (I found out for myself at 17 that sex was indeed pleasant and only in the aftermath of losing my virginity did I seriously contemplate the moral sin I had committed by having premarital sex.) It only raised more questions, since I truly believed sex and physical intimacy to be an extension of or an expression of love and desire for another person. By engaging in premarital sex, I was now in the same 'sinner' category as the sexual deviants that raped animals and had butt-sex... which only raised more questions.
Being relatively sheltered, I wasn't allowed to listen to the radio or watch MTV, HBO, or anything that wasn't 'family friendly'. My Madonna cassette ('True Blue', which I received from a friend as a birthday gift) mysteriously disappeared from my room a week later. I saw my first Rated-R movie on a date when I was 16, unbeknown to my parents. So, I cannot blame my own promiscuity on my upbringing or the influence of sex on TV or in mainstream media. Was I genetically predisposed to like sex?
My relationship with the church and with God suffered because I knew it wasn't acceptable to 'pick and choose' parts of the bible to follow. I understood from family and church elders that the bible was to be taken in its entirety as a moral code for my life from start to finish. Being so 'black and white' meant that if I couldn't accept all of it, then I was following none of it.
For years now, I have been unable to classify myself as belonging to any particular religion. I still relate most closely with Christianity, but my grandmother will tell you that my soul is damned to hell because I no longer attend church regularly and disagree with some of the fundamental beliefs I was raised to accept as 'God's Law'. I cannot belong to a 'spiritual collective' that condemns, judges and rejects people who are valuable and viable children of God because they do not fit into the exclusive morality box we have developed in order to make us feel more like God's 'elite'.
I don't believe that homosexuality is immoral.
I believe that homosexuality is amoral and that homosexuals individually are either moral or immoral... just as heterosexuals are.
"God is no respecter of persons." (Acts 10:34 KJV) I believe that. And, I believe it applies not only to earthly appearance but also to physical expression, personality, and sexual orientation. I believe that He cares not one jot, iota, or yod about any aspect of our being human except that we try to reflect Him and His loving ways in all that we do. Spiritually speaking, love is the only real thing that can be multiplied and bear fruit. I believe that sexuality is, at worst, a parody of... or, at best, a parable of... the creative powers of God and the communion His saints have with one another in their "at-one-ment" with Him.
I believe that scripture interprets scripture... much like you find clues in Shakespeare to indicate and uncover meanings and motivations that aren't immediately clear to our understanding.
As the truth that God loves and accepts homosexuals is revealed to the Christian community, those who victimize and bully homosexuals in the name of religion will no longer have a cloak for their trespasses. Coming to an understanding that God loves everyone... and that God accepts everyone for who he or she is, and what he or she is in terms of sexual orientation... is crucial to countering the lies that have been spread about the irreconcilability of Christianity and homosexuality. Unfortunately, those lies have kept many homosexuals from Christ and Christianity. Hell, I'm not even gay... but that idea has kept ME from attending church for fear that I would be condemned by my peers for loving and accepting homosexuality as non-threatening and so very much less than deviant.
Homosexuals and heterosexuals are like cats and dogs. I have known many cats and dogs that are able to coexist. They just don't always understand one another. Most homosexuals have been thoroughly exposed to, and indoctrinated by, the interests, experiences and belief systems common to the dominant heterosexual culture and climate. It's no wonder we're fighting a morality war.
It is my true and heartfelt belief that God loves everyone. I am fairly certain that I am not going to hell because I've performed sodomy (very well, too). I'm fairly certain that God's only concern is that I love... not how I love...
I love both of my ex-husbands for many reasons, though I'm infinitely glad that separation and divorce was a viable option for me. Rather than banning divorce, I'd much rather see the Christian collective practice the love, acceptance, tolerance and compassion that God teaches.
I also hope that one day the gay community will forgive the harassment and injustice they have suffered at the hands of ignorance. In many cases, seven times seventy may prove to be the correct statistic.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Kenny
My hands are cold and I can't help but think of Kenny.
In the summer of 2008, I met a man named Kenneth through mutual friends in the theatre. Everyone called him 'Kenny'... and a small collective referred to him as the 'Falstaff of Tempe'.
Kenny was gregarious and acerbic... a larger-than-life personality. Incredibly intelligent, artistic, and genuinely funny, Kenny kept company with a diverse group of people and had a stunningly beautiful girlfriend who was a good 20 years younger than he. Even if his mouth wasn't curved upwards, his eyes were always twinkling with a hidden smile of mischief or merriment.
I never knew a healthy Kenny. He had been battling cancer for some time, and was frequently marred with the sticky residue left behind by medical tape and medicinal patches. His large frame couldn't hide his pale skin or the dark circles under his eyes. He had good days and bad days dependent on his level of pain and discomfort. There was always some level of discomfort. Often I would visit and the first question would be "So, is it a good day or a bad day?" His response was likely something to the effect of, "Well, I'm not dead yet, so it's gotta be a good day."
