A Starving Artist as an Alien

I graduated from high school 11 years ago yesterday.

...

I could get all nauseous-like about this.  Get nostalgic and think about my 11th birthday.  Do the whole "I'm old, what exactly have I done in 11 years?"-thing.

I could.  Any of that.  Entirely.

...

I was actually home last weekend.  I took three days to pop home and see my family, my best friend (for the SECOND WEEKEND IN A ROW) who's getting hitched in four months, and to make a sneak attack on a bridal shower for another dear friend from childhood.  Seven shades of bliss crammed into 57 hours.

My hometown is roughly 6.5 hours west of the Apple.

As cliche as it sounds to say that it's a completely different world, it is.  Completely.  It's quiet and suburban-borderline-country...a million miles of green, a million miles of lake, barns, vineyards, and this tiny little Main Street that has essentially nothing on it that isn't a family-owned operation.

Everyone.  Knows.  Everyone.  There's only 10,000 people there, and most of whom have always been there--and there's a tremendous coziness in that.

It is, hands down, the single sweetest place I know.

I woke up in my bed last Friday morning (the same exact one that I've slept in since I was 7), completely panic stricken.  I was overwhelmed by this terrifying little humming droan-ish sound and I had no idea where it was coming from but I thought it was wrong, totally wrong, something was amiss, this was an alarm of some kind and I didn't like it.

And then I sat there.

And my window was wide open, and there was an actual breeze--that didn't smell of concrete or garbage or pizza, but lilacs.  My dad's lilacs.

And then my simple little suburban-bred brain kinda creaked itself open and went You're crazy.  That's not an alarm.  Those are wind chimes.  Wind chimes, Angela.


Where.  The shit.  AM I?!


And I promptly ran downstairs to drink coffee on my front porch, just because I could, with no agenda, no place to be, no cacophony to distract me whatsoever.

It was foreign and wonderful and ideal and kind of out-of-body-like.  And Home.  Wonderful wonderful Home. Plain and simply.

...But Home is not a place that I could live.  Which sounds weird to say.  I mean to say that it's not a place that I could stay and plant myself, and I pretty much always knew that I couldn't, and there's a part of me that's always been kinda heartbroken about that.

But I couldn't.

In the lovely little whitebread storybook wonderland where I was raised, there is nary a starving artist to be found.

Nary an "artist" beyond the people who dip into Rochester to do the occasional play, the folk musicians who play in the townie bars, the jewelry makers and the woodworkers.  And that's all great, really and truly it is.  That's an absolute part of its absolute charm. 

But it's just not a thing that I could do.  And I know that about myself.

Correspondingly, it's always a funny thing to dip back there, surrounded by all of these people who you love and always unconditionally will, but all of whom are either teachers, lawyers, counselors or craftsmen.

And all of whom have gardens.

And all of whom drive cars.

And all of whom are either married or getting there, and talking kids and buying houses and health insurance and vacations.  Known things.  Stability.  In general.

I am a foreign foreign object in this place any more.

And it's taken me quite awhile to get ok with this, to not feel like I'm screaming WOOOOO! Odd duck.  ODD DUCK!!  Right here!!  whenever I walk into Wegmans.

But now:  it's totally fun.

"So wait.  How much are you paying for your place?"
         Well, the whole thing is $2550, but it just got raised a little...
"...How do you DO that?!"
        Meh.
"And you're just...acting?!"
       Welllllll, no, not quite.  That's where I hope to be...
"Wait.  What else do you do?!"
       Oh.  Ummm...
"Ohmygod, have you been on Broadway yet?!?!"
       Nooooooo no no no no no. Trust me, you would know.
"Are you gonna be soon?!"
       ...That'd be nice. ...
"Don't you miss having a car?"
       I mean sometimes, yeah, a lot.
"But how do you get around?"
       I just take the train.  Or walk.  Or both.
"But like far?!"
       Sure!
"Like every day?"
       Well.  Yeah.
"Wow. ...With groceries?"
       You gotta.
"Hm. ..."
       ...
"...So when are you getting married?"
      Eleven-and-a-half years.
"That's pretty precise."
      Sure.  I've mapped it all out.
"Damn."
      Right?!

And every time as I'm having this conversation, I'm cognizant of the fact that I would have never predicted such a path for myself....eleven years ago.  I don't really know what I thought beyond the idea that I'd maybe be married and maybe be driving myself to go act at some kind of permanent acting job somewhere in my cute little silver Honda Civic.   Looking cute.  And going home to water the irises and tigerlilies in my front yard.

Somewhere foreign.

Somewhere almost scary.

But somewhere that felt like home.

...And it's not quite the scenario that my 18 year-old fantasy dictated, but I got about 1/3rd of it right.

...

I sat at this bridal shower last Saturday, in the living room of this huge beautiful house, in the middle of the sunniest day I'd seen in a long time, watching my friend the honoree open hand blenders, and lingerie gift certificates, and bath towels, and recipe books...and she was beaming.  And I looked around the room, at all of the other beaming faces--the moms, and the grandmas, and the aunts, and the sisters, and the cousins...beautiful married home-owning friend number one, beautiful married home-owning friend number two, one beautiful nearly-married and blissful friend. 

And then my best friend--my engaged tenure-tracked beautiful remarkable best friend--who was looking at me, giddy, and beaming, and who grabbed my hand for no reason to give it a squeeze, but just held it for awhile instead. 


And I guess...

...I guess it's just nice to know that there are places in this world that you're not necessarily meant to stay in, but where a part of you will always undoubtedly belong.

That even as I'm running all over this city, doing this acting-thing that I love and that I know I'm meant for, but dodging "Cut your hair"s and "Get a new headshot"s and "Find a better monologue"s and "Why are you so perky?"s, attempting to find some kind balance and ground between these tremendous ups and tremendous downs--sometimes, I can just say Screw it. 

Sometimes, I can just go west.  To somewhere foreign.