You Have Nowhere To Be But Here

When I was seven, one night I put together a song and dance revue in my living room for a lucky family of four named the Reilly's.  It was performed to a compilation of the greatest hits of classical music, played on a scratchy record player.  I made my entire family sit in an assigned order on our pea-green sofa, the one that scratched and reminded me of regurgitated olives.  I danced, and twirled, and let out some whooping choruses I'd made up to go with my celebratory dance moves.  I think I fit some quick costume changes in there, too.  After it was done, and I'd bowed to glowing reviews, I asked my father if he'd liked it, prepping for more idolatry.  He told me (if memory serves correctly) it would've been better if I hadn't faced the dark bay windows the whole time, watching my reflection ever so carefully in the mirror of the glass as I twisted and leapt dramatically to the music.  Ah, the vanity, even then!

That memory, long since stuffed in the back of my brain, nestled in between my random knowledge of Harry Potter trivia as well as all of the words to the 1996 one-hit wonder, "Peaches" (Millions of Peaches!  Peaches for Me!) resurfaced today in middle of the orientation session I attended at the Actor's Network in Studio City.  It hit me, full on.  I remembered that feeling of shock when my father told me my back had been to my audience the whole time, I was so focused on watching myself perform.  The memory was so sudden, so surprising, but I remember that performance so well (even if my audience didn't).  And now, here I am, seventeen years later, still trying to figure out how to stop watching myself.

I do it all the time.  (You probably do too, to be fair.)  We are always watching, judging, highlighting, congratulating, criticizing ourselves.  It's not vanity, really, though, it's self-awareness in the worst way.  It's not being present.  That magical present acting teachers always talk about!  In my audition class the other night, we did the Blackout Exercise where you do a cold read (freezing cold read) and you can only see your lines.  Your partner's lines are blacked out.  It forces you to listen, and corrals you into staying physically and mentally in the scene with your scene partner.  I was the first to go, so I had no clue what I was doing, but as soon as I figured it out, man, the first thing I did was go, "I am so awesome.  I just figured it out and I'm winning this freaking scene!  I'm tearing it uuuuuup!  I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm aweeeeesome!"  And then, of course, that's when the scene went to shit.  Because I was thinking about my awesomeness instead of what the heck I was doing, which was...oh, yeah, oh it was acting. 

It's terrible.  It's really awful.  There are all kinds of ways to combat it.  I had a class where our teacher had us verbally state out loud, "I'm Back" every time you realized you'd zoned out and weren't paying attention to what was going on in the moment.  It led to a lot of awkward moments where 18 kids would be chirping simultaneously like morons "I'm Back!  I'm BACK!  I'M BACK!" But, in all seriousness, it was also a good reminder that we avoid the present all the time.  Our brains go to In N' Out for some fries animal style, while our bodies glaze over like shiny plastic dolls.  And then your brain unites with your body in a twitchy synaptic crash, and you realize, "Oh yeah, I'm sitting in Studio City, and now I just missed out on the last five minutes of this seminar because I was thinking about my dance moves as a seven year old."  

I enjoyed the orientation.  It was exciting, and I liked the people a lot, and it seems fair and beneficial.  But my brain...oh, how it wanders.  Especially when I'm tired.  Especially when I'm overwhelmed.  I was a little of both today.  It still rocks my world that you could network in this town all the live long day.  I have so much info rolling around my noggin right now (Send casting directors baked goods.  Screw baked goods, send casting directors alcohol.  Casting directors might be in program, send them just a postcard.  Be personal, don't just send casting directors postcards, send casting directors original artwork that is funny, quirky, and perhaps edible in large colorful packages.) I am starting to get really rather confused.  I'm going to start sending casting directors weird art made of brownies and soaked in vodka, wrapped in my postcard.  Since this business is so crazily subjective anyway, nothing really makes sense right now.  Which is why I'm avoiding the present, I suppose.  Things were so simple when I was seven.