Here's a toast to all those who hear me all too well--"Your art Matters--It's what got me here": Part 2

***Disclaimer: The title is a mash-up of the Eve 6 Song and a quote from One Tree Hill***

It's been nearly two years since I wrote an open thank you note to all the people that have inspired me. Two years. I should be saying thank you every day. 

Because truly, "Your art matters"--yes you--"It's what got me here." (One Tree Hill)

I am a go getter--a strong-brave--courageous-lively individual. But I am also grateful. I didn't get here on my own. I got here through all of you--through all of you in my past--through all of you who are in my present--through all of you that I've only met for moments--seconds in my life. I got here through my past--I got here through looking towards the future--and I got here through your constant pushes, your endless support, your brilliant love and passion for life and whatever it may bring. I got here through you. Yes--you.

I didn't always wear my heart on my sleeve when it came to what I truly wanted. The truth is--I've always wanted to be a performer--an artist--a creative soul giving her most intimate thoughts and gifts through words and writing on the side of the street. I always wanted to be in the school plays, take voice lessons so I could be on Broadway, and make art. Growing up, the only reality TV show I wanted to be on was Say What Karaoke. But up until my senior year of college, I never acted on it.  I am not sure if I was scared of what people would think of me--or if I just didn't have the confidence in myself. Whatever wall was stopping me seemed unbreakable. But I don't regret waiting so long to find my inner arteest (hehe)--because along the way, I formed friendships and long-lasting relationships with people who taught me to love myself and push myself in ways that have propelled me to become the artist --and person that I am.

I was an athlete. In everyone's minds that's where my life was going--athletics. When I was in eighth grade, I engraved it in my head that I needed to be good enough to get a scholarship for college--at softball. In sophomore year, I sat down with a recruiter and discussed how to reach college coaches. And by junior year, I was no longer focused on softball--but rather field hockey--another sport. I hadn't given myself a chance to TRY anything else. Being an athlete was all I knew. My life revolved around the emotion of the final game of a season--statistics--and morning runs. I knew nothing else--and my heart yearned for me to be trying EVERYTHING. I got a glimpse of what my heart was truly yearning for when I auditioned for class speaker, and won a vote to speak at my high school graduation. I compared high school to coffee--my inner art was screaming to get out, but again the wall built itself up. But my heart was yearning to be on a stage--somewhere--talking to people--laughing with people--performing. My head won this game. But I don't regret it.

What better way to get comfortable speaking and performing in front of people than playing sports--where you are put on display for people during every practice and during every game--choreographing just like a dancer how you'll dodge, move, and drive toward the goal. What better way to learn about performing in front of people than when you don't have time to worry about what people on the outside are thinking of you. It's just you and your teammates. It's because of those teammates--those coaches--those support systems--that I can perform. Here's to you.

Additionally I was always one to quote underdog movies: and prove that I should be on that field through my drive and my passion for wanting to be there for my teammates--for wanting to be a pillar to the foundation of a group of girls who meant the world to me. Through my teammates--through my coaches--through those support systems--through wanting to be there for people--who were always there for me--I found passion. Here's to you. My team.


When I moved to New York City, life changed. I met hundreds of people who were all part of team-dream (haha). I met hundreds of people who were following their passions. I met hundreds of people who made me realize that I could do the same. I met people who invited me to their shows--who asked me to watch them do their art--who showed me WHO THEY WERE. I met comics--and actors--and singers--and aspiring novelists. I met my acting class--I met my new mentors. I met people who were okay with being THEM--I met people who showed me that it's okay to be ME. These people are part of my team--these people are part of me. Here's to you--my team.

