Welcome to "The Followthrough"

We all have grand ideas that never see the light of day. I'd argue most of our grand, lavish ideas never come to fruition because there's always some threshold we deem insurmountable or simply not worth threshing.

My idea was being a writer.

Although I've written a fair amount of blogs, I am in no prolific way a writer. I know I have a problem with followthrough so this blog space is effectively an archive to the sentiments of, "please hold me accountable for writing." But then, of course, I never write.

And it's ridiculous that I've placed such a burden on you, my one of two readers, when I KNOW and predestine that I will not even hold myself accountable.

Intellectually, I understand that if I want something, then I must design my circumstances in such a way that the only possible reality is the reality in which I get that thing. But I'm only just getting slapped in the face with the realisation that, "oh shoot. If I don't create these circumstances for myself, then my literal circumstances will never change."

This face-slap came in the form of a date: December 14th, 2020.

Wow, what a CRAP-TOWN of a day.

Ann Reinking died, as did my hopes of reuniting with my partner* after nearly 16 months of separation.

Ann Reinking was one of the most iconic humans in the performing arts. I never got the honour of meeting her, but as a student and intern of Broadway Theatre Project, which she co-founded with one of my mentors, Debra McWaters, I always felt mystically aligned with her legacy.

In reflecting on how much Ann impacted the fabric of history, I naturally began to reflect on my own life. A life that, even amidst a viral pandemic that has upended millions of other lives, has not changed.

No, seriously. This year, my life was supposed to change. I was supposed to move to New York City. I was supposed to be reunited with my partner. We were supposed to start living in an apartment together. We were supposed to start sharing a toilet, financial assets, a dog, our big break.

The week my partner was scheduled to board a flight from Melbourne to NYC was the same week COVID-19 said L-O-L. Instead, I boarded a direct flight back to my childhood bedroom, and me and the world began waiting it out.

Except nine months into this thing, I've witnessed friends get into grad school, move cross-country, marry the loves-of-their-lives, start very successful, more-than-one-figure businesses, adopt plants and puppies, fully gestate children, and create wildly hilarious, emotionally moving art.

And I'm still...waiting it out?

In October, my partner and I decided that enough is enough. We began compiling the necessary documentation to hopefully grant us an exemption to the travel ban instituted at the Australian border. Currently, no one is allowed in or out unless they have an urgent, compelling and/or compassionate need, are an immediate family member (with a valid visa), or have a critical and necessary skill (i.e. are one of the medical professionals carrying the whole of Team Society on their back).

As my partner and I have been in a committed relationship for two years, have lived together at residences for a combined total of eight months, and effectively fulfil the definition of a member of a couple as outlined by Australia's Social Security Act of 1991**, we thought we might slot into the Immediate Family Member category.

**Yes, I read it. Yes, this is what I do for love.

Welp, two months, lots of dollars, and 110 pages later, our first attempt at a travel exemption was rejected.

AND THEN I FOUND OUT ANN REINKING DIED.

I have her name for crying out loud!

Devastation.

Fine, fine, I acknowledge that things could be much worse. I also acknowledge that, according to the Partners Apart Facebook group, getting exempt on the first go is a nothing short of a Christmas miracle. There are people who are still denied after their thirty-first attempt.

But also, we're talking 110 pages of evidence: letters of support from mutual friends, supervisors, and loved ones that we hassled to get witnessed/certified/notarised, bank statements and transfers, employment and unemployment notices, mental health plans, appendices chock-full of pictures, social media posts, message screenshots, video call logs, and various chat application file downloads. I started calling this mammoth document our "relationship thesis" because even my Master's thesis was only 107 pages. I hyperlinked the table of contents to the relevant page numbers and section headings. I even font-paired Helvetica Bold with Times New Roman!

Okay, so maybe I made a mistake with the font-pairing. I'm still working on my graphic designer idea/identity.

The point is, we were denied.

And in my denial, I looked at the calendar. Bad choice.

It's been exactly one year since I purchased my one-way ticket to NYC. And amazingly, my life looks THE. EXACT. SAME. Almost to the dollar amount in my bank account. Prior to the pandemic, I was not working professionally. I was not with my partner.

Life, for me (and I'm sure for many others), has been suspended. Truly, my life looks like one of those horrifying jello moulds my Nana liked to force-feed me on special occasions.

I've made no marked forward motion in my career, health, relationship, or finances. I mean, I can easily chalk this up to grief, despair, industry shut-downs, civil injustice, political turmoil, and travel bans brought to a head by a global health crisis; but ACTUALLY, many of my personal goals can and could have been accomplished from right where I'm sitting now. On the back porch of my parents' house.

Now, I promise this isn't a pity party, only a preface.

I will not accept being in the same position I am now, next year. Well, I might be able to accept being in the literal same osition—cross-legged on my parents' patio couch—but only if it means my partner and I have decided to holiday in Florida after amassing millions of dollars in viral YouTube revenue.... Kidding.... Kinda.

But mark my words, on December 15th, 2021, I will not be the same. There are things in this world I cannot change, but I CAN change how I react to them, how I set myself up to be unfettered in the face of them, and how I thrive in spite of them.

I can also give myself the permission to unabashedly pursue the identities I've been longing to pursue--science comedian, singer-songwriter, Scottish Highland dance champion, just to name a few. I might be absolute shit at these things, but identities are only ideas until they see some followthrough. My future self simply wants to be okay with transmitting big dreams into a vast universe.

To make a point: I have about 10 Word documents dating back to 2016 of potential blog posts I never finished. In this last month of 2020, it is my intention to finally finish them.

Even if I do not become a "blog writer" by trade, I hope that by wrapping up these blogs and posting them on the interwebs, I will be practicing an act of followthrough that will instil in me the confidence and mastery to follow through on more things—like that face mask video essay I promised social media back in August.

So, if there are big ideas you want to follow through on...leave them in the comments below! *woman tipping hand emoji*

No, really, let me know. I'd love to know. And if you have any advice on how to set-up a solid retirement/investment fund as a "semi-regular freelance everything-er," I'd definitely love to know that too.

Until next time,

Which will be a lot sooner this time,

M

Rest In Peace, Ann. I'm pretty sure I watched this movie every day for an entire year. I couldn't wait to be like you. I still can't wait to be like you.

*A word on referring to my boyfriend as my partner: I would not be writing a thesis about our relationship if I did not believe we are Endgame. To some, the use of the word partner infers a non-traditional love; however, "partner" is the formal way of referring to a member of any couple, especially with regards to legal nomenclature. Now that our relationship is registered in the State of Victoria, we are "de facto partners". Nevertheless, we described ourselves as partners long before we got the certificate because we thought the terms "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" somehow trivialised the relationship we share.