So.
In this society where people are always creating projects/finding funding/being generally proactive and doing awesome things for their own awesome personal gain (in a sundry of different regards), well, it's gotten me to thinking. ...
Now:
I don't have a play that I'm currently trying to produce. (...Yet.)
Or a film (...Same.)
I'm not working in a school, I'm not creating some kind of organization, I'm not looking to fund an art installation in the middle of Inwood. I'm not even looking for a way to get rich quickly. Because I won't.
But.
I am an artist, and a starving one, and may or may not continue to be a starving one throughout the duration of my days. A peppy one, but just the same. This is a strong likelihood.
So, bearing all of this in mind...
If I were to start a KickStarter-fund to help out with my student loans, how well do we think this would go over?
(Side-bar: This would be specifically in an effort to not have to try to pay off these things until I'm 92 with money that doesn't exist.)
"Consider it an investment," says my genius lawyer roommate. "If you get famous, you can give all of your contributors autographs."
(Side-bar #2: In addition to the autograph--so silly--I would also pay them back. Every. Penny.)
(This is upon a purely hypothetical premise...but I swear to GAHD I'd do it.)
I say Yes.
In the meantime...I'll send you cookies? That I bake? Good ones? A lot of them? And Thank You-cards?
...Thoughts?
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
A Starving Artist Tries Out an "Inside Voice" (Definition A)
I confess: I need mantras in my life.
And I feel LAAAAME about that.
So lame--like I'm walking around the city putting my own little pep squad in my head, reciting to myself impromptu Chicken Soup for the Soul-like quotes. Constantly. I'm not paranoid enough to think that people can actually tell when I'm doing this (I may be lame, but I can also be quite covert).
But, oh dear god--I do this almost daily. And I'm feeling the need to do it grow and grow and grow, because I'm beginning to think that if I don't make a point to remain buoyant in every way possible (ie: staying active and proactive and staying connected to the people that I love...and now, apparently talking to myself) that I won't just inevitably sink, I won't recover.
I know people who have been there.
I legitimately fear that.
And I can see how entirely possible it is.
And how freaking quickly the feeling can creep up on you. Out of nowhere.
And then sometimes, I find that I try to force perspective and some kind of enlightenment or whatever upon myself, as opposed to just letting it happen. For fear that it won't. Like, OK:
The other day, I get out of work, and for once, I don't really feel like going to yoga. And I'm broke, and it's beautiful out (albeit freezing), and I figure Well, I could always walk home. That's like 5 or 6 miles...Oooh! The Brooklyn Bridge! Go to the Brooklyn Bridge--you've never walked it, take it home! Alone! Yayyy!
Oh my god, it's beautiful. If you ever just want to be subjected to something just altogether magnificent, go to there. It's just huge, and spectacular, this like spectacular work of art and genius and all of those things...and there you are, walking over this bridge from Manhattan to Brooklyn (I have never seen either borough look so good), and you look down and notice that you're walking across these antiquey looking wooden planks, and you look up and just see this giant of a thing, and you look out and see this water and this skyline, and you feel small. And it's so great. It is so so great.
And then I get off the bridge, and continue this walk home...and think to myself OK. So what did that teach me?
...That...I'm small?...
...OK, no really, what did that teach me? Where's my mantra? What did I learn? What do I need?...
As if that couldn't be enough. As if not even having come to that "small"-conclusion wouldn't have been enough. It's not enough to have just been there and done that for myself. It has to become What can I tell myself because of this?
Weird.
(Side-bar: I truthfully blame one of my professors from grad school for this kind of self-sabotage. He yelled at me once during a year-end evaluation and said the following...verbatim:
"Angela, you don't see enough. I dare you to see more. I bet that you only ever stop to look at the roses--this is me daring you to look at the homeless person sitting next to the roses. See him. And see what that says to you."
...What. A. Fucking pretentious moron.
...But yeah, it got to me just the same.
...And now here I am.)
So, that happens on occasion.
But more often than not, I just find myself listening. To everything. Acutely. What can you tell me that I'm not telling myself? What words do you have that I can carry around in my pocket?
Incidentally, I've become even more hooked to my iPod; it's like my Linus-blanket. I create little playlists for myself, seasonal-ones, atmospheric-like ones, etc. And then, I have to decide what is going to be my theme music for the day, my mantra...certainly, there are worse decisions to be made. Is this a "Helplessness Blues" kind of day, a "Living Proof" kind of day, or a "Lost in the World" kind of day? ..."What Ever Happened"?... "Take Five"? ..."99 Problems" (but a bitch ain't one)?
Generally, happily influential. Generally, a perfect representation of whatever kind of swagger or whatnot I need for that day.
But, even that kinda plan can betray you sometimes. You hear something differently, like a lyric suddenly means something totally different, or a chord in the song strikes a chord in you that you were kinda hoping to avoid...what then?
Where the hell'd my mantra go?!
And then--so ok.
One of the many reasons that I do love going to yoga as much as I do: they give you a quote at the end of each class, just something to think about, food for thought...words to marinate and breathe upon.
So, I'm laying there last night, pretty Zen in a candlelit room and our happily Zenned-out yogi at the front of the room says this and only this:
"Is it good? Is it necessary? Is it kind?"
...
Hm.
And it kinda rang in my ears. A lot. And for a while on into the evening.
And into today.
I don't know why. Maybe just because it's all-encompassing.
Am I being good/necessary/kind?
Is this good/necessary/kind for me?
What would be most good/most necessary/most kind for me/this/us?
It feels right, though.
"Is it good? Is it necessary? Is it kind?"
And for right this second right now, I don't even care if it sounds cliche or like an Oprah-endorsed frame of mind. Right this second right now, I'm owning it.
Walking around with it.
Hopefully, not looking too crazy in the process.
And I feel LAAAAME about that.
So lame--like I'm walking around the city putting my own little pep squad in my head, reciting to myself impromptu Chicken Soup for the Soul-like quotes. Constantly. I'm not paranoid enough to think that people can actually tell when I'm doing this (I may be lame, but I can also be quite covert).
But, oh dear god--I do this almost daily. And I'm feeling the need to do it grow and grow and grow, because I'm beginning to think that if I don't make a point to remain buoyant in every way possible (ie: staying active and proactive and staying connected to the people that I love...and now, apparently talking to myself) that I won't just inevitably sink, I won't recover.
I know people who have been there.
I legitimately fear that.
And I can see how entirely possible it is.
And how freaking quickly the feeling can creep up on you. Out of nowhere.
And then sometimes, I find that I try to force perspective and some kind of enlightenment or whatever upon myself, as opposed to just letting it happen. For fear that it won't. Like, OK:
The other day, I get out of work, and for once, I don't really feel like going to yoga. And I'm broke, and it's beautiful out (albeit freezing), and I figure Well, I could always walk home. That's like 5 or 6 miles...Oooh! The Brooklyn Bridge! Go to the Brooklyn Bridge--you've never walked it, take it home! Alone! Yayyy!
Oh my god, it's beautiful. If you ever just want to be subjected to something just altogether magnificent, go to there. It's just huge, and spectacular, this like spectacular work of art and genius and all of those things...and there you are, walking over this bridge from Manhattan to Brooklyn (I have never seen either borough look so good), and you look down and notice that you're walking across these antiquey looking wooden planks, and you look up and just see this giant of a thing, and you look out and see this water and this skyline, and you feel small. And it's so great. It is so so great.
And then I get off the bridge, and continue this walk home...and think to myself OK. So what did that teach me?
...That...I'm small?...
...OK, no really, what did that teach me? Where's my mantra? What did I learn? What do I need?...
As if that couldn't be enough. As if not even having come to that "small"-conclusion wouldn't have been enough. It's not enough to have just been there and done that for myself. It has to become What can I tell myself because of this?
Weird.
(Side-bar: I truthfully blame one of my professors from grad school for this kind of self-sabotage. He yelled at me once during a year-end evaluation and said the following...verbatim:
"Angela, you don't see enough. I dare you to see more. I bet that you only ever stop to look at the roses--this is me daring you to look at the homeless person sitting next to the roses. See him. And see what that says to you."
...What. A. Fucking pretentious moron.
...But yeah, it got to me just the same.
...And now here I am.)
So, that happens on occasion.
But more often than not, I just find myself listening. To everything. Acutely. What can you tell me that I'm not telling myself? What words do you have that I can carry around in my pocket?
Incidentally, I've become even more hooked to my iPod; it's like my Linus-blanket. I create little playlists for myself, seasonal-ones, atmospheric-like ones, etc. And then, I have to decide what is going to be my theme music for the day, my mantra...certainly, there are worse decisions to be made. Is this a "Helplessness Blues" kind of day, a "Living Proof" kind of day, or a "Lost in the World" kind of day? ..."What Ever Happened"?... "Take Five"? ..."99 Problems" (but a bitch ain't one)?
Generally, happily influential. Generally, a perfect representation of whatever kind of swagger or whatnot I need for that day.
But, even that kinda plan can betray you sometimes. You hear something differently, like a lyric suddenly means something totally different, or a chord in the song strikes a chord in you that you were kinda hoping to avoid...what then?
Where the hell'd my mantra go?!
And then--so ok.
One of the many reasons that I do love going to yoga as much as I do: they give you a quote at the end of each class, just something to think about, food for thought...words to marinate and breathe upon.
So, I'm laying there last night, pretty Zen in a candlelit room and our happily Zenned-out yogi at the front of the room says this and only this:
"Is it good? Is it necessary? Is it kind?"
...
Hm.
And it kinda rang in my ears. A lot. And for a while on into the evening.
And into today.
I don't know why. Maybe just because it's all-encompassing.
Am I being good/necessary/kind?
Is this good/necessary/kind for me?
What would be most good/most necessary/most kind for me/this/us?
It feels right, though.
"Is it good? Is it necessary? Is it kind?"
And for right this second right now, I don't even care if it sounds cliche or like an Oprah-endorsed frame of mind. Right this second right now, I'm owning it.
Walking around with it.
Hopefully, not looking too crazy in the process.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Starving Artist and THE CONTRACT!
To sign, or not to sign: that is the big fat question.
Everyone you ever talk to EVER in the business ever generally says "No."
"Whomever you sign with (once you actually sign with them) takes a percentage out of every paycheck you get, whether they helped you book the gig or not. Do you want to give up that much of your money?"
But.
Now my curiosity has been peaked. I've been made an offer, and I'm not sure if I can refuse it.
(Side-bar: Before I jump into the actual story, let me just say this...
Dear Grad School,
Thank you so much for never preparing me for any ounce of this "acting as a business"-thing. It's been a fabulous joy to have to figure all of this out of my own, to have been left essentially blind to all of this stuff: how to market myself, how to spend my money in marketing myself, loopholes, agents versus managers, who's legit out here and who's not...all of that. You gave me some wicked good training, but no real sense of the biz whatsoever. I know most programs are like you, but just the same... .
Thanks. A million.
PS, A legitimate Thank You to all of my friends who have helped me out in this regard. I'm indebted. Because of you, I haven't fallen on my face too hard. Yet.)
And now, the dilemma:
I've been freelancing with a manager for the past year, and he's been pretty kickass. He sends me out what feels like all of the time, I've booked things he's sent me out on, I've feel like I've earned his faith in me and vice-versa.
He is, in fact, the guy who was responsible for the HBO-audition (which he's pretty sure at this point has gone to someone with a name...which is kinda to be expected. No big deal at all--I'm still just as happy. ...I promise that I'm not just saying that.)
So, when I had sent him an email a few weeks back talking to him about said HBO-audition and how great it felt, he replied, "Great! I'm glad. Hopefully I can send you out on a lot more of those." (Yes, please.) "By the way, why don't you come in in a few weeks and we can start talking about setting you up with agents."
...
Immediately, I felt giddy. My manager wants to set me up with agents?! I'd be getting hugely sent out through a manager and agents?! What a great day!!!
Then, I paused. And I listened to the sub-text of that statement; and I knew that meant that a contract was going to be drawn up. Oh. No.
Just the same, I walked into his office and sat down, and he just started chatting all friendly-like.
"How are you?!"
"So, you really felt really good about that HBO-audition?...Run with that feeling."
"Are you happy with the age-group I've been sending you out for?"
"Have you thought about coming up with a one-woman show?" ...Oooooh.
And then:
"So. Here's where I'm at with you." Oh boy.
"Hey--can you print out a contract for her?" Oh. Boy.
"I don't think that my taste in actors has changed over the years at all, but I think that the quality of them has, and that's all on you guys. That's not me."
Oh no, well, I don't think that's entirely true...
"...No, it is. I haven't really done anything. Different, anyway. But, here's the thing..."
(Eeek.)
"Every time I turn on the TV, I see someone just like you in a show, or on a big commercial. There's a ton of them, who you might even be better than." Whoa. "Like, the girl in the...oh. The commercial with the 'Dirty Mouth'-gum?"
Orbitz.
"Right. That 'lint licker!'-girl. And she's in the Bing-commercial."
I love her.
"Right! That's you."
Thanks!
"No, but it is. You see that, right?...I think that the only reason why you haven't booked any of those things yet is because I haven't gotten you in the door enough. I think that once any of those big SAG-guys start to see you more, you'll be booking. A lot."
Oh wow.
"Have you done a SAG-gig ever?"
Yeah. I actually signed my Taft-Hartley shortly after grad school. (Thank you, Heather Laird!)
"Oh! Wow. OK, then it's just a matter of time." And I'm grinning like a son of a bitch. "I want to start working more closely with you because I believe in you. And I want to introduce you to some agents." And I'm grinning even wider. "I just want us to work closer."
And then, they hand the contract over.
"So, here's this. I want you to take it home, read it over, a lot, and then call me in a week and ask me any questions about it that you might have. I don't want you to jump into this, but I do want you to think about it."
...
And so, "think about it" I have. A lot.
And alright, alright, alright--I took his bait. He made me feel awesome in that room, he knew exactly how to, and now I've been sitting here for a week wondering what the heck to do.
But of COURSE I have been!
Who in their right mind doesn't like hearing that someone has faith in them? That they have someone wanting to work for them? Why wouldn't that feel great and make me listen to what he has to say?!
But.
I've had a week, so I've had time to think a wee bit more rationally. And here's how I feel:
For A... I'm poor.
I'm not ready to know and accept the fact that every gig I book--whether he books it for me or I book it for myself--is going to have 15% taken out of it. AND, if I were to sign with an agent: 25%. That makes me want to yak.
But more than that (For B...) I'm not ready to blindly throw myself into a contract with a man--a man who I like, a lot, and believe in, a lot--who says that he's going to continually champion for one thing unless I see him really try and champion for it first.
(...Maybe this is what happens when you spend enough time in the Show Me State--you want people to prove things to you more. Show me...).
So. We have a phone date to talk about it. Today. After my impromptu audition where I have to wear a bathing suit WHY HAVE I BEEN ASKED TO WEAR A BATHING SUIT?!?! ON CAMERA!!!! Terrifying.
But, I'm scared. I'm going to ask for a "trial period" of sorts, like 3-6 months to test this out before I actually sign anything, which I think is a perfectly sound request; but I don't know how well these requests go over. I don't know if that's a blasphemous thing to ask in the business sense or not. But, I'm trying it. We'll see.
Cross your fingers.
For that, and for my sarong staying up.
Everyone you ever talk to EVER in the business ever generally says "No."
"Whomever you sign with (once you actually sign with them) takes a percentage out of every paycheck you get, whether they helped you book the gig or not. Do you want to give up that much of your money?"
But.
Now my curiosity has been peaked. I've been made an offer, and I'm not sure if I can refuse it.
(Side-bar: Before I jump into the actual story, let me just say this...
Dear Grad School,
Thank you so much for never preparing me for any ounce of this "acting as a business"-thing. It's been a fabulous joy to have to figure all of this out of my own, to have been left essentially blind to all of this stuff: how to market myself, how to spend my money in marketing myself, loopholes, agents versus managers, who's legit out here and who's not...all of that. You gave me some wicked good training, but no real sense of the biz whatsoever. I know most programs are like you, but just the same... .
Thanks. A million.
PS, A legitimate Thank You to all of my friends who have helped me out in this regard. I'm indebted. Because of you, I haven't fallen on my face too hard. Yet.)
And now, the dilemma:
I've been freelancing with a manager for the past year, and he's been pretty kickass. He sends me out what feels like all of the time, I've booked things he's sent me out on, I've feel like I've earned his faith in me and vice-versa.
He is, in fact, the guy who was responsible for the HBO-audition (which he's pretty sure at this point has gone to someone with a name...which is kinda to be expected. No big deal at all--I'm still just as happy. ...I promise that I'm not just saying that.)
So, when I had sent him an email a few weeks back talking to him about said HBO-audition and how great it felt, he replied, "Great! I'm glad. Hopefully I can send you out on a lot more of those." (Yes, please.) "By the way, why don't you come in in a few weeks and we can start talking about setting you up with agents."
...
Immediately, I felt giddy. My manager wants to set me up with agents?! I'd be getting hugely sent out through a manager and agents?! What a great day!!!
Then, I paused. And I listened to the sub-text of that statement; and I knew that meant that a contract was going to be drawn up. Oh. No.
Just the same, I walked into his office and sat down, and he just started chatting all friendly-like.
"How are you?!"
"So, you really felt really good about that HBO-audition?...Run with that feeling."
"Are you happy with the age-group I've been sending you out for?"
"Have you thought about coming up with a one-woman show?" ...Oooooh.
And then:
"So. Here's where I'm at with you." Oh boy.
"Hey--can you print out a contract for her?" Oh. Boy.
"I don't think that my taste in actors has changed over the years at all, but I think that the quality of them has, and that's all on you guys. That's not me."
Oh no, well, I don't think that's entirely true...
"...No, it is. I haven't really done anything. Different, anyway. But, here's the thing..."
(Eeek.)
"Every time I turn on the TV, I see someone just like you in a show, or on a big commercial. There's a ton of them, who you might even be better than." Whoa. "Like, the girl in the...oh. The commercial with the 'Dirty Mouth'-gum?"
Orbitz.
"Right. That 'lint licker!'-girl. And she's in the Bing-commercial."
I love her.
"Right! That's you."
Thanks!
"No, but it is. You see that, right?...I think that the only reason why you haven't booked any of those things yet is because I haven't gotten you in the door enough. I think that once any of those big SAG-guys start to see you more, you'll be booking. A lot."
Oh wow.
"Have you done a SAG-gig ever?"
Yeah. I actually signed my Taft-Hartley shortly after grad school. (Thank you, Heather Laird!)
"Oh! Wow. OK, then it's just a matter of time." And I'm grinning like a son of a bitch. "I want to start working more closely with you because I believe in you. And I want to introduce you to some agents." And I'm grinning even wider. "I just want us to work closer."
And then, they hand the contract over.
"So, here's this. I want you to take it home, read it over, a lot, and then call me in a week and ask me any questions about it that you might have. I don't want you to jump into this, but I do want you to think about it."
...
And so, "think about it" I have. A lot.
And alright, alright, alright--I took his bait. He made me feel awesome in that room, he knew exactly how to, and now I've been sitting here for a week wondering what the heck to do.
But of COURSE I have been!
Who in their right mind doesn't like hearing that someone has faith in them? That they have someone wanting to work for them? Why wouldn't that feel great and make me listen to what he has to say?!
But.
I've had a week, so I've had time to think a wee bit more rationally. And here's how I feel:
For A... I'm poor.
I'm not ready to know and accept the fact that every gig I book--whether he books it for me or I book it for myself--is going to have 15% taken out of it. AND, if I were to sign with an agent: 25%. That makes me want to yak.
But more than that (For B...) I'm not ready to blindly throw myself into a contract with a man--a man who I like, a lot, and believe in, a lot--who says that he's going to continually champion for one thing unless I see him really try and champion for it first.
(...Maybe this is what happens when you spend enough time in the Show Me State--you want people to prove things to you more. Show me...).
So. We have a phone date to talk about it. Today. After my impromptu audition where I have to wear a bathing suit WHY HAVE I BEEN ASKED TO WEAR A BATHING SUIT?!?! ON CAMERA!!!! Terrifying.
But, I'm scared. I'm going to ask for a "trial period" of sorts, like 3-6 months to test this out before I actually sign anything, which I think is a perfectly sound request; but I don't know how well these requests go over. I don't know if that's a blasphemous thing to ask in the business sense or not. But, I'm trying it. We'll see.
Cross your fingers.
For that, and for my sarong staying up.
Monday, March 21, 2011
A Starving Artist's Sojourn to the Chesapeake
So, I'm generally open to discussion on the whole astrology/alignments of the stars and planets kinda deal. I think it's fascinating--I don't take a whole ton of stock in it for the most part, but it is certainly fascinating.
Just the same, this whole "fullest moon ever"-business has managed to eff with an awful lot of things in my life and the loves of my life's lives this week.
And: I don't think I like it.
Buuuut, what it has also done is offer me a ton of perspective. Uniquely so. In several respects.
The bulk of which came from one day.
...So, it's 9:30 on Wednesday morning and there I am standing out in the middle of a torrential down pour, all dressed up with a place to go: Bethesda. Bethesda, Maryland.
Why? Because I freaking can.
I'd been hearing for years about this lovely theatre scene in the DC/Baltimore-area, and since I've gotten this Equity-card of mine, I've also inherited a fine set of balls and have been thereby prompted to push and try my hand at as many different audition-type-things as is humanly possible.
Irish Repertory Theatre? You need a chick with a fine grip on the dialect? Here I come.
Inwood Shakes? Yes, I love Emilia and yes, I'll be there.
That tour?
That summer rep?
Try me.
And so, when I saw that this Equity-theatre down in Bethesda was holding auditions for their upcoming season (a theatre of which had hugely caught my eye a year ago), I figured Why the hell not?!, finagled an time slot and booked myself a MegaBus-ticket on down there. For the day. ...
Why the hell not?! What could I possibly have to lose?
And so, I hopped on the bus. And drove 4 hours to DC. And hopped on the Red Line, and made my way out there--by 2:30pm. Glorious glorious day.
And THEN, I killed the audition.
Even more glorious day.
And THEN, I met up with one of my favorite people in the universe: one of my dearest friends from my hometown who happens to live in Baltimore, and thusly, we began what was initially meant to be a sadly shortish evening of catching up/drinking wine before I hopped back on the bus and headed for the Apple. Insanely. Glorious. Day.
...
We don't "catch up" quickly. We never do. (And we SHOULDN'T, dammit!)
Naturally, I miss the bus.
But NO matter, there's another bus in two hours.
And what happens next is amazing.
So, one of the many reasons that he has remained one of my favorite people in the universe is that he has this drive and infectiously passionate sensibility that he simply cannot help but share with whomever happens to be in his reach; it's like he wants you to get it, he wants you to be as "infected" in a sense as he is. It's admirable. Beyond admirable. And so, he grinned, and said, "Well, this is great. Now we've got time. I'm gonna take you to my school."
He teaches at a charter school in inner city Baltimore.
We pull up to this enormous security gate in the middle of this formerly desolate neighborhood that you can see is trying to pull itself up and out of the dark, and my eyes grew huge. This did not look like a school. Or at least any school I'd ever been in. I don't actually know what it looked like.
Goddamn, I'm naive, I thought.
But, in we walked, across this little walkway and up to this ginormous thick refrigerator-like door with this little red sign that boldly proclaimed that it was his classroom--"It's kind of a mess in there, sorry about that. It's testing-week."
This. Room.
Again, not not not not NOT to get all planety/New Agey or anything...but, do you ever just walk into a room and feel what it means?
I couldn't believe the amount of warmth in this room. And it was empty. But, there were these little signs and symbols all over the place of these kids who wanted to be there, who wanted it so badly, and who wanted do something good for themselves. These signs and symbols of these kids who were relying heavily on this guy--their teacher, my friend--to get them there. And ever more were these signs and symbols from their teacher, my friend letting them know that he wouldn't have it any other way, that he wasn't going anywhere.
That room was bursting with good and possibility, and pride.
I can't tell you how proud I was standing in it.
And we drove away, and the texts started. The texts from his students.
"Do you quote a thought? :)"
Prouder still.
And (after getting lost...thanks a mill, GPS), I'm on the bus ride back home, attempting to sleep but beaming with pride for my friend and his classroom.
And then, I felt like crap.
Can't they have more, though?
Why did I get more?
...And what the hell am I doing with myself? With my life...what am I bettering?
...
I'm back in New York, and within 24 hours, I tank an audition, find out that I'm getting weeded out of one of my jobs, find out that my aunt has been fired from her job (after 14 years...for no reason...), that my one of my best friends is potentially leaving her boyfriend (And moving in with us? Yes? No?), that I've officially been uncast at that one summer festival...and I don't get it.
What is this?!
Why show me a day of so many great beautiful things, only to knock me around in a world of disappointment the following day?
I didn't ask for this.
...
Shut. Up.
No one asks for a lot of things that they're dealt, a lot of shitty terrible things that they're dealt. But, if they've been dealt, it is your job to deal with them.
So, maybe I've been going about this wrong.
Maybe just busting your ass isn't enough. Truly.
Maybe I need to look for "better". How to be better, how to do better--how to better what I've got, what I've been dealt.
Maybe that's it.
I mean, why the hell not?! What could I possibly have to lose?
Just the same, this whole "fullest moon ever"-business has managed to eff with an awful lot of things in my life and the loves of my life's lives this week.
And: I don't think I like it.
Buuuut, what it has also done is offer me a ton of perspective. Uniquely so. In several respects.
The bulk of which came from one day.
...So, it's 9:30 on Wednesday morning and there I am standing out in the middle of a torrential down pour, all dressed up with a place to go: Bethesda. Bethesda, Maryland.
Why? Because I freaking can.
I'd been hearing for years about this lovely theatre scene in the DC/Baltimore-area, and since I've gotten this Equity-card of mine, I've also inherited a fine set of balls and have been thereby prompted to push and try my hand at as many different audition-type-things as is humanly possible.
Irish Repertory Theatre? You need a chick with a fine grip on the dialect? Here I come.
Inwood Shakes? Yes, I love Emilia and yes, I'll be there.
That tour?
That summer rep?
Try me.
And so, when I saw that this Equity-theatre down in Bethesda was holding auditions for their upcoming season (a theatre of which had hugely caught my eye a year ago), I figured Why the hell not?!, finagled an time slot and booked myself a MegaBus-ticket on down there. For the day. ...
Why the hell not?! What could I possibly have to lose?
And so, I hopped on the bus. And drove 4 hours to DC. And hopped on the Red Line, and made my way out there--by 2:30pm. Glorious glorious day.
And THEN, I killed the audition.
Even more glorious day.
And THEN, I met up with one of my favorite people in the universe: one of my dearest friends from my hometown who happens to live in Baltimore, and thusly, we began what was initially meant to be a sadly shortish evening of catching up/drinking wine before I hopped back on the bus and headed for the Apple. Insanely. Glorious. Day.
...
We don't "catch up" quickly. We never do. (And we SHOULDN'T, dammit!)
Naturally, I miss the bus.
But NO matter, there's another bus in two hours.
And what happens next is amazing.
So, one of the many reasons that he has remained one of my favorite people in the universe is that he has this drive and infectiously passionate sensibility that he simply cannot help but share with whomever happens to be in his reach; it's like he wants you to get it, he wants you to be as "infected" in a sense as he is. It's admirable. Beyond admirable. And so, he grinned, and said, "Well, this is great. Now we've got time. I'm gonna take you to my school."
He teaches at a charter school in inner city Baltimore.
We pull up to this enormous security gate in the middle of this formerly desolate neighborhood that you can see is trying to pull itself up and out of the dark, and my eyes grew huge. This did not look like a school. Or at least any school I'd ever been in. I don't actually know what it looked like.
Goddamn, I'm naive, I thought.
But, in we walked, across this little walkway and up to this ginormous thick refrigerator-like door with this little red sign that boldly proclaimed that it was his classroom--"It's kind of a mess in there, sorry about that. It's testing-week."
This. Room.
Again, not not not not NOT to get all planety/New Agey or anything...but, do you ever just walk into a room and feel what it means?
I couldn't believe the amount of warmth in this room. And it was empty. But, there were these little signs and symbols all over the place of these kids who wanted to be there, who wanted it so badly, and who wanted do something good for themselves. These signs and symbols of these kids who were relying heavily on this guy--their teacher, my friend--to get them there. And ever more were these signs and symbols from their teacher, my friend letting them know that he wouldn't have it any other way, that he wasn't going anywhere.
That room was bursting with good and possibility, and pride.
I can't tell you how proud I was standing in it.
And we drove away, and the texts started. The texts from his students.
"Do you quote a thought? :)"
Prouder still.
And (after getting lost...thanks a mill, GPS), I'm on the bus ride back home, attempting to sleep but beaming with pride for my friend and his classroom.
And then, I felt like crap.
Can't they have more, though?
Why did I get more?
...And what the hell am I doing with myself? With my life...what am I bettering?
...
I'm back in New York, and within 24 hours, I tank an audition, find out that I'm getting weeded out of one of my jobs, find out that my aunt has been fired from her job (after 14 years...for no reason...), that my one of my best friends is potentially leaving her boyfriend (And moving in with us? Yes? No?), that I've officially been uncast at that one summer festival...and I don't get it.
What is this?!
Why show me a day of so many great beautiful things, only to knock me around in a world of disappointment the following day?
I didn't ask for this.
...
Shut. Up.
No one asks for a lot of things that they're dealt, a lot of shitty terrible things that they're dealt. But, if they've been dealt, it is your job to deal with them.
So, maybe I've been going about this wrong.
Maybe just busting your ass isn't enough. Truly.
Maybe I need to look for "better". How to be better, how to do better--how to better what I've got, what I've been dealt.
Maybe that's it.
I mean, why the hell not?! What could I possibly have to lose?
Friday, March 11, 2011
When a Starving Artist is Handed a Bummer.
Today, I was offered a summer gig: a witch in the "Scottish Play".
With a theatre company that I love.
In a city that I love.
And the gig would thereby give me six weeks with a boy and a dog that I love.
...But I was only offered it on the stipulation that I was still Non-Equity.
...
Ohhhh, the catch to being a Union-actress.
Sad day.
With a theatre company that I love.
In a city that I love.
And the gig would thereby give me six weeks with a boy and a dog that I love.
...But I was only offered it on the stipulation that I was still Non-Equity.
...
Ohhhh, the catch to being a Union-actress.
Sad day.
A Starving Artist and The Beacon
As a Starving Artist, I feel as if it is my duty to clue you in on how to live life in this city on the cheap but with gloriousity (gloriosity?... ...eff you, SpellCheck...).
Hence, Tip #1:
My sweet lovely gift card-gifting parents did the single best thing ever this past Christmas and gave me a gift card to Beacon's Closet.
What the shit is this Beacon's Closet-place?, you may ask.
Well.
Beacon's Closet is a place that they would never dare to call a "consignment shop" because the residents of the two neighborhoods that it rests in couldn't deal with such a filthy term. But, it is a place where loaded people bring their unwanted and frequently barely used garments (if not their unwanted and wonderfully ridiculous kitschy vintage garments) and drop them off for the little people like us to peruse through them and buy them for a ridiculously small price.
Examples:
*designer jeans (I could list a sundry of brands, but I won't)...
--if the original price were like $180-$210, you'll probably get it here for $30
*dresses (...again...)...
--if the price were in the same bracket as above, you'd probably get it for between $20-$25
*shirts (... ... ...)...
--generally anywhere between $8.95-$12.95
Beacon's Closet is the single reason that I don't shop retail for SO many things...simply because you don't have to. I've gotten a bridesmaid's dress at this place, and countless other normal everyday things...
(Although I also got a vintage tweed sportscoat with elbow patches that looked like it had been tailored for me....for $16. This was a very very good thing.)
But the point is that when you're an artist, you're expected to look cute a good portion of the time--and when you're a starving one, you need to find a way to afford to do it. This is a super amazing way.
And so, the Christmas present was a glorious day :)
I make this grand plan to use it as soon as I get back to the city--One of the two locations is directly down my street, what an entirely wonderfully convenient thing. And I go, and I take an hour and a half to peruse through everything (Side bar: Beacon's Closet = a thoroughly time-consuming journey, one must make sure they set ample time aside...) and bring my happy new finds up to the counter.
"Ummm, is this like an electronic card?"
Well, it's a gift card...
"But, like, its an electronic card?"
Yeah, I mean, I guess. yeah.
"Yeah, we don't do those here."
...(Ummm...)
Wait, what?
"Sorry."
But, I got this for Christmas. It's a Beacon's Closet-specific gift card.
"Right."
From my parents.
"Right. We dont those here. Just at our Williamsburg location."
...You don't run your own gift cards here?
"No. I'm sorry. Just in Williamsburg." Hmph.
...Williamsburg.
And so, two months later (after a day of monologue-coaching a friend, meeting with an agent, looking into workshops, and working for a spell) I somehow find a couple hours to spare to make the trek and finally take advantage of my happy happy gift card.
...
For those of you who are not familiar with kingdom of Williamsburg, allow me to paint you a grand picture:
Williamsburg is the Brooklyn neighborhood that is essentially closest to Manhattan and, therefore, the refuge for many a wealthy former Manhattanite who wanted more space for less money than what they were getting on the Upper East Side.
It is also the (arguable) homeland of "The Hipster": the child of money who chain-smokes and talks organic-everything and looks filthy constantly. It is the land of skinny jeans, plaid-on-plaid, goofy hats, coke bottle glasses, Mr. Peanut-mustaches, and Blondie-meets-Tokyo chic. Their intelligence is beyond yours, their taste in music is above yours, and they need you to know how worldly and important they are--and you're not. (I wish. I were. Exaggerating.)
And the thing is that I have nothing personal against The Hipster--I certainly don't. At all. But they are a bit of a conundrum to me...
But there I am, 3:30 on a mid-week afternoon, walking down Bedford Avenue, feeling marginally cute (I did, in fact, have to meet with an agent earlier that day, I couldn't look like a total shmuck) and there perched on every other stoop was a miniature cluster of Hipsters, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and leering at me. Is it that obvious that I'm not one of you, or is my ass is hanging out of this dress?
Sigh.
So, I click my heels three times, and suddenly, there I am standing in front of Beacon's Closet.
Glorious happy happy day.
And after two and a half hours of diving through the racks, I come up for air with six things in my hands--six perfectly normal perfectly cute and wonderful and happy looking things that I am THRILLED with (thrilled especially because I still have half of my card left...), but six things that have received leers from a few of the browsing Hipsters, leers that seem to say "Um. Where's your gold lame? And why get a mere frock when you could get a prom dress?"
It's fine.
So I check out. CashierGirl is giving me a pseudo leer and says through her teeth, "How are you?"...with the same essential inflection and feel that a West Coast-Valley Girl puts into her "Ew."
Great! Thanks.
...And she's still staring at me.
...Still. And I start to feel nervous.
"Has anyone ever told you that you look like the subject of a really old Dutch painting?"
...
No. Wow, no. That's good?
And I want to know where the hell that came from.
I want to know WHO in their right mind SAYS stuff like that and researches Dutch paintings in their spare time...were you an art history major at Harvard, or did you just look at "The Girl With the Pearl Earring" once and try to reference it whenever you can in a vague fashion just to sound cool?
WHO ARE YOU, HIPSTER?!
But, thanks.
I love your belt.
Leer.
Have a good night.
And out I go, with a bag full of happy and a slightly bewildered...Me, I guess.
On the train back to the city, I am sitting next to an older Hipster-couple--they're in their late 50s/early 60s easy: she in skinny jeans, oversized sunglasses, bright red lipstick and an obscene amount of leopard print...he just an older facial hairless-version of every dude that was perched along Bedford Ave, except that he has a wristwatch made out of Legos. And I start to judge them for a split second.
Then, I just want to know who they are.
I realize that they're two of the happiest people I've seen in a really long time, and they're visibly in love, and carefree, and could legitimately give a rat's ass about anyone or anything else around them. And it's lovely. And I'm kinda envious.
Who are YOU, Hipsters?!
How nice.
Maybe their mystique just gets less harsh and more pretty with age.
...Maybe.
But, I will say this:
I, too, Friend Hipster, live in Brooklyn.
I, too, have damn fine taste in music.
I, too, read things and love coffee.
And I, too, have a great love for that there Beacon's Closet.
You can keep the yellow Hammer-pant-influenced jumpsuit, I'll just keep my hundreds of dollars.
Hence, Tip #1:
My sweet lovely gift card-gifting parents did the single best thing ever this past Christmas and gave me a gift card to Beacon's Closet.
What the shit is this Beacon's Closet-place?, you may ask.
Well.
Beacon's Closet is a place that they would never dare to call a "consignment shop" because the residents of the two neighborhoods that it rests in couldn't deal with such a filthy term. But, it is a place where loaded people bring their unwanted and frequently barely used garments (if not their unwanted and wonderfully ridiculous kitschy vintage garments) and drop them off for the little people like us to peruse through them and buy them for a ridiculously small price.
Examples:
*designer jeans (I could list a sundry of brands, but I won't)...
--if the original price were like $180-$210, you'll probably get it here for $30
*dresses (...again...)...
--if the price were in the same bracket as above, you'd probably get it for between $20-$25
*shirts (... ... ...)...
--generally anywhere between $8.95-$12.95
Beacon's Closet is the single reason that I don't shop retail for SO many things...simply because you don't have to. I've gotten a bridesmaid's dress at this place, and countless other normal everyday things...
(Although I also got a vintage tweed sportscoat with elbow patches that looked like it had been tailored for me....for $16. This was a very very good thing.)
But the point is that when you're an artist, you're expected to look cute a good portion of the time--and when you're a starving one, you need to find a way to afford to do it. This is a super amazing way.
And so, the Christmas present was a glorious day :)
I make this grand plan to use it as soon as I get back to the city--One of the two locations is directly down my street, what an entirely wonderfully convenient thing. And I go, and I take an hour and a half to peruse through everything (Side bar: Beacon's Closet = a thoroughly time-consuming journey, one must make sure they set ample time aside...) and bring my happy new finds up to the counter.
"Ummm, is this like an electronic card?"
Well, it's a gift card...
"But, like, its an electronic card?"
Yeah, I mean, I guess. yeah.
"Yeah, we don't do those here."
...(Ummm...)
Wait, what?
"Sorry."
But, I got this for Christmas. It's a Beacon's Closet-specific gift card.
"Right."
From my parents.
"Right. We dont those here. Just at our Williamsburg location."
...You don't run your own gift cards here?
"No. I'm sorry. Just in Williamsburg." Hmph.
...Williamsburg.
And so, two months later (after a day of monologue-coaching a friend, meeting with an agent, looking into workshops, and working for a spell) I somehow find a couple hours to spare to make the trek and finally take advantage of my happy happy gift card.
...
For those of you who are not familiar with kingdom of Williamsburg, allow me to paint you a grand picture:
Williamsburg is the Brooklyn neighborhood that is essentially closest to Manhattan and, therefore, the refuge for many a wealthy former Manhattanite who wanted more space for less money than what they were getting on the Upper East Side.
It is also the (arguable) homeland of "The Hipster": the child of money who chain-smokes and talks organic-everything and looks filthy constantly. It is the land of skinny jeans, plaid-on-plaid, goofy hats, coke bottle glasses, Mr. Peanut-mustaches, and Blondie-meets-Tokyo chic. Their intelligence is beyond yours, their taste in music is above yours, and they need you to know how worldly and important they are--and you're not. (I wish. I were. Exaggerating.)
And the thing is that I have nothing personal against The Hipster--I certainly don't. At all. But they are a bit of a conundrum to me...
But there I am, 3:30 on a mid-week afternoon, walking down Bedford Avenue, feeling marginally cute (I did, in fact, have to meet with an agent earlier that day, I couldn't look like a total shmuck) and there perched on every other stoop was a miniature cluster of Hipsters, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and leering at me. Is it that obvious that I'm not one of you, or is my ass is hanging out of this dress?
Sigh.
So, I click my heels three times, and suddenly, there I am standing in front of Beacon's Closet.
Glorious happy happy day.
And after two and a half hours of diving through the racks, I come up for air with six things in my hands--six perfectly normal perfectly cute and wonderful and happy looking things that I am THRILLED with (thrilled especially because I still have half of my card left...), but six things that have received leers from a few of the browsing Hipsters, leers that seem to say "Um. Where's your gold lame? And why get a mere frock when you could get a prom dress?"
It's fine.
So I check out. CashierGirl is giving me a pseudo leer and says through her teeth, "How are you?"...with the same essential inflection and feel that a West Coast-Valley Girl puts into her "Ew."
Great! Thanks.
...And she's still staring at me.
...Still. And I start to feel nervous.
"Has anyone ever told you that you look like the subject of a really old Dutch painting?"
...
No. Wow, no. That's good?
And I want to know where the hell that came from.
I want to know WHO in their right mind SAYS stuff like that and researches Dutch paintings in their spare time...were you an art history major at Harvard, or did you just look at "The Girl With the Pearl Earring" once and try to reference it whenever you can in a vague fashion just to sound cool?
WHO ARE YOU, HIPSTER?!
But, thanks.
I love your belt.
Leer.
Have a good night.
And out I go, with a bag full of happy and a slightly bewildered...Me, I guess.
On the train back to the city, I am sitting next to an older Hipster-couple--they're in their late 50s/early 60s easy: she in skinny jeans, oversized sunglasses, bright red lipstick and an obscene amount of leopard print...he just an older facial hairless-version of every dude that was perched along Bedford Ave, except that he has a wristwatch made out of Legos. And I start to judge them for a split second.
Then, I just want to know who they are.
I realize that they're two of the happiest people I've seen in a really long time, and they're visibly in love, and carefree, and could legitimately give a rat's ass about anyone or anything else around them. And it's lovely. And I'm kinda envious.
Who are YOU, Hipsters?!
How nice.
Maybe their mystique just gets less harsh and more pretty with age.
...Maybe.
But, I will say this:
I, too, Friend Hipster, live in Brooklyn.
I, too, have damn fine taste in music.
I, too, read things and love coffee.
And I, too, have a great love for that there Beacon's Closet.
You can keep the yellow Hammer-pant-influenced jumpsuit, I'll just keep my hundreds of dollars.
Friday, March 4, 2011
So, This Starving Artist Walks Into HBO...
It's been a week. I feel like I can actually talk about it...jinx-free, and all that jazz.
So, right:
There I am, on my break and I get the email from my manager with the subject headline: Bored to Death Audition. And my heart stopped. I know that means "HBO" and I know that that's never happened to me before. And that's awesome.
And then I read more of the fine print:
"Late 20s-early 30s"...Check. (Gross.)
"Could be very lovely, or perhaps more charactery." ...Check.
"She has a sweet disposition, but also speaks her mind." ...Check.
"She doesn’t have much filter/shame."...Check.
"A recovering alcoholic..." ...OK, no. But I could figure that out.
"Recurring." ...Oh.
Oh holy crap.
And then I find out that she's Ted Danson's daughter.
And I start to wonder how the crap that any of this is happening.
And I can't hear anything else in the room, all the white noise etc. is drowned out by the fact that my heart is like screaming directly into my ears...and I've stopped breathing, and I'm grinning like a son of a bitch.
And I notice that my manager has sent this email to me, and only to me.
"If you would like you can come in tomorrow to go over the scenes. Let me know." Yes. Yes, I will.
I immediately run home after work and quickly memorize all four scenes. She's a recovering alcoholic/pot-head living in LA who collects FiestaWare and met her current boyfriend at a seance. Her current boyfriend who she treats like a dog (literally) and who happens to be the exact same age as her father. ...She's quirky, she's weird, I love her, I'll take it.
Then, I research every inch of this show possible (...They're filming in my neighborhood constantly--that is neat. Jason Schwartzman is EXACTLY who he is in I Heart Huckabees, Zach Galifianakas is almost the straight man and that's crazy, and godDAMN Ted Danson's good.) and buy my share of episodes on iTunes.
There's still 36 hours before this audition, I can't sleep, I have NOTHING in my closet that would suit this character (...Yes I do...No I dont.) and I. Am so. Excited.
Because here's the deal:
I already don't really care whether or not I book this. I mean, I do, but that's not the most important thing. The most important thing is that I now have the opportunity to say "Hello, my name is Angela and I have auditioned for a recurring role on an HBO-sitcom to play Ted Danson's recovering alcoholic-daughter."
Pardon my French, but that's pretty fucking cool.
And that's enough.
It would be MORE than enough, however, if I don't blow it.
And so, I walk into my manager's office 14 hours later (after having gone over the lines two dozen more times, done more research, and having had 5 cups of coffee) and go over the scenes with him.
And he is pumped.
(This in itself is enough to make my day. I've already made my manager happy...So good.)
We discuss her look, we discuss her motives, and then we discuss my motives:
"How are you feeling?"
I'm so stupid excited I can't deal with it.
"Good!"
I've never done anything like this!!
"Awesome!...Don't tell them that."
Oh. Right. I won't.
"Good. What else have you done to get ready for this? Have you taken any classes lately?"
...
And then I remember back to the workshop I had just a little over a week ago, the RubberFace-experience. How the casting director told me that the wheels were turning in all the right ways and that he could see where I was going but that my physical theatricality just kinda betrayed everything. "Watch the play-back tape, you'll see how to pull it back a bit, how to be smaller. It'll be a really easy adjustment for you."
...Timely.
Yes. Yes I have, actually.
And I recount the details of the workshop for him.
"Amazing. His office is right beneath us, by the way."
(Fancy that.)
"And it worked."
Really?!
"Yeah. I liked what you did with that. A lot."
Really?!?!
"Do exactly that and you'll be great in that room."
Oh yay! ...Really?
"Yes. I am so excited, I want you to book this."
Meeeee tooooo!
And so, I leave the office, biggest stupidest grin on my face & with all of the confidence in the universe.
There is no way that tomorrow won't be anything but good.
And then, I go shopping.
(Side-bar: Why on earth does getting an audition automatically equal an opportunity to go buy more clothes? No matter how much money you've got, somehow immediately before an audition, you have no kind of problem justifying buying new jeans/sweaters/shoes/a dress, things that would better suit the character. ...Maybe it's just me that does this. ...I chronically do this.)
I go home, I reread through the scenes, and then work towards looking as pristine as a pseudo laid-back/recovering alcoholic/potentially crunchy/potentially Daddy-complexed/lovable/charactery/seance-seeking/FiestaWare-collecting/late 20s daughter in LA could possibly look.
I think I could have this.
I take a deep breath.
I pass out.
The next morning, it is pouring rain.
I don't want to take this as a bad omen, so I don't and I gather myself and and my lines and my heels and head towards midtown.
And then I'm in front of the building.
And then I'm in it, and they're scanning me and my IDs while I'm standing wide-eyed betwixt posters of Bