I could probably write a book called "deleted blog entries." Its contents would be vague, but revealingly so. Its amazing the things we choose not to say. Or not to do. I think my life thus far might be more defined by things I didn't do. Not in a bad way. I have a habit of self-editing. For example, the first two versions I typed of this entry were both longer than this.

If I met the person I was a year ago, I don't think I'd recognize her. I wonder how much more will change in the next year.

I think at this point I've practically started a tradition of writing blogs while I procrastinate on stuff. And we all know that just because I'm out of school, that doesn't mean I stop procrastinating. I've got like 7 hours til we're supposed to start moving stuff. And...you can probably guess what the apartment looks like. This might be a throw-everything-in-boxes-haphazardly affair. I mean come on, I'm only going across town.

I'm babbling at this point. I think I'm in a very strange stage of my life right now. Some kind of quest for meaning. I've been thinking all week about how I want to do something impulsive and romantic. I don't know what, or what it would accomplish. As if everything has to "accomplish" something in my strange construction of the world. My brain works in strange ways. Who knows. Weird 2 am ramblings.

I'm hungry, and sleepy. Most of my food is gone. And I really hope there are less centipedes at the next place. I'm sick of watching them crawl along the walls late at night. I'm also really excited that I am wearing a sweatshirt right now. It feels like such a luxury to be cold.

Anyway, time to end this ridiculous stream of consciousness and actually pack. Or sleep. Something along one of those lines...

Lately I've been starting to come to terms with the fact that I don't want to be an actor. It's a surprisingly difficult thing for me to accept about myself. The part of me that wants to fit in really wants to be an actor...so many of my friends are, and so many improvisers are, and it just seems like the "normal thing." And when I meet strangers who aren't in the arts I introduce myself that way because it seems like the easiest, most recognizable way to describe what I do.

But it's not what I'm doing. Or what I'm trying to do. I look up audition notices but I never end up responding to them. I like acting, but the part of me that lights up when I'm improvising or directing just doesn't light up when I'm acting. And that makes me kind of sad, because I love the idea of doing it. Just like I've always loved the idea of being a writer.

But even though I'm starting to admit this to myself, there's a little part of me that doesn't quite want to give up on it. That says, "maybe if I just work up one more monologue..." or "maybe if I go on a few more auditions..." And maybe I'll do those things. But I don't know why I feel like I need to, when I already know what I really love doing. I guess old dreams die hard.

Packing is a bitch. Didn't I just do this?

Oh yeah...I did. Two months ago. I didn't even unpack everything and this still seems impossible to ever accomplish. Four more days... I saw the new place today. It is beautiful. Lots of character. Might be a weird next few weeks with construction and stuff going on. Need to come up with places to escape to.

Also, a shout out to my smart phone. Because my computer decided to hate our wireless network in this dumb apartment suddenly, the phone has become my modem. Which is amazing (despite the subpar internet quality) since everything is going to be in flux for another few weeks, and I can save lots of money on coffee now. It's weird how much everything is in flux. Soon I'll stop feeling displaced, I think. I hope.

Two weekends down for Sherlock Holmes. Three more to go. The show gets better every night. I could not have asked for a better first show to do in Chicago. And I'm just starting to get to work on my next project...so excited to be directing again.

It boggles my mind how different everything is now than it was a year or so ago, both inside and outside of my brain. Life is funny like that. It's a good thing though. I think maybe things will go in good directions. All my optimism ends up being vague, but it's there nonetheless.

I've gotten a lot more interested in writing lately. Perhaps it has something to do with how much time I'm spending alone these days. Or the fact that I don't see my friends very often and have some kind of deep-seated need to share my experiences with others. I mean, of course I do, I'm in the arts. But I guess it's harder to recognize that fact about yourself when you're actually around people all the time and thus implicitly sharing your experiences. I don't know. I am contemplating using this (because everything I do has to have some kind of ethereal "purpose" apparently) as a means to generate poetry or beginnings of stories. Why I can't just do this by writing in my own journal, I don't know. Maybe it's just easier to be motivated to write for an "audience," whether or not the audience is actually reading anything at all? I'm babbling at this point. Potentially starting my own new "personal project" on here. Whatever. Read it if you want. Or don't.

It's fine when I'm busy, but as soon as I'm not I find myself asking the question, "What am I doing here?" I ask it over and over. Sometimes I can come up with a good answer.