raison d'être.

College feels like a million miles away. It feels so far that it nearly feels like it didn't happen, or barely happened. I don't remember it. I didn't drink heavily. I didn't party hard. Sometimes I'm shocked by the amount of "doing" that I just didn't. I went to class; I auditioned for one play (and got so embarrassed by forgetting my monologue that I dropped out of the theater school entirely); I wrote for the Daily Iowan; I hosted a weekly radio show for three years on KRUI 89.7. I  called it "The Early Morning Airstrike."

Higher education — it's supposed to be this time of self-discovery, learning, adventure, finding out what you're good at, trying things — but I don't really think I did those overarching things. I was busy doing this and then that, creating friendships that when looked at closely these days aren't all that close (at least not anymore). Both of my college roommates ended up in Los Angeles post graduation, yet we seldom get together. It's no ones specific fault. We just lead different lives, have different interests, different priorities. We're different, after all. When I really think about it, it's unbelievable that we've made it this far because we are so different.

This time last year, I was just ending a sub-chapter back in a University setting. I was behind a desk, working in an office, watching students linger outside classrooms, skateboard past signs that say "No Skateboarding," and wear business suits as an assignment — And now a full year after that, I'm left wondering, where did it all go? Even if you're in the same decade, it's unbelievable how different a 20-year-old is from a 29-year-old. The incremental change each day of those 365 days from 29 to 30 hits you the day before your birthday. It isn't incremental at all. And now that keep hitting these painful numbers, it feels like I've somehow moved further away from something rather than toward something else. I don't think I'll ever feel my age again. Maybe when I'm 80. By then my hips, knees and eyes won't let me skip past the truth like they do now.

I'm not old. I'm not. I'm really not. But, I feel old. I feel left behind. I have this overwhelming sense that my life is passing me by. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Like I didn't just waste a couple decades. It seems that for most people their job is where they find their satisfaction, their reason to be, "raison d'être." And as a performer, it's tough to know that my career is somewhat in the hands of others. Yes, I can create my work — I can write for myself — I can join teams and perform shows, and so on, and on, and on; I can do all of these things, and that is amazing. But what does it matter if no one sees it. If no one thinks it's good enough to pay for. Where is my worth? I have so much control, but what is control anyway?

Google defines it as "the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events." But this is only a half definition to me. Control can direct, sure, but when you're out of control there is also a direction, and it's not always down. The relationship between control and success is a lie.

I have so much less "control" than I think. I can do what I can to direct the course of my life, but life will do what it wants, and other people in their lives are doing the same, and my life will intersect with theirs, and there will be "right time and right place," and then the less popular, but more common, "wrong time and wrong place," followed by the confusing, "wrong time and right place," and then of course, the ever frustrating "right time and wrong place." If we're looking at life as a Punnett Square based on life situations: Time and Place as the main variables — "right time and right place" accounts for just 25 percent of what life hands you, the rest, darlings, is unfortunately 75 percent the mismatching of everything else. We cannot control time. So inevitably control is for nothing.

If I want to make any money at my creative craft, that alleged control I love to have so much, goes to the birds. Others write my paycheck. It's incredibly tough.

Where does that leave me?

It leaves time as the constant variable that won't allow itself to be controlled.

Life is Long.

I hurt easy, I just don't show it

You can hurt someone and not even know it

The next sixty seconds could be like an eternity

-bob dylan, "things have changed"

Life is long. It is so long. I get it, "if you don't stop and look around once and a while, you'll miss it." Whatever, Ferris. I challenge you to think this instead — "if you don't look around and reflect and think about the future, you'll live your life without feeling the pressure of how daunting it is." 

Life is long. It is so long. I often forget about just how fucking long it is. There are full days I have no recollection of, there are full years I am told I lived. There are moments that last forever, days that won't end and feelings that never fade. Life is so long. It is so long.

It's so long that it stresses me out. Simply continuing to exist is this huge burden sometimes. It's a huge burden because there are so many instances to fuck it up. Every moment is a moment you can wreck everything you've worked for. Split seconds, that's what we get to make decisions that effect this whole long life. This incredibly long life.

You can fuck up your body, you can fuck up your mind, you can ruin someone else's life, you can taint the world with your very existence. There are so many opportunities to wreck everything, and it just seems like the bad far outweighs the good sometimes.

And, it's not fair. It's not fair how easy it is to destroy everything.

Even something as simple as weight gain or loss. Someone eats a hamburger, slurps a milkshake, they skip a work out, take the bus instead of ride a bike — our bodies suffer the consequences. Then someone eats a salad, drinks a glass of water, hits the gym, and rides a bike on their way there — our bodies are better for it, but you have to do that 10-1. What unfair odds.

I think of Adam Sandler in one of my favorite films, Big Daddy, as he chats with his new 5-year-old friend about eating. He makes the insanely accurate, and thus hilarious comment, "I drink a milkshake and my ass jiggles for like a week."

This life is so long, and lopsided. People remember the bad things said about them, they gloss over the good. You do it. I do it. Let's call an apple an apple.

Why do we do this? Life is too long to do this. Whether your life is 10 years or 100 years, every moment counts, so stop doing this. I'm in my twenties, and sometimes I feel as if I have been here forever. And it's this weight of knowing that even my own body will fail me, even my own mind will leave me, everything I have isn't mine — and that makes life feel so long.

Preludes and Post Scripts

"I am moved by fancies that are curled 

Around these images, and cling:  

The notion of some infinitely gentle 

Infinitely suffering thing." 

-T.S. Eliot, Preludes

I regularly find myself remembering snippets of poetry that I had memorized due to my high school pastime, Forensics (also known as Speech Team). If you've read back to old entries I talk of my love of T.S. Eliot often, specifically The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which to me, sums up the tone of loneliness absolutely.

People say that those who surround themselves with people the most are typically the loneliest. They're trying to fill that void. I feel as if I am that way. It's easy to get lost in others as an escape from ourselves. I've been trying to get away from doing this — but instead of feeling like I know myself better, I find that it's daunting to realize I may not know myself as well as I assumed. It's strange to spend all day every day being myself without thinking about it, and then with others I am someone else, a hologram. I am there, but not present.

To be in the latter half of my 20s and finding these findings seems so old. I know, I know, "You're not old!" But I'm not young, either. I'm not like a spritely young graduate. I'm not a bourgeoning teenager. I'm not a child. I'm not a young adult. I'm not an old adult.

We call people in their twenties, 20-somethings. We can't even come up with a real name for it. I'm a 20-something. What that something is, no idea.

I am a person chasing after it — what is "it?" There is no label. I could say I'm chasing after a career in the arts. I'm chasing after a dream to be a creator. I could say—. I could say it all — but what is it that we want in the end? When people die are they shouting from their insides, "I wish I had written just one more play!" "I wish I had just finished putting the shutters on the house I wanted to flip." "I wish this," and "I wanted that."

Doubtful that it is things or a to-do list accomplished. A bucket list, sure, yes, we want to do things, but to what end, who for or who with?

What turned out to be the preview to when my grandpa Harry died, when he thought it was the moment to go, that is, his 10 children and numerous grandchildren, his wife, were all surrounding him. Father Trout was there to anoint him with last rights. He asked my grandma Celeste to sing Danny Boy for him. It was very climactic, truthfully told. And we kept waiting for him to close his eyes the last time, breathe his last breath, say one last thing. But it didn't happen that way. The doctor came in after what seemed like only a few minutes, but was in actuality much longer, and said Harry was not yet going anywhere.

It was the strangest thing. We all had collectively decided this was the time, and then it wasn't. But, I got to see what my grandpa Harry wanted to be like in his last moments. He was lucid until the very end. And in some ways, he got to be there for his last moments twice, instead of just wasting away sedated. That seemed like such a gift to me.

Surrounded by the people who make us who we are — I suppose that's what I want.

"Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death 

Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death

Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death 

Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death 

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind, 

A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog 

By this grace dissolved in a place" 

-T.S. Eliot, Marina

"Who knew we'd never be younger than today?"

For the first time in a month I found myself with a spare 45 minutes and a mom on the line. God, I love her. I love that she's the one I go to for approval; I love that she has the ability to slice through my feelings like they're no big thing; I love that she can get me to admit all the things I'm stressed about, even as I know she'll throw in her unnecessary 25 cents; I love that this thought has been verbally expressed more than once: "Remember when I was in your womb?" I love her.

Periodically I'm struck by the concept of time shifting silently by. And it's almost unimaginable that some day I will look at my children and say, "You used to be literally part of me, friends." The moment I realize I'm 24 and today is literally the youngest I will ever be makes my heart race, not immediately because of stress, but because I have no idea why I am here, and I will just keep on going until I stop. And there's only so many moments left.

 

"Younger Than Today"
Ben Harper

You and I were looking at old pictures yesterday
Sitting in disbelief at how time slips away
Both at a loss for words to say, who knew we'd never be younger than today?

Foolishness protected us from the world outside
They could never come between us but we knew they'd try
We remembered living as if there were a way to forever be younger than today

Never looked at anything you didn't care to see
I was the one who wouldn't let you leave
Even though it was clear you couldn't stay
Had to try to be younger than today
Had to try to be younger than today

As we parted, you reminded me I'm alive
To remember when the stars danced just for you and I
May the shimmer of the summer always light your way and make you feel younger than today