radio silence. over.

once again, it has been much too long since I have written anything...

I literally have a constant list on my computer of things I want to blog about and I am not sure why I haven't written about any of them, but right now it is three in the morning and it is time to turn in.

but here is one random fact about me just for fun:

I love jalapenos. my mouth, however, finds them much too spicy.

I eat them anyway.

I love/hate you.

Oh New York, our Love Affair is so hot and cold...
Sometimes I think we are made for each other. Sometimes I think you are the love of my life.

but then sometimes I hate you. passionately.

and so it goes, back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes by the minute.

But whatever the case, whether I love you or I hate you, I will always be thankful for you. I am thankful for the things you have taught me and the realizations you have brought me. I think when you move to New York you can't help but let it change you...perhaps change is the wrong word. In fact, change is definitely the wrong word. It is more like New York awakens the parts of you you never thought you had.
As an actor I am aware of the full humanity of all of us. That is to say, whatever one of us is capable of doing, we are all capable of doing. We all hold the same capacity to feel every single emotion, to do any or every deed. Being aware of this common humanity is essential to great storytelling and to creating believable, relatable characters. And while I always believed in this, I would still find myself thinking, "I wish I could be as bold as this person" or "I just don't have it in me to do that" or any number of thoughts of that nature.
And then I moved to New York. And now I can say, with complete conviction, all those people you wanted to be like, you are already like them. All those things you thought you didn't have it in you to do, you have it in you. All the strenghth. All the boldness. All the silliness, and the joy, and the hope, and the willingness and anything else. We all have everything inside us.

and sometimes you need to move to New York City to let it out.
and sometimes you love it. And sometimes you hate it. and sometimes you feel both at the same time and you have absolutely no idea how that happens...
but that is precisely one of the things that makes you love it.

For When I am an Interesting Old Lady

When I ran through my living room and *somewhat ashamedly* announced to my roommates that I was on my way out the door to do a spur-of-right-that-moment something that was absolutely beyond silly, I paused for a moment to hear their feedback. I waited with anticipation for the gentle, loving teasing that was going to come, ready to bear it with head held high! or at least with head held up... but to my surprise there was no mocking to be had. Yes, they giggled for a moment at the sheer ridiculousness of my plot, but then Dana said, "It is just like Dani says, 'it will be a story for when you are an interesting old lady'".

I have probably heard Dani say this before, but for some reason, as Dana quoted it to me, it struck a new chord.

I think, perhaps, of anything I have wanted to be an "interesting old lady" tops the list. When I reach the age of old lady, whatever that may be, I want to have a slew of tales to share. I want to earn that interesting title and give it more meaning than it ever had before!

In discovering this desire in myself I have found an incredible freedom. For one to become an interesting old lady, one must begin to build their arsenal of stories and experiences now. So whenever I feel so inclined to do something bold or silly or important or frightening, I now think to myself, "This shall be one of the tales for when I am an interesting old lady" and suddenly I am free of that pesky fear that sometimes likes to hang itself from my shoulders.

and I will have you know that said ridiculous plot was completely worth it.

I am going to be a very interesting old lady.

Texts from my dad. Volume 7.

"Ash

Hippidy Hoppidy Boppidy

You know Hot Cross Buns

Ash and Heather making their

egg runs.

Hop Hop Baskets full to

the top.

Girls can't stop

Candy, candy, all for Pop.

Happy Easter.

Love

Dad"

Happy Easter to all!

hearts, then and now

This memory snuck up on me today and warmed me right through the rainstorm happening outside.

When Rachell and I were 12 or 13 we spent a lot of our time imagining our futures, as children are prone to do. I had big plans to be a Broadway star and Rachell was already hatching a plot to become the CEO of the Disney Corporation. However, seeing as we were young teenage girls, the vast majority of our discussion focused more on our romantic futures. We would lay in bed and watch the clock tick away the wee hours as we tried to avoid getting in trouble for being awake far past our bedtimes. We reached inside ourselves and examined our delicate girlhood hearts. Back then they seemed so strong and resilient; they beat out a lively song and they were smooth and pink and waiting expectantly. Our hearts were so open and ready then, they were eager and hungry and practically bursting out of our chests. Of course they had yet to be touched then...yet to be broken. I like thinking back to the way we envisioned Love then; considering the unblemished view of what we thought the future would hold. Some of the uncompromising hope from those days always sneaks back in to my heart when I remember those sleepovers and hours of giggling.

On one occasion, for whatever reason, Rachell and I decided we were going to design for ourselves the perfect boyfriends. We were going to get out our pens and paper and write our profiles of our dream men, and their attributes, and the stories of our relationships with them. That way we figured that should any unwanted advances come our way we could say, "sorry, I have a boyfriend" and then be prepared with a backstory...Not to mention we just thought it would be fun to think about. Perhaps we believed that in writing all this down we would will it to be true...

So Rachell and I set to work thinking of the perfect names and occupations and backstories. We made lists of the good qualities they would have; important things like "good hair" or "nice to his mom" or, for Rachell, "wears a backwards baseball cap." After we had created sufficient backstories and molded precisely the correct character we sat in my bedroom with the unfortunate pink walls and read them out to each other. Rachells "boyfriend" was named Shawn, as she had a deep and undying love of Shawn Hunter from Boy Meets World. He was a bit of "bad boy", at least by 6th grade standards. He skateboarded. I don't really remember much else about him, but Shawn was effective for Rachell...she used him as her imaginary boyfriend when needed and he suited her just fine.

As for my imaginary boyfriend, I cannot remember what I named him because as soon as I read his profile out to Rachell I promptly ripped it up and threw it away. As I was reading it I realized I didn't like him at all, in fact, I had created for myself the world's most boring boyfriend. And from that day on I have refused to make a list of who the "perfect man" would be because I realized that real people are so much more interesting. I realized that while I may know myself well, I need to be open to being surprised. I need to understand that there are some things that I don't know I desperately want. So often the best things in life come in those surprising moments, in the things you never expected, or the things you thought you never wanted. I don't want to miss those things.

There are many lessons I am so glad my heart has learned, despite the inevitable damage those lessons have inflicted on my heart. I can never love the way that soft girlhood heart would have loved, because I am different now. I like to think I am better. I am thankful for the way I see Love now. I am thankful I can see it as something real and tangible, something to find with my feet on the ground, something that exists not in this lofty realm that is above us, but rather on the streets and sidewalks we use everyday. But I do think there is still a bit of room for the core of that little girl heart that is still inside of me. There is a space for its hope and wonder and boldness; for the open arms it welcomes life with.

So I will try to unfold my arms from across my chest and let a little bit of surprise in. I will let some real living into my life.

let me grow old.

This is one of the most beautiful videos I have ever watched.

"we don't stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing." -George Bernard Shaw.

This is what I want for my life. I want to never outgrow some shenanigans, and to always remember how much fun it is to hop in puddles, and to always have people living beside me who are willing to play.

go forward.

Today...

When I began writing this post I was going to say something to the effect of, "Today I shall run right up to something most terrifying and I will look deep into its eyes and I will say, 'do your worst'. "

but then I realized that is not true.

what is true is that I am going to do something today that frightens me to my core and sends shivering nerves all up and down my spine and out through my fingertips. However I won't run up to that fear and challenge it with my feet firmly planted. The fact is that I will probably shuffle my feet and slink up to the base of that fear, instead of running towards it. and for a while I will try to avoid eye contact and pray that I make it through, rather than challenge it with an unwavering gaze. and maybe. hopefully. eventually I will be able to look right at it and say, "Do your worst."

But for today, it is ok to still hold onto a little bit of fear. because I am still facing it. I chose, of my own will, to look for something that scared me and do it. I can't do it with a brave face or with any bravado...but I am still willing to try. Perhaps that is the most we can ask of ourselves; the willingness to try.

home is where you keep your couch.

In 5 days it will be the 7 month anniversary of when I moved from the West Coast to the East Coast. Two days ago we finally got a couch for our apartment. And it is comfy. And I am sitting on it right now.

someone once said...

oh, do you know what I love more than almost anything? a really great quote.

I mean it. I seek out quotes on an almost daily basis. I will choose a topic or a person I admire and then start searching for whatever someone else said that can shed some brilliance and change the way I am thinking about life. I am hungry for all the perspective, and wisdom, and experience I can find...for the thoughts of minds greater than my own.

I could fill pages and pages with beloved quotes. I have hundreds of them written down in journals or random word documents or letters or post it notes on my desk. But for now I will just post this one. This is my favorite quote; it has been since I was 14. Unless you are an unexpected stranger who is reading this blog (and if you are WELCOME! I hope you like it here) you have already heard me say this quote. You might recognize it as one of the ones I scrawled across my closet mirror in blue window crayon...but I don't think I can ever read it too many times. and it has been too long.

" It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."
-Theodore Roosevelt

tunnel. trouble.

One might think that the Lincoln Tunnel would become easier to go through the more times one went through it.

One would be wrong.

I have found the opposite to be quite true. The more times I ride the bus through that tunnel, the more time I spend trapped in bus tunnel traffic (the very worst brand of traffic), the more difficult it becomes for me to look at the walls of that dubious cavern and not imagine the little tiles slowly popping off one by one and streams of water starting to break through the concrete.

One minute we have entered the tunnel. The next minute my mind has placed us in an end of the world action movie and I find myself looking around for Will Smith who will surely swoop in and save all of us buss passengers who will, without a doubt, be drowning in the very near future...

It is time for me to move away from new jersey.

musings.

I do believe there comes a point when the idea of never having your heart broken becomes far more terrifying than the idea of having it shattered into a million shimmering glass bits...

just a musing...

somebody tell those butterflies I am not twelve anymore.

Dear Current Celebrity of Choice,

I have such a silly crush on you....

and it is some of the most fun! Thank you ever so much.

Ashley

webster

Before I left I thought I knew what it meant to miss something.

I thought I knew what it meant to be homesick.

I thought I knew all sorts of things...

after I arrived I realized I didn't know anything.

And I learned so many knew things. I learned definitions of many words beyond the brief, removed dictionary. I learned in buses caught and missed. In conversations had and skipped. In teardrops shed in the shower. In time spent awake in very wee hours.

I learned new definitions. new words. the old words I thought I knew became obsolete.

and despite the inevitable harshness of the way life teaches lessons, I have found I am grateful.

Sometimes I think there is nothing more comforting than remembering I have so much left to feel. So much I haven't experienced. So many words I think I understand now that I will come to realize I have had all wrong.

There is so much left in life. so much life to be had.

and I want to feel it all.

I want to live the definitions. and perhaps make some of my own.

I will create new words.

suntan

I had nearly forgotten the sun.

Day after day of lacy snowflakes and murky ice puddles had nearly pushed the sun all the way out. The bitter wind had blown it about, round and round inside my head until the sun seemed like a dream from a child's fantasy.

but, that feeling of opening the front door and squinting through the bright light before you begin to feel a growing warmth slide across the surface of your skin like caramel sauce on vanilla ice cream. That feeling of pure delight and contentment. That feeling of boundless light going all the way through you to your bones until it is all you can do but close your eyes, spread your arms and smile up to the sky. That feeling of curling up in the sunny spot the window is creating on the floor, exactly like you have seen your cat do a million times. That feeling. The sun...I must have known it once, because I still have these suntan lines. I see them daily in the mirror as I undress and redress . I trace over them with my index finger. Around my shoulders and down my neck. I think about the time it took to acquire them and the countless hours pretending to be a mermaid in the swimming pool. The tan lines are fading, but they are still there; they are slow to fade. Upon further inspection I find more evidence the sun and I had been old friends once: permanent freckles and beauty marks on a complexion I was so certain I could protect. Those will never fade.

It has been months since I have seen the sun, but it is slow to fade with me. I remember it without even wanting to. Much the way I do with you. You are slow to fade with me. Have I loved you? Have you hurt me? Have you taught me something? have you loved me? have we laughed together? have we cried? have we mattered? I remember it all. It is there, written wordlessly onto my skin. Under my skin. I trace the suntan lines over and over in my mind noting the bits that are lighter than they were before and finding new ever fixed freckles I will never forget. I find I am glad for both the pieces that fade and the speckles to remember always.

I am thankful for the snow. I am grateful for slow fading.

and more than anything I am glad the sun found me today and reminded me there will be thousands more sunny days beyond the winter.

and new tan lines.

precisely.

wording is important.

at least, I believe it to be. Anyone who has received an excessively long email from me can attest to that fact. I explain and explain and explain until the message is long enough that I am certain the mere sight of it is daunting to the reader. I do this because I want to be precise, and more importantly, because I want to be understood. I want to convey exactly my thoughts as closely as possible so that people can best understand my heart. what i believe, why i believe it, where i am coming from. what all my theories are based upon.

even simple phrases we use each day imply a certain philosophy or worldview. Recently I have been pondering this one, "fall in love/fall out of love." I am certain I have used this phrase. But i don't believe in it.

