This just in from the Pot/Kettle/Black Presidential News Desk: Nixon called Reagan "[not] pleasant to be around."

It's been a mega-angsty, knot-in-the-gut, crying-or-on-the-verge-of-tears kind of week. In the same vein as this. And kinda like this too. Many whirling thoughts in my head, but in no particular order:

I love acting. I love singing. I love voiceover. I love writing. I love performing. I could do far worse than my day job. It pays me well and gives me security. I live like a bourgeois whore thanks to my salary, and it's a comfortable way to live. But I've lacked any and all passion for the day job for about 5 years now. I'll be 32 in less than two months. Deep down, I've known for a long time that I need to pursue my passion and at least give myself a chance to try any of the above performing arts and scale back on the day-job profession. Risk and compromise and vast sea changes come with this idea. And it's scared the shit out of me for a long time. I consider everything I want to do, and how to go about it; and then logistics turn to mush in the plans in my head, everything seems like an unapproachable and unrealistic pipe dream, I feel like Willy Loman with a theater degree, and just as soon as ideas materialize they dissolve like the ephemera they seem to be. And like the winter cycle that it seems to be, this existential crisis kicks me in the gut once more.

Talking to Mark put things in much-needed perspective. He related a story (paraphrasing somewhat heavily here) of when a boss asked him if he had a backup plan for his company's system (he's a system administrator). Mark said yes. When the boss asked to see a copy of it, Mark said it was in his head. Boss said, "If it's not written out, it's not a plan - it's a fantasy."

Bingo.

So what do I need to do? Write shit out. Organize. (Anyone who's seen my workspace or bedroom knows this will be a Herculean task in itself.) Narrow my focus - historically, I've loaded my plate with so many disparate things (especially the last few months with Java, singing, and v/o) that I lack the energy to concentrate on and really excel at a finite number of things, one or two. Most importantly: treat performing as a business, not as a flaky avocation. Extending these ideas will undoubtedly involve the question: do I move out of the Bay Area to where the business is? (The most obvious choices here would be L.A. - the more realistic and amenable location to me - or New York City.) If the answer is yes, I really need to have my shit together or I will fail.

And not insignificant in these deliberations is what happens with G. In two weeks we'll be celebrating our first anniversary together. Her presence in my life is invaluable, and envisioning a future without her is not an option. She's been an untiring champion of my artistic pursuits. She tells me she sees the excitement and energy I have when I perform, and even when I talk shop with her. She is the textbook definition of supportive. But her life is pretty solidly grounded here with her job, which is fortunate enough to be her passion. Rationally, if I moved to L.A., the distance would not be insurmountable by any means. A hit to our pocketbooks and respective autos, sure, but not necessarily an impossible distance to bridge. (My friends Jon and Barbara have found a way to negotiate this very distance for over a year, which gives me hope.) I know G doesn't really like SoCal. Hell, I think "dislike" may be too soft a verb in this case. But she said she'd give me "a summer and a semester" if I moved south (she's an educator), and if I were still there and thriving, she'd join me. I don't know what I've done to deserve her. A blessing unlike any other.

So: these questions and ideas and aspirations come home to roost. Again. I can only hope I have the strength to definitively answer the tough questions that have dogged me.

I pray to have the confidence in myself that if I decide to uproot myself, I can spike this stubborn provinciality in my heart and flourish outside my comfort zone (geographically and professionally) like so many of my friends have done in the last few years. (I think of Josh in Cincinnati, Moxie and Paul and Nojan in Seattle, Lee and Gary in Los Angeles, Mark in Vegas, Hanne in the pit of despair known as Baltimore. If H can throw herself so assiduously into all her wonderful writing while living in that godforsaken town, what am I frightened of?)

I pray to have the galvanized self-assurance that a profession like acting requires. To allow myself to fail. Fail wholeheartedly, without reservation if need be. Then I'll know for certain, not hypothesize what could be and torture myself with things that never were.

I pray to be. Not think, not dream, not wish. Be. In an endeavor that moves me. So simple on the face of it. So hard to realize.