God help me, but I read O Magazine today. It was a back issue at the gym, but that doesn't change the fact that I willingly picked up a copy of today's most platitude packed periodical and willingly READ said platitudes. A brief word about my history with O Magazine... At one of the jobs I've held, we took great pleasure in defacing each issue with Sharpies. Imagine what a 12 year old boy might doodle all over that magazine if given free reign to do so. We drew dongs everywhere.
That being said, it is January in Chicago. It is a cold, dark, gray place. In January in Chicago, despite the fact that we all know better, we forget that the sun ever existed. We huddle in our scarves, our mittens, our down coats, our Seasonal Affective Disorder and we wait. I found myself particularly vulnerable to Oprah's wiles on this January day.
Long story short, I read an article that went something like this: "Meow meow meow meow dreams. Meow meow meow meow, intentions. Meow meow meow meow can you even remember specific times when you were happy?" I scoffed, as I always do, but then I thought -- could I remember ANY specific times when I was happy? It took me the rest of the afternoon and well into the night to remember. And remembering WHY those moments made me happy took even more time.
I remember riding on the back of a motorbike in Rio, blasting up switchbacks on a hill. We kept getting too close to the buses coming down the opposite way and my knees would scrape their sides. I laughed and laughed.
I remember sitting on top of Acadia Mountain, eating a sandwich and taking in the view with my bosses and co-workers just a few hours before a show. The weather and company were perfect. The view of the ocean was glorious. The sandwich had apples and brie. Apples AND brie!
I remember standing in a classroom at the end of a semester when my students presented me with "a major award." They pooled their money and bought me a trophy. I carried it with me all day. I showed it to everyone I saw.
So why? Why these moments? Probably because I wouldn't have had them if I hadn't taken some kind of chance. When I learned about Theatre of the Oppressed, I desperately wanted to go to Rio to study with Augusto Boal. Then, one day, out of seemingly nowhere, I decided it was going to happen. I saved every penny I got. I bought a Portuguese phrase book. I bought a foldable map of Rio de Janeiro. Because I was so obsessed with getting there and studying with Boal, I talked about it all the damn time. Because I talked about it, people talked to me about getting there. Pretty soon, I was presenting at a conference where I met and worked with Boal. The professor who asked me to help present told me about travel scholarships through the university. Then, I got one. Then, I wound up on the back of a motorbike, delirious with joy that I was even there and delighted that I was accomplishing a life goal.
I would never have had the opportunity to work in Maine with people that I love, trust, admire and respect if I hadn't taken the chance to audition. And god knows what would have happened if I didn't have the good sense to realize that getting an opportunity is one thing -- protecting it and caring for it another. I have seen too many people get an opportunity and then coast, thinking their work is over. Hell, I've BEEN that person on more than one occasion. And if I hadn't dared to audition, if I hadn't dared to take it as seriously as I could, I would never have had that magnificent sandwich on top of a mountain.
And then there's that class... I loved all the classes I taught at the University of Georgia. As much as I loved my own studies, I'm pretty sure I loved teaching more. I would never have had the opportunity to meet my incredible students if I hadn't dared to think I could go back to school. I took an exceptionally long lunch at my temp job to go audition and walked through a fluffy snowfall to get there. I dared to think that I could pursue my MFA and that I could get a tuition waiver and assistantship. And damned if that isn't exactly what happened.
There are plenty of self-help books, articles and fortune cookies that will tell you that all you have to do to succeed is hone your intentions and put them out in the 'universe.' There is so much more than that, though. Talk about your dreams because people who can help might be listening and you may wind up at a prison for the criminally insane in Rio, watching a play about the nation's flawed mental health care programs (okay, my dreams are a little different than yours, but still...). Protect your opportunities and realize that they are not your goals, they are just the chance for you to achieve them. Dare to believe that you deserve some things. But here's a hint: if you haven't worked for them, you probably don't.
I realize that there may be a few people who will read this entire blog post as "Meow meow meow dreams. Meow meow meow intentions. Meow meow meow prison for the criminally insane." That's fine. But today I let myself be genuinely motivated by a magazine I usually make fun of and I didn't turn into a giant idiot. I guess inspiration really CAN come from anywhere.
"...listen close to me...Anything can happen, child. Anything can be." -- Shel Silverstein
Yesterday, I was reading an article in a paper whose name rhymes with the Schmatlanta Schmjournal-Schmconstitution and I happened upon an article by a woman who longed to leave the city for a bucolic country life. She extolled the virtues of hanging her wash out to dry on a clothesline and meeting neighbors who talked about things other than traffic and their next promotion. Then, she proceeded to drag out the most well-worn trope of the frustrated city dweller. Starbucks.
I should say that she maligned fancy coffee in general or, rather, the people who drink fancy coffee. With barely veiled scorn, she ran on for sentences about the "soy chai latte, half-caff, venti mocha frappachino" crowd and how ridiculous it was to want coffee this complicated. Complicated! Horrors! Someone should tell her that the last time this kind of rant was funny was 1989. That was the year that "LA Story" was made, a movie which showcased the first AND last time ridiculous coffee ordering was actually found humorous by the public at large.
This poor, maltreated city woman wants to belly up to a diner counter where she could pay a quarter for a bottomless cup of regular joe and chat with the locals for hours on end. Here's the thing... There is no place in the world where you can get a cup of coffee for a quarter anymore. Also, getting a cup of coffee in the country means that she'll probably wind up in some greasy spoon with abomidable food and hideous service which is still in business because it's the only restaurant in town and the senior center buses shut-ins there to get a hot meal. Therefore, the locals she talks to will probably be a lady who thinks she's her daughter (and/or a pony) and the local crazy dude who was discharged from the home for the criminally insane (budget cuts) and walks around in a stained brown parka 365 days a year, muttering something to himself...something that sounds an awful lot like "Half-caff double venti soy chai latte." Oh, and that coffee? It'll taste like crotch and give her the permanent runs.
How do I know this? I'M FROM THAT TOWN! The incomperably sane residents of that town drive up to an hour to get a decent cup of coffee. Sometimes they bring a thermos and order a "grande" so that they'll have some to take home. They dry their clothes in dryers, just like anybody normal, and they drive 15 miles to eat at Applebees because it means they don't have to endure a shitty meal at the hands of the fry cook at the greasy spoon whose best dish, truth be told, is crystal meth. "Country" people are a myth. The folks that live in rural areas are just city people with backyards and more parking.
Don't worry about that columnist, by the way... I've got a double caff, venti skim soy chai shut the fuck up already ordered for her.