Self-insertion and its quandaries

I have never conceived of my Shepard as myself.  Perhaps an extremely idealized version of myself in some ways - the “this is what I would choose if I were in this situation” mentality.  A lot of my personal traits crop up in my Shepard, magnified: the desire to do good, exasperation at ignorance, a carefully held-back desire to knock people’s heads together when they’re being stupid …

But my Shepard was not me.  There was something fundamentally not-me about her, and I thought that was one of the reasons I loved her so much: she was me, and not-me, and a powerful woman to whom, in some backwards way, since I ‘made’ her, I could look up.

And then I went to IMC this week [a few weeks ago] (the International Music Camp), where I interned with the drama instructors, and the coordinator described me thusly: “someone who has a wonderful “what more can I do?” attitude.”  I was touched, since I hadn’t felt like I was doing much more than what I considered my job.

I was in my car, listening to “M4 (Part II)”, by Faunts, which plays at the end of the first Mass Effect, and which always gets me thinking about my ME Shepard OTP (which is Shakarian in case you’ve been under a rock :P).  Mass Effect, and Commander Shepard, and all the other characters in this vast amazing universe, often get me thinking about life and its meaning and our place in the universe …

and then those sentences popped into my head.  ”What more can I do?” … and then, “This is my job.”

I realized that those two sentences described my Shepard perfectly. She sees it as her job to do everything in her power to make the universe a better place.  And I sort of feel like that’s my job, too, as an artist and as a human being.

Suddenly I had universes colliding, and I had a moment of mental vertigo. Commander Shepard - my Commander Shepard - was never really meant to be me. But she is me, in a way.  In many ways.

Or, perhaps, she is a woman whom I would like to resemble in some ways as I grow older and mature.

I think we see ourselves in all well-crafted characters, and so I can’t say I’m terribly surprised that I’ve started seeing Shepard in myself, and myself in Shepard.    But the way it happened … was just so … backwards.

Alright, musings over.  (Not really.  There will be/have been more.  Just not here.)

some thoughts on marriage

Preface: I've been in a relationship for just over four and a half years now, and have probably thought about marriage way more than a lot of people do in day-to-day life.  I'm just now starting to puzzle out what marriage means to me, and write a little bit of that down.  You're free to disagree with me, of course.  I think the meaning of marriage can differ depending on your personal situation, your culture/history, etc.  So these are the thoughts of one Caucasian, Canadian, Christian woman nearing the end of her teens.  They may or may not apply to you, and that's okay.

What is marriage, anyway?  A commitment between two people to be the other's partner, companion, friend - a promise to seek to fill the other's needs, directly or indirectly; a promise to guard and protect the other; a promise to love, cherish, adore, and respect the other as an individual - to uphold them with respect and love through any means possible. Marriage is a commitment to be steadfast when the other is weak, to love unconditionally through all the different permutations of love and life, to stand between the other and the world if they need a shield, or to have their back when they take on the world.

Marriage is accepting that it's never going to be perfect, but you want the other at your side, at your back, taking point, through all the imperfections.  Marriage is choosing to put the other first, and trusting that the other has your best interests at heart, and will do the same.  Marriage is trusting the other with every aspect of your life.

Marriage is living with a friend, near or far, physically and mentally, spiritually and emotionally.  Marriage is knowing the other is thinking about you.  Marriage is choosing to take on the world as a pair, rather than alone.

domesticity (or rather, the connotations thereof)

Domesticity is a funny word.  Does it mean powerlessness, or empowerment?  I suppose it depends on your personal bent.  I think it can be either.  For the person who needs to be out and about, domesticity can be deadly to the spirit; for the person who seeks a home ground, a safe haven, a place of their own design, then domesticity can be a godsend.

But don't we all want a home?  I would argue yes, but I would also put forward that home can have many definitions.  Home is where the heart is, after all, and if your heart belongs on the road, or on the sea, then a bungalow with a white picket fence just won't do.

How does one seek their home?  I have always sought escape.  From where, what - life? responsibilities? anxiety? depression? yes.  To where, what? ... Good question.  Isolation.  Art.  Intelligence.  A place where I am unafraid.  That is home - where you are unafraid to express yourself.  

I wonder how many artists are ever truly home, in their heart of hearts, in their soul.  

There is beauty in so many things.  There are no confines to beauty.  On beauty.  Beauty has no limits.  We see beauty differently.  And isn't that terrifying?

VISI, day 12

Today was overall pretty good.  It started off, after breakfast, with a session on the Alexander Technique, which was enlightening, if a bit frustrating - how do you know when you've found a good poise?  It's all about trust ... 

After the Alexander Technique session, which took an hour longer than it was meant to so I missed the poetry lecture (which I think is okay ... I mean, it would have been good, but I needed to hear the Alexander Technique stuff).  After that was a shorter lecture on how artists can engage with their communities and why we should; this was somewhat empowering, and certainly a bit challenging.  Our art is not for our sake ... 

I then scurried off to make a quick lunch, and then to an hour-long concert which, honestly, I could have skipped.  It was a lecture-concert, so it was nice to have explanations of the songs, but I didn't feel particularly engaged ... just informed.  

Then we had a workshop on world harmonies and rhythms, which was pretty cool.  We did some Afro-Cuban, some Afro-Brazilian, some Sacred Harp (where the notes are shown by shapes on the staff, and sun using modified solfege - I was skeptical at first, but it somehow made singing in parts right off the bat much easier, which has always been difficult for me ... ), and some Serbian music.  Fun to hear all the different harmonies, and to try to get all the rhythms together.  It's difficult, even as a decent musician, to get three rhythms going at once - feet, hands and voice!

The only coaching we had today was one I was really looking forward to - an acting coaching with Dean Paul Gibson, a Canadian actor.  He was not what I was expecting - very abrasive, very honest - but also extraordinarily true to his art and ... he really does care about you, I think, but he's not afraid to ask the really tough questions or to tell you flat out that you're not connecting, you're not performing, you're inside yourself.  The audience doesn't care about what you're feeling - they will only care when you draw them in, make them care, make them feel.  Two of the people in my group (one had to miss today's session) seemed very turned off by his manner, and so it was really tough for them to open up to his admittedly abrasive methods of teaching, but I thought I'd be a bit better since I really want to learn to act better, and, well, I thought I was pretty good at it already.

Ha ha ha.  we're all so deluded aren't we.

Dean didn't work on the same things with me as he did with the others.  With the others, he was driving them out of themselves, getting them to connect.  With me ... he made me see that I was Acting.  I was pushing the song to the audience, driving it into them.  I'm not afraid to meet his eyes, to battle away my discomfort and nervousness.  But he saw them, saw what I was trying to do (which was, in essence, prove that I could do this and wanted to make it better), and said, basically, that I wasn't doing it right.  Except he didn't say that.  

He almost immediately got me to sing the song (which is about lost love and seeking it again but not finding it) where I couldn't stop doing things.  He got me to pretend to sew a jacket.  Smell the jacket.  Give up on it.  Check dinner.  Check the souffle.  Check the potatoes.  Make bread.  Go to the door.  Look for him.  Is he there?  Go to the window.  Go back to the chair.  Go back to sewing.  Check the clock.  Never-ending.

It was exhausting.  It connected me more with the actual situation.  I felt like I had a connection to the song already (feeling like love isn't quite what it used to be, and wanting it back), but this was very visceral.  We talked about it for a bit, and then he told me to just sing the words.  Nothing else.  Just sing the words.

That was incredibly difficult.  I wanted to focus on the words, on singing them the way they should be sung, paying attention to the diction, to the sounds, to the colours.  But every time I tried, he said to stop, no, just sing the words.  Just the words.  So I tried.  Just thinking about the words.  What's next.  What's next.  What am I saying.  Not in any deep way - just the words.  

I felt entirely disconnected.  I felt like it was a dead performance.  Like there was nothing there.  My vocal technique worked, and that felt pretty good, but I wasn't focusing on it, so that's not a big surprise.  (It's kinda funny how well your body works when you just leave it alone.)  

And then the comments started.  Best performance of the song yet.  Words had nuances and colour.  Feelings were obvious.  I was absolutely stunned.  How on earth could that be?  It was contrary to everything I'd ever done onstage, in a performance.  I didn't feel anything.  I had no inner indication of any of those things but apparently they worked. 

I expressed as much, and he said it was because I'd already done everything.  I had nothing left to do - I was vulnerable.  At that point, what I needed most was to tell the audience just how badly this was hurting me.  It was the only thing left that I needed.  And it came through.  That whole body thing again, I guess.

So this left me in a bit of a tough spot, and I'm still there now.  That experience ran contrary to everything I've ever done, but it worked magic on the audience.  The entire experience of it was not difficult except in turning my training off.  It was less abstract and more concrete.  I felt grounded.  

But how can I know that it will work every time?  That is a very, very hard thing to trust.  Dean said that performing is not 'acting'.  It is being.  Acting is reality.  You have to be in that place.

How do you choose to be in a place?

This is very difficult.