I don't believe in the idea behind the wording. to say "i fell in love" implies that it was something i did not intend to do. almost that it was something that just happened to me. as if one day i was walking along and i tripped over one of those breaks in the concrete and love is where i landed. Of course, that is not the case. First of all, I believe that in order to "fall in love", you have to be willing to "fall in love." though i suppose i should say "be in love" rather than fall. Loving someone is not a passive feeling, but rather an action. It is something that takes a great deal of our time and energy and thought and emotion. It is vulnerable and frightening. Before we can be in love, we must be willing to love. and that is not an accidental, serendipitous happening of fate; that is a decision.

i do fully admit that there are some bits about being in love that are beyond our control. Particularly, that bit about who it is we are in love with. We don't seem to have full control over who that is...this is a mystery i will just never understand.

Even more than i disagree with the notion of "falling" in love, it is the notion of "falling" out that i despise. as if love was a place, like a floating island in the clouds, and by taking a wrong step you may just slip off and land right back on earth. We don't fall out of love, we stop loving. And those are very different concepts.

in fact, let us, for just a moment, imagine love to be a floating island in the sky (because really, that is kind of fun). If one is truly in love (on the island) then that is a place they have decided to go, and they don't fall off, they leave. In this scenario to really be in love means that you don't go anywhere that even presents a danger of "falling off" the island. you don't go near the edge, you don't test the boundaries. you don't explore dangerous territory alone. you choose to stay right in the center of the island. even when you tire of the company and even when other places seem to have much greener grass.

We don't fall out of love because love isn't something that happens to us, it is something we do. or don't do.

Sadly, these phrases have become so commonplace. (We have all discussed falling in or out of love. Even as I was writing this it was hard for me to think of other descriptions.) And because These ideas are frequently used, our culture has embraced the implicit philosophy behind them. Particularly the falling out of love side...I have heard many people claim the reason for their separation from their boyfriend/girlfriend or husband/wife is that they just fell out of love. People are relying on the empty idea of live rather than the alive reality. And that is part of the reason people are so afraid of love. Isn't it terrifying to think that one day someone could wake up and say, "I don't love you anymore" or, for that matter, that you may wake up and look over to the person next to you and think, "I don't love him/her anymore."? of course it is. The idea that we have no control over when love comes or goes would leave anyone hesitant...but it isn't a reality. Even when we don't feel like loving, we can still love. and that is the idea we should be spreading about love.

that is why wording is important.

have you missed me?

oh blog....it has been so long since i have shared my thoughts with you. Have you missed me most terribly? i thought you might...

to make up for my absence, i will share with you a most peculiar and slightly embarrassing fact:

I am terrified of taking a shower in the dark.

i have no idea why.

just the idea of it makes me shudder....*shudder*....

the christmas-y spirit.

I read this every year. I think it is so perfectly written and beautiful. I am very glad to believe in Santa clause and all the unseen wonders in this world.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

texts from my dad. Volume 6.

"Ashaleeeeeeto

i miss you toooooo.

hope you're over the cold and doing great things. won't be long before we'll be cooking together.

Love, Dad"

some truth.

"Let no one who loves be unhappy, even love unreturned has its rainbow."

-J.M. Barrie

"Dear Zachary"

I cry in movies.

that is just a fact. I can't help but become connected to characters and stories; to become invested in the journeys. Even when I try really hard not to cry (because, let's face it, it is a little embarrassing when you are caught weeping through "Lilo and Stitch") I am unsuccessful. Those darn tears just come and make a mess on my sweater...

I am in a documentary phase. I go on netflix and i search the instant play documentaries until i find one i think will be interesting. So one day I found this documentary called "Dear Zachary: A letter to a son about his father". I read the brief synopsis which basically said it was a movie this guy made because his friend was murdered and he wanted to create something so that the victims son could know who his father was. It sounded very tragic but it also seemed like it could be something really beautiful. I knew that I would cry because the very nature of the story is a sad one, not to mention this was a documentary and not a fictional story so that just made the whole thing more weep-worthy.

I started the movie and, as predicted, i started crying. Nearly immediately.

this movie was different however, because i literally cried the whole movie long. Usually I have some reprieve...

And then, somewhere near the end of the movie something so utterly heartbreaking happened and I suddenly felt like i wasn't sure my body could handle it. I don't think I have ever wept so deeply in my whole life. I felt like i couldn't breathe and my body was heaving and, if i hadn't been trying my very hardest to be quiet because my roommates were sleeping, I am certain i would have screamed. It was an emotion i have never felt before and it was so thorough and gutteral...and frightening.

the movie ended and i just kept on crying. and when i finally stopped all i could do was sit and be awed and be thankful.

the movie was tragic. tragic beyond what you think anyone could survive. but it was beautiful. It was about someone who was loved, in the truest sense of the word. I will always be haunted by it.

always.