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“Ava did love to dream. She loved dreams more than her life, and at age thirty-five, she thought her dreams were her life. Helen accused her of building idle fantasies instead of trying to make real change.” – The Slow Moon
Ava and I are very much alike. I’ve spent ten years dreaming the same dream. I’m twenty-one years old and at times I feel like I’m experiencing a mid-life crisis without being in mid-life. I’ve been too passive about my ambitions. My dreams overwhelm me, like they’re too much for my body to contain. It’s all energy built within me gone to waste. I’ve dreamt of being an artist and entertainer of many sorts: fashion designer, painter, cartoonist, singer, pianist, ice skater, dancer, actress, and model.
As a child, I would dance on the living room coffee table singing Over the Rainbow missing half the lyrics and spent hours in the tub only because I’d get caught up singing a song over and over. I wanted to play classical piano pieces and compose masterpieces like Mozart. I used to wear slippers to slide around pretending I was a U.S. figure skater like Michelle Kwan; skillful and graceful. Jenny and I would spend hours after school learning dance routines from Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. I learned all the lines to Clueless, Beauty and the Beast, and The Little Mermaid. My childhood summers consist of watching movies and acting along with each character (I had a lot of spare time!). I wanted to be the great actress: the kind whose personality fades while only the character remained, like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada or Catherine Zeta-Jones in Chicago. At one time, I wanted to be a model, not for vanity, but to see new places; to experience new things; to open new doors instead of opening doors to places I’ve already experienced. As a child I loved Nikki Taylor. She was perfect to me, but I felt so different, as if I couldn’t live up to those unrealistic body expectations and I didn’t feel pretty enough.
Still, no matter what inspiration, the reverie has always been the same throughout the years, only evolved. I’d imagine myself on stage and I could see family, friends, and entertainers I adore sitting in the rows before me. I could sing any song, dance any style, and play any instrument I wanted. I’d do so perfectly. I would wear clothing I designed myself. I’d even make them laugh with jokes, with stories, or by acting out a skit. I’d be the ventriloquist like Jeff Dunham, the comedian like George Carlin, the funny character like Karen from Will & Grace, or the guitarist like Kaki King. I’d perform with musicians I looked up to and see actors enjoy my performance as much as I’ve enjoyed theirs. I would be giving them what they gave to me when I was a child. They were something I looked up to, something I’d aspire to be. Still, despite the dream, insecurity has always won out; the fear of failure and not being good enough. It has prevented me from trying no matter what compliment I received. I’ve only wished I had the courage to start sooner.
When I was fifteen, my urge to runaway to Los Angeles began. I felt there was something in Los Angeles for me, whether it be a person, a friend, a love, a relative, or experience. My body still aches whenever I think about that city. I get anxious, excited, and afraid; confident and insecure. Just a mixture of good and bad emotions. My mom finds it strange that for so many years, I’ve been dying to move there. The thing is, my dreams are bigger than my mind. My dreams are bigger than my body. My dreams are bigger than New York City.