Because I have a hard time opening up to people, and am especially private about my own medical affairs, I expected Kenny to keep me at 'arms distance' (as I probably would have done if the roles were reversed). He was guarded the first couple of times we met and later explained that he had some preconceived notions about my character based on gossip from mutual acquaintances. By the third or fourth time we met, however, we were talking about music and art, exchanging favored clips on youtube, discussing children, parenting, politics. It wasn't long before I was harassing him to play his banjo for me while we joked and yukked it up. Every time he called, I answered the phone with the same greeting. "What's the frequency, Kenneth?"
On his 'good days', there was laughter... and much of it. On his 'bad days' he would talk about death and I would snap at him for being such a Negative Nancy. By the late Fall, Kenny's health was deteriorating. On the surface, he didn't look any different... but his breathing was a bit more labored and it took more effort to move from one place to another. He was having a rougher time and his girlfriend invited Jason and I over to lift his spirits and spend some time together. I remember that night so well. We laughed... Boy, did we laugh...
Kenny was a collector. He loved the quirky items you only find at private garage or estate sales... the kinds of things antique shops would have no interest in. Old personal family photos from decades long forgotten, outdated magazines from the 40's and 50's with ads for cigarettes and weight-gain products for women desirous of being more 'curvy'. Ha! We went through cracked and worn black and white pictures of people we never knew and made up stories about who they were and what their lives were like. It was a wonderful night.
Shortly after that, Kenny was admitted into Hospice. It was a rude awakening for me as I was in denial about how bad his health really was. How could he be dying when we were just laughing and joking and sharing stories about life and human nature and making the world a better place?? Kenny was one of the good ones and I wasn't ready to let go of such a precious friend who was so new to my life.
Kenny returned home from Hospice, but my joy was short-lived when I realized it wasn't because he was getting better but rather because he needed the comfort of home to ease his passing. I was crushed.
It was now starting to cool down as Winter approached. Our visits were shorter now as Kenny was confined to his bed. I would pop in to say 'Hi' and see how he was feeling. At this point, the illness and the medications were wreaking havoc on his system. He was constantly hot and uncomfortable and I felt helpless not being able to do anything to ease his discomfort. Until the evening I came in and hugged him before realizing that my hands were icy cold from being outside. I apologized for my cold hands, but before I could remove them, he grabbed them and put them on his burning forehead, groaning dramatically with relief. It became a ritual that I would stop in and warm my hands on Kenny's face, back and neck... giving him a short reprieve from the burning within.
I remember the call from Chelsea (his girlfriend) when she suggested I might want to come by for a visit. We had just finished rehearsal down the road and so my friend Jim and I popped over for a quick visit.
Kenny and I talked briefly again about some of the same subjects that had become routine. He talked about dying, and expressed his acceptance of that and his contentment with his life. We talked about our children and the 'legacy' we leave behind. He was so proud of his son, calling him his 'best accomplishment' and believing him to be the sole purpose of his life. He asked me the same question he had asked on prior occasions, "Why are you so nice to me?" I didn't understand the question. I would reply that 'you reap what you sow' and that I couldn't imagine NOT being nice to someone like Kenny... who was so immediately likeable. When I was with Kenny, I didn't worry about how I looked or concern myself with being PC and saying the right thing. He was just openly accepting of people... because he loved them. Well, most of them... ;) I knew something was different that night. Kenny wasn't smiling like he had before. In and out of consciousness, his mood was somber and his tone was serious when he spoke. I joked a smile out of him finally and gave him a last hug before saying my goodbyes. As I hugged him, he whispered in my ear "Pray for me."
And I did.
Kenny died that day.
It was the last time I saw him and the memory of our conversation still brings tears to my eyes. When I feel despondent or have lost my faith in humanity, Kenny's words echo in my soul... reminding me to give people the freedom to be flawed and to love them anyway. There are times when I think he was a much better person than I could ever hope to be. He was the last person who was truly 'kind' to me... for no reason.
It is approaching the one-year anniversary of his passing. I didn't realize that until I sat down on the patio and attempted to type with fingers half-frozen from the cold winter morning.
My hands are cold and I can't help but think of Kenny.
In the summer of 2008, I met a man named Kenneth through mutual friends in the theatre. Everyone called him 'Kenny'... and a small collective referred to him as the 'Falstaff of Tempe'.
Kenny was gregarious and acerbic... a larger-than-life personality. Incredibly intelligent, artistic, and genuinely funny, Kenny kept company with a diverse group of people and had a stunningly beautiful girlfriend who was a good 20 years younger than he. Even if his mouth wasn't curved upwards, his eyes were always twinkling with a hidden smile of mischief or merriment.
I never knew a healthy Kenny. He had been battling cancer for some time, and was frequently marred with the sticky residue left behind by medical tape and medicinal patches. His large frame couldn't hide his pale skin or the dark circles under his eyes. He had good days and bad days dependent on his level of pain and discomfort. There was always some level of discomfort. Often I would visit and the first question would be "So, is it a good day or a bad day?" His response was likely something to the effect of, "Well, I'm not dead yet, so it's gotta be a good day."
Because I have a hard time opening up to people, and am especially private about my own medical affairs, I expected Kenny to keep me at 'arms distance' (as I probably would have done if the roles were reversed). He was guarded the first couple of times we met and later explained that he had some preconceived notions about my character based on gossip from mutual acquaintances. By the third or fourth time we met, however, we were talking about music and art, exchanging favored clips on youtube, discussing children, parenting, politics. It wasn't long before I was harassing him to play his banjo for me while we joked and yukked it up. Every time he called, I answered the phone with the same greeting. "What's the frequency, Kenneth?"
On his 'good days', there was laughter... and much of it. On his 'bad days' he would talk about death and I would snap at him for being such a Negative Nancy. By the late Fall, Kenny's health was deteriorating. On the surface, he didn't look any different... but his breathing was a bit more labored and it took more effort to move from one place to another. He was having a rougher time and his girlfriend invited Jason and I over to lift his spirits and spend some time together. I remember that night so well. We laughed... Boy, did we laugh...
Kenny was a collector. He loved the quirky items you only find at private garage or estate sales... the kinds of things antique shops would have no interest in. Old personal family photos from decades long forgotten, outdated magazines from the 40's and 50's with ads for cigarettes and weight-gain products for women desirous of being more 'curvy'. Ha! We went through cracked and worn black and white pictures of people we never knew and made up stories about who they were and what their lives were like. It was a wonderful night.
Shortly after that, Kenny was admitted into Hospice. It was a rude awakening for me as I was in denial about how bad his health really was. How could he be dying when we were just laughing and joking and sharing stories about life and human nature and making the world a better place?? Kenny was one of the good ones and I wasn't ready to let go of such a precious friend who was so new to my life.
Kenny returned home from Hospice, but my joy was short-lived when I realized it wasn't because he was getting better but rather because he needed the comfort of home to ease his passing. I was crushed.
It was now starting to cool down as Winter approached. Our visits were shorter now as Kenny was confined to his bed. I would pop in to say 'Hi' and see how he was feeling. At this point, the illness and the medications were wreaking havoc on his system. He was constantly hot and uncomfortable and I felt helpless not being able to do anything to ease his discomfort. Until the evening I came in and hugged him before realizing that my hands were icy cold from being outside. I apologized for my cold hands, but before I could remove them, he grabbed them and put them on his burning forehead, groaning dramatically with relief. It became a ritual that I would stop in and warm my hands on Kenny's face, back and neck... giving him a short reprieve from the burning within.
I remember the call from Chelsea (his girlfriend) when she suggested I might want to come by for a visit. We had just finished rehearsal down the road and so my friend Jim and I popped over for a quick visit.
Kenny and I talked briefly again about some of the same subjects that had become routine. He talked about dying, and expressed his acceptance of that and his contentment with his life. We talked about our children and the 'legacy' we leave behind. He was so proud of his son, calling him his 'best accomplishment' and believing him to be the sole purpose of his life. He asked me the same question he had asked on prior occasions, "Why are you so nice to me?" I didn't understand the question. I would reply that 'you reap what you sow' and that I couldn't imagine NOT being nice to someone like Kenny... who was so immediately likeable. When I was with Kenny, I didn't worry about how I looked or concern myself with being PC and saying the right thing. He was just openly accepting of people... because he loved them. Well, most of them... ;) I knew something was different that night. Kenny wasn't smiling like he had before. In and out of consciousness, his mood was somber and his tone was serious when he spoke. I joked a smile out of him finally and gave him a last hug before saying my goodbyes. As I hugged him, he whispered in my ear "Pray for me."
And I did.
Kenny died that day.
It was the last time I saw him and the memory of our conversation still brings tears to my eyes. When I feel despondent or have lost my faith in humanity, Kenny's words echo in my soul... reminding me to give people the freedom to be flawed and to love them anyway. There are times when I think he was a much better person than I could ever hope to be. He was the last person who was truly 'kind' to me... for no reason.
It is approaching the one-year anniversary of his passing. I didn't realize that until I sat down on the patio and attempted to type with fingers half-frozen from the cold winter morning.
My hands are cold and I can't help but think of Kenny.
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