That's what life is about to me--the passion to perform--and the inherit pleasure in being part of a team--an endless team of people that are constantly making moves that in turn allow me to make my own. A team that often is off on their own, performing on stage, singing, dancing, playing and dreaming--a team that is inspiring me. I consider the world my team: My friends--my old teammates--my family--my new acquaintances--the faces of people who don't look back--the faces of people who worry, but push through--the faces of friends who pursue their dreams. You are all my team---Whoever you are--wherever you are--whether I met you in passing--or I spend time with you on a consistent basis--whether I read your blog--or followed your Twitter--I admire you--and I am inspired by you. I am me because of my team--This team. I am me because of  you.

                                                           "Your art truly matters. It's what got me here."

The Anatomy of 8 Million Dreamers

Every now and then a song speaks to us–and it speaks for us. It captures exactly what our hearts are feeling but are unable to say. It brings a tear to our eye, a smile to our face and a memory to our soul. It touches us, and we feel it with every ounce of our flesh that covers our body. And even though we know it wasn’t written for us, we know it doesn’t matter, that we can feel anything we want to feel when we hear it–as if it was written by our own hearts.

Every time I hear or listen to a song about New York City, my heart flutters. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t grow up here–or that I didn’t experience the trials and tribulations–the crime or the craziness–the soot or the sadness. All that matters is every time I hear a song about New York, I am reminded of the rush I feel each time I sit in Grand Central, or of the flood of excitement I have, each time I meet a new person, or of the disdain I have for the work day commutes (Ha), and, lastly, of course I am reminded of the passion and love I have for each nook and cranny in this city.

Each day that I was in Italy, I called New York City my home–and it’s no wonder–I have never felt more home than in the moments I have spent sitting in the subway trains; or in the moments that I have spent chatting over coffee at my favorite shop (Bourbon–14th street and 5th); or in the moments that I’ve spent on the Brooklyn Bridge; or in the seconds that I have spent in dodging tourists in Times Square. I have never felt more on top of the world than in the moments I stare out my 26th floor work window at the dazzling skyscrapers that reflect off of one one another in the night time glow. And I have never felt more relieved, relaxed, or comforted than in the moments I have spent with the friends that I have found, the talent that I have encountered, and the family that I have made here.

You know, they say if you let something go and it comes back–then you know it’s real love…well I left for a bit, three months…and I came back. In fact, it was nearly hours after I heard Empire State of Mind (II), by Alicia Keys, for the first time, that I made my decision to come home, months earlier than I had planned.

Like songs–I want this video to have captured what I feel each time I walk down an alley way–a street–or a set of subway stairs as well as what I feel each time I see or meet a stranger or watch a talented street performer. I wanted this video to play out like all the songs I hear that cause a tear to shed or a smile to cross my face each time I hear it, and think of this city. I wanted this video to speak what was on my heart while looking into the hearts of others–I wanted this video to dissect the anatomy of the dreamers that live in this city–that breathe this city–that love this city. Because really–if they can make it here–they can make it anywhere. I hope you enjoy:

Sometimes we lose an artist so he can draw a better world...

“There was no one out there who didn’t want to be Breht Boone’s friend. // A world-class conversationalist // Genuine .”

The Knicks are struggling in what could be their final game of the season. The Celtics are pounding, and the scoreboard reads four eights across the board: 88-88. The bar is rowdy and alive. The waitresses are hustling and the bartender is sliding shots down the line. The world is still moving, but a table of four that will soon grow to a table of 5,6, and eventually 15-20 is at a standstill.

I look across the table to one of the best friends that I have made here in this big endless city that sometimes echoes loneliness even when a bar is filled to capacity. His eyes try to swallow his tears, but they are unable.

“I just don’t know when I’ll break down again,” he says to us. One of his best guy friends reaches for his hands, and we nod in agreement. A night like this isn’t supposed to be easy—like the Knicks losing in the final seconds—this family feels the struggle of a tough battle—one that saw the loss of not a championship trophy, but a champion—a person who smiled beautifully, drew poetically, and lived genuinely. A person who would one day build a gallery of art to auction off. A person who allowed each person whose life he became a part of to be the highest bidder and have the opportunity to be a part of his.

I didn’t know Breht Boone that well. Before I met him, I knew of his epic alliterative name and of his art, of his kindness and his sincerity--and I before I met him, above all, I knew that I wanted to be his friend. Before ever speaking a word to him, shaking his hand, or giving a head nod hello, I knew that I wanted to one day have him be part of my life. The family of friends that I had been invited into last year had spoken so highly of him that I often declared to some of them, “Damnet, when do I get to meet Breht Boone?“

And then one day I did. And every word I had heard about the man, the artist, the cheerful soul, was undoubtedly true. It wasn’t before long that Breht and I were having a conversation with two, three, and then four other people about movies we hated, movies that were awesome, and movies that we couldn’t agree on. It wasn’t before long that I could see why each and every person I had met before Breht, had such kind and enduring words to say about him, his personality, and his talent.

Now, sitting in a bar with his New York City family, I can see their pain, their hurt, and their disengagement with any world that exists outside the one they are living in. Time has stopped. And even if the trains are moving, the streets are humming, and the lights in Times Square are glowing, this family doesn’t know that. They know what they are feeling and whom they are feeling it with. My friend is no longer trying to swallow his tears, his face is red, his hair is ruffled, and his body seems tired. Several others join him. From across the bar, I see others laughing over memories they have over the charismatic comic book fan, the man I was often told to be the last man standing at parties, the man they all loved and believed in. I see my good friends, remembering their great friend…their brother…their reminder that great people do exist in this world—people who are probably too good for this world anyway.

On the night that I met Breht, he reached to grab his phone and show me examples of his drawings. He told me how he was planning an art show, how excited he was for it, and how everything was coming together. It may not be the art show we all expected, but I am pretty sure he’s going to draw us a pretty beautiful and amazing gallery of a better world from up above.

And so I'll slip you into my heart like a Babe Ruth card into an album...

My baseball cards are in mint condition. They went straight from their aluminum packaging, years ago, into a safe plastic case. They are arranged by team, filling pages and pages of binders and binders that I refer back to when I am at a loss for a statistic. I am careful not to crease them, not to destroy them. They are timeless.

When it comes to friends, I tend to be one of HDTV’s Ultimate Hoarders. I tend to fill my life like an album full of baseball cards…I collect friends—all different types: Big, small, street-smart, book-smart, sport-smart, delicate, tough, fragile, strong—each one just as important as the last one.

Like baseball cards I carefully slip each one in to my heart like I would my Darren Daultons and Babe Ruths into protective coverings so that I don’t lose them, so that they don’t get hurt so that they don’t stray. I am careful not to hurt them—not to bend their words, fold their time in half, not to write on them with something I can’t take back. Like baseball cards, I assign value to them—not monetary—but love--and with the exception of my very best friends and a few others who have graced my heart, the love value statistic (LV for short) always comes out about equal: but I love them each in different ways. Like baseball players, some friends are better at hitting away and making big moves…others are better at making sacrifices, and some are better at pitching me words of encouragement. Each one has a different significant quality…each one of them, I want to believe, belongs on my team.

A good friend recently wrote about a time that she was collecting rocks with a young girl. They couldn’t keep all the rocks that they collected…and they had to leave some behind—the way we have to leave people behind—the way we have to let go of some in order to let others, others fit. But I don’t want to give up any rocks. I want to fill my garden with all the rocks in the world. I want to fill my baseball field with as many players as I can. If I build it—they will come (right Kevin Costner?! Field of Dreams).

But the truth is…you just can’t build a team of thousands. They would all run in to one another trying to catch the ball. They would drop fly balls because they didn’t know who called for it…and no one would ever get to bat more than once in a game—in a week—maybe even in a few months. The game wouldn’t go on—and it would ultimately hurt the team.

Even when collecting baseball cards, you start running out of pages—you start having to replace books, and you start having to give them away to make room for new ones. Even when collecting baseball cards, you can’t spend the same amount of time each day researching the statistics on the back…keeping up with how their skills and stats have changed. You have a collection of thousands of baseball cards, and you can’t keep up with them all. Time just doesn’t allow.

Slowly, I am learning to sort my baseball cards out, to take them out of their casings, and put them in new ones---solid, protected, unbreakable cases, ones that can be stored in a shoebox, that I can bury---hide—in a safe place---where they’ll go unbent, unfolded, untouched. Where they’ll stay safe even when I can’t tend to them…Where I know I can find them if I need them…where they’ll always be reserves on the team that I can invite out for a game a day, a week, a month down the road. Where they’ll always be on my team—where they’ll always have a space in my heart even if not on the clock.

A 20 for your thoughts?

I talk a lot. I am not sure if I always say a lot. But I surely do talk a lot. I talk about the world spinning round. I talk about the leaves falling off the trees. I talk about music to my ears. I talk about how people inspire me—how I inspire them. I talk about calories. I talk about beliefs. I talk about the future—the past—and the present. I talk about sports. I talk about clothes and money…I talk about material things, and I talk about wishes and wants and dreams.

I talk to family. I talk to friends. I talk to my video camera. I talk to myself.

And when a stranger offers me the candy of a conversation about something other than boys and problems in life…I take the candy, and I talk to a stranger—even if my parents once told me never to stop and talk to strangers. Because let’s be honest, if we never stopped and talked to strangers, would we have any friends?

Sitting in front of what I refer to as the Cloverfield Monster of Rome, The Pantheon, which sits tightly as the meat between two apartment buildings, I contemplate which was built first—the apartment buildings or the Pantheon—and how they got the columns there if it was built second. I try and engineer the building of the Pantheon in my head. ‘Well I know how they got the columns…’ My thoughts are interrupted by a middle-aged man dressed down who has just sat next to me. “Is there mass?” He asks me.

Reaching to button my jacket pockets—in case I have placed valuables within, I look at him and say “Non lo so” (I don’t know)

“Oh parli Italiano” (You speak Italian!)

“Un po,” I say. "English is my native language."

He begins speaking to me in English—very good English at that. “What do you do in Rome?”

Now clutching my backpack, half expecting him to have a gypsy attempt to rob me of all my belongings (my trust is still low since having my things stolen just over two months ago), “I teach English…but not for long. I return to the states in a month and go on vacation this coming week.”

“How much do you charge.”

I tell him that I charge 25 Euro for a planned lesson.

“And for conversation?”

“20 Euro.”

“Can I pay you 20 Euro now to talk to me in English for a half hour. It’s not often that I get to speak to a lovely lady in English for a half hour and I need it for my work.”

Still clutching my backpack, and still nervous, I look around to grasp my surroundings.

“What, you don’t want an easy twenty euro?” The man says to me.

‘Hold on,’ I think to myself. ‘Breathe. Take one more look around. Check your pockets one more time. You are in a tourist area. Stay weary.’ I continue my thoughts in my head ‘Stop being so serious. Relax. Breathe. 20 dollars to talk…..to talk.’

“Okay,” I say. “but one moment.” I quickly call my friend to tell her that I will be a half hour later for our cappuccino date.

And then I say, “But twenty is too much…” “No, twenty is not much, he says.” And then we talk—and talk—and talk—and talk. And we laugh, and we laugh more…and we discuss Michael Jackson and David Hasselhoff, and how Johnny Depp is for the young crowd—not his. And how George Clooney is looked down upon in Italy, but for Clint Eastwood—two thumbs up. And we frown upon Berlusconi and we talk about how beautiful Rome is and where else to visit in Italy—and we smile, and we enjoy one another’s company.

Not before long our half hour is up, and he initiates the end of the conversation by thanking me for my time and wishing that we could meet again. Genuinely saddened that I won’t be around Rome any longer, he says that he hopes to meet with me one day again so that he can again pay me to talk.

I feel bad taking his money, but he insists curling it between my fingers. A smile on his face, he says how much our conversation has meant to him, how nice it was to just sit and talk. I’d take that smile for my thoughts over the twenty, and I try to give it back to him—but when an Italian insists, you don’t argue (really—they get mad). And as he trots off with a giant smile on his face. I begin to wonder what his story is—what his family is like—if he still talks to them—if he is hoping to have his own family one day—if he is lonely—and if he was just looking for a friend…if I was a girl who was just a stranger---or if I was that stranger who could become that friend.

B.I.N.G.hOme. A Very Merry Christmas

Waking up to an empty apartment on Christmas morning is not something I have ever wished to do, nor after doing it this Christmas, do I ever wish to do it again. I believe that it was just last Christmas that my mom said to me that she wished she would never have to wake up alone on Christmas day, and now, I completely understand.

But that doesn’t mean you have to go the whole day on your own—alone—without “home,” without family. You can turn that lonely morning into a day full of happiness and community, a day full of spirit and surprise, a day full of love. And that’s just what I did this Christmas.

Knowing that Christmas was coming up, and that I had no plans set in stone, I made arrangements to work at a soup kitchen, in Rome, with a few friends from the class I just finished taking in Florence. Each of us, without family, thought that giving back to the community and helping those who don’t have a true home here either, would be a good way to spend Christmas. And while our expectations were quite off from what we would actually be doing, the experience was not dull or disappointing in any way , shape, or form.

In fact, I think spending Christmas in this way, at the soup kitchen, was even more rewarding than other soup kitchen experiences that I have had. I think that this Christmas experience was a true eye opener to just how many people are risk takers, leapers, and go-getters.

Walking into the church at 10:15 AM to begin set up, the head of the program asked us to begin cutting the dessert cake for the meal. After piecing thirteen plates of cake together, we had some extra time to chat with some of the others who were working. We met a man from Ethiopia, a woman from Brazil, and a few people from the Phillipines. Struck by the fact that we were from America, and almost in awe, they talked to us and welcomed us. Soon after, we met a family who lives in Texas and who came to Rome for the holidays. Thinking that we would be working with all italians, I was suddenly intrigued by the diversity of this group.

And then as people started filtering into the church for the four course meal, it dawned on me that this was not your every day soup kitchen that serves people who don’t have any food or shelter. This was something much more different, something uniquely diverse, and something I would have never imagined experiencing before this day. The people walking in were not struggling—and if they were—they hid it well—instead they were people who were either alone for Christmas, like I was when I woke up, or they were people who were traveling with no where else to go on Christmas. We leaned a lot of this as a priest began to make the first toast of the Christmas lunch by saying that he was glad to have the visitors and the travelers in attendance.

Suddenly, I felt less like a helper,, and more like an insider. Less like I was doing good, and more like I was getting to have a Christmas. And while I really wanted to spend the Christmas by giving back to the community on a day where I couldn’t give my friends or family at home anything under their tree, I found this to be a pleasant surprise.

Not before long, I got to talking to a student from Rome who told me about how much she loved Europe and all of her favorite places to go. Then it was on to three people from the Ukraine, and a couple from the Philippines, all who expressed great interest in talking and learning about the American culture while I attempted to learn about each of their own.

Wearing my Santa hat, I became the prime target for helping to hand out gifts with the true man that they dressed up as Santa. Seeing smiles on strangers faces over presents with big green bows made me smile. Seeing smiles on so many people from so many different places, all together, in one place, made me smile. Experiencing this first Christmas, away, like this, made me smile.

And as one of the organizers opened up a box of bingo cards to be played in the closing of the day at the church, all I could think about was how I felt like I had already won, like all five numbers across the center of my board had been called, how I had found h”o”me in a day when I felt like home was impossible to have. And as I studied the people’s faces around me, I began to think that they were feeling the same way, as if the organizer had just called all our numbers in perfect order…as if we had each just gotten B.I.N.G.hOme.

Why we keep in touch--Happy Holidays

A week ago, walking around Rome, I said to myself, “Thank goodness I have kept in touch with so many people in my life…For if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have had a place to live in Rome for the month of December, I wouldn’t have made the connections here that I have made, and I wouldn’t have followed through with making a leap to another country.”

And then last night I received the two most wonderful Christmas gifts that were wrapped up in words as a Facebook notification. “Sam Ojih tagged you in a video” “Hannah Brencher posted a video on your wall.” Sam and Hannah are friends that I have made only recently—and when I say recently, I mean not within a year, but within the last six months. They are two people that I have shared passions and hopes and dreams with. They are people who aspired to go to New York City. They are people who I have come to love dearly, and they are the two people who have made my Christmas away from home even extra special this year…they are the two people who this week have made me realize why keeping in touch is so important, even if you haven’t known people for all that long.

They both left me words of encouragement, words of thankfulness, words of love for the holidays, words of memories, words of what I can only call gratefulness and wonderfulness. They left me messages that I will carry with me this holiday season and that I will be able to go back to endlessly. Their words won’t be taped up to the wall above my pillow—but rather taped to the wall of my Facebook for me to return to again and again. Their gifts are timeless.

And I think that’s what the holiday season is about—giving people something timeless, something they can go back to, something they can read or watch or see over and over again that will make them smile—or cry (tears of joy in this case). The holiday season may be built up in every place in the world around the chaos of Christmas festivals and gift exchanges, but I think it is about much more than that—much more than bows and ribbons—much more than candy canes and Old St. Nick—much more than the physical things that we can hold in our hands. It’s about what we can hold in our hearts and what we can put in the hearts of others. It’s about reaching out to someone whose hand we may not physically be able to curl our fingers between but who we can touch in some other way.

Maybe we haven’t spoken to a good friend in a year…two years…or five years. Maybe a sibling has gone astray—or we have lost the ability to get along with our parents, our exes, or our childhood enemies. But I can assure you that keeping in touch—or—getting back in touch—could be one of the best gifts you wrap up with your heart this year…It could get someone through a holiday…It could get someone through it all.

Ten Americans and six foreigners sit in a circle...I swear it's not a support group

“It feels like we are in a movie,” said Alessandro across the living room as he stabbed his fork into a giant piece of turkey. “We see this in the movies, but we never experience it. This is my first Thanksgiving.”

Alessandro is an Italian man that one of our classmates, in Italy, took time to make friends with over the last three weeks. He is sitting across the room from me. To my left, a woman from Israel is laughing. Next to her is an Englishman, and another Italian. Just past a light shade, that obstructs my view, is a German. If you take another look around our room, you might not only notice the foreign differences but also the age differences as well. A retired woman, born in America, who grew up in Canada, is sitting three spaces to my left while others in the room have just nearly hit 23. You might think we are sitting in a support group for diversity, but this is far from what is happening. This is our Thanksgiving—ten Americans, and five, eventually six people who have never celebrated the giant turkey in the middle of the table, the green bean casserole, or cranberry sauce (which go for 3.90 Euro each at the International Ingredient store) before.

Here we were, ten Americans, and six foreigners, doing exactly what our ancestors did when they first celebrated Thanksgiving: sharing a meal, sharing our thanks, and sharing our happiness. To continue a game of tag here: The wonderful Hannah wrote a piece about what Thanksgiving is truly about and what home is all about on her blog just a few days ago at just about the same time as a home piece I wrote (hence the game of tag we are playing via cyberworld). And this piece she wrote helped me to solidify the fact that everything she wrote is exactly true.

Thanksgiving is about the giving. As we all went around the room, sharing what we were thankful for, a common theme began to develop. “I am thankful for the fact that I am not homesick right now,” said a new good friend of mine. Another said, “I am thankful for the fact that we can all come together to do this…” and “I am thankful for L and J welcoming us into their home for this.” The women from Israel added “I am thankful for all the beautiful Italian men here,” and we all had a great laugh.

Thanksgiving is not always about being with family, but sometimes rather, about being with people who you never imagined your life with, but who have made it better in some way, shape, or form. As a few of us fell into a conversation, a good friend started to say, “I couldn’t imagine my life without you guys in it…Like it’s weirder to think of not knowing you than to think about not getting married.”

And he is right—it would be weird. It would be weird not to be sitting with all these people, taking in the moment, tearing up at the thought of how happy you are, and getting a clear picture of what thankfulness and happiness are all about. This year Thanksgiving wasn’t about how many servings you ate at dinner. It was about how many diverse people you could bring together in one room and turn into a family…a wonderful new and accepting family who may lose the ability to see one another each and every day next week: but who will always have this one memory—this one “Grazieful” memory.

In the word of the Italians: Salute!

"Your Art Matters--It's What Got Me Here"

“Amidst all of the skyscrapers, all of the Broadway shows, and all of the chaos of the city, it’s not hard to find a person with a dream…a person with a passion…a person with a heart made of gold. “-Me

There is no denying what the city of New York has done for me over the past nine months. The city not only welcomed me with open arms, but it embraced me and held me tight while I tried to pursue all the dreams I had when I first arrived, which were to become a television producer and writer. But I didn’t find a career in coming here—I found something even better--I found gold.

Each day I have discovered new treasures. And the best part about it is that you don’t need a compass, and you don’t need a map—Every corner you turn, every alley you peek down, every block you stumble upon, there is some sort of gold within reach. It may be the best bagel on the Upper West Side or the best dive bar on the Lower East. It may be in the form of artwork in a Chelsea gallery—or it might be in the nooks and crannies of the subway stations. It could be in the cracks on the Brooklyn Bridge—or the artistic graffiti on the sides of buildings. Wherever you look—wherever you go—there is magic and a sort of rich feeling.

For me, the gold has been in all the people that I have met during my time in the city. From starving artists to acoustic guitarists and from graphic designers to actors and actresses…from drummers to singers…and from producers to writers—I have never met so many unique and talented people as I have met in these five boroughs. I have been lucky enough to surround myself by those who never let their passion falter—by those who push and push and work and work to keep their work alive. I’ve met make up artists working three jobs to help pay rent, and I’ve met comedians who waiter on the side in order to put food on their table. I’ve met writers and volunteers trying to live simply on only necessities.

Life is not easy: especially for all of those trying to really make it. But for each of these wonderful people that I have met, I can honestly say that for each of them it appears to have been nothing short of WORTH IT. These people, my friends, my acquaintances, my inspirations are living out what they want to do—in the city they want to do it in—and who could EVER criticize that? I have met people who have challenged me to be a better person, a more passionate person, and a more intensely determined creative person. This city introduced me to some of the most amazingly talented people in the world, and I know that this is just the beginning for most of them, and in five, ten years; this will just be a shot in their scrapbook filled with many more amazing moments of when they all make it. This city has opened up my eyes to all the talented people out there that I may have even been ignorant to in the past—including people from my hometown. The truth is you can find gold ANYWHERE you look. (Like the wonderful Paul Knakk).

In these nine months, I have met people who provide more love for others than space in this world provides. I have met people who are waiting for that one shot—that one opportunity—to do what they want to do, without caring what financial burdens that one thing brings for the time being—because in the end, it will ALL be worth it. I have met people who truly turn everything they touch to gold.

It has taught me to be spontaneous—jump into a new class, try something completely off the wall, and create my own adventures—so long as I am passionate about it. It is these artists, these guitarists, these graphic designers, these actors and actresses, these drummers, these singers, these producers, these writers, these comedians, these waitresses, and oh god the list could go on—it is these people that have pushed me to make the sudden leap to Italy. It is these people who have pushed me to act on my passions—my beliefs—my dreams. It is these people who are my gold in New York City and in Bethlehem, who have become my gold in life. I may have slept on the floor for months—and I may have eaten cheerios out of a box for two meals a day—but I have been the richest person …I have been a billionaire. And it’s because of you—you all—you see…your art REALLY does matter…It’s what got me here.

A side note: A good friend of mine is working to build a website that I am convinced will change the world, and I am convinced that most of the creative people that I have met—will in fact also do something so overwhelmingly amazing that it will change the world. So here’s your challenge—find another amazing person tonight, check out someone else I’ve tagged in those entry and connect with them—see how your creative powers can act together to combust with greatness. I’ve posted some links to help you out. But don’t be fooled there are many creative minds out there that don’t fit any of these categories (for example: Music Extraordinare: Dannya Azem). This list -- in no way, shape, or form encompasses all the gold that I have found in this city--all the people that I have found.

If they don’t have a link listed, don’t be afraid to ask me for contact information…I would be happy to put you in touch with any one of these wonderful people. And if you are someone who feels left off the list—let me know and I’ll add you immediately. I’m all about the connections…I’m all about the creativity.

ACTORS/ACTRESSES

BRANDON OPEL—ACTOR

CAROLINE RITCHIE—ACTRESS –WEBSITE PORTFOLIO
http://www.carolineritchie.com/

JENNIFER BISHOP—ACTRESS—WEBSITE
http://web.mac.com/jennifermbishop/iWeb/Site/Home.html

KIM DIPERSIA—ACTRESS—WEBSITE
http://www.KimberlyDiPersia.com/

MARK KIRSCHENBAUM—ACTOR

MARK PORTER—ACTOR

BEHIND THE SCENES FILM/THEATRE/TELEVISION

BRANDON OPEL—WRITER/DIRECTOR/PRODUCER

DAVID VENDETTE—DIRECTOR/EDITOR/PRODUCER—MUSIC VIDEO
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQEEVnSISxA

JOHN OLSON—WRITER
www.WonderfulOK.com

MARK KIRSCHENBAUM—DIRECTOR
http://www.showtimeboca.com
Also—this November, opening the World Premiere of a brand new, never done before version of “A Christmas Carol Musical

MEGAN NORRIS—HAIR AND MAKEUP ARTIST
--Has worked on Greta Gerwig, NBC talent Lauren Scala, ABC/NYC MEDIA Talent Tory Johnson, and Sharkstores

NATE SMITH—EDITOR/FILMMAKER—DEMO REEL
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3aMsn6Z8vw

COMEDIANS

NICK RUGGIA

DANCERS

EMMA POWERS—DANCER

GRAPHIC AND MULTIMEDIA DESIGN

ANGELA AMATO—MULTIMEDIA DESINGER
http://www.angelaamato.com

GRANT SIKON – GRAPHIC ARTIST

MUSICIANS

ANDREW CHABOT—GUITARIST--MYSPACE
http://www.myspace.com/kachinasound

BRANDON JACOBS—DRUMMER—YOUTUBE VIDEOS
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lc4eipnLHp8
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkrDZbIyizI

CAMILLE HARRIS—SINGER—WEBSITE
http://www.camilleyoungsilly.com

CHRIS DIFFERENT—SINGER and GUITARIST—WEBSITE
http://www.chrisdifferent.com

KATHRINE BECKER—SINGER/SONGWRITER—MYSPACE
http://www.myspace.com/suzysellout

MARK KIRSCHENBAUM—SINGER

MIKE URSO—SINGER

PAUL KNAKK—SINGER/SONGWRITER/GUITARIST

RYAN BAIR—SINGER

WRITERS

HANNAH BRENCHER—WRITER—BLOG
http://www.hannahkaty.com

LARA WILINSKY—WRITER—BLOG
http://glittermethis.blogspot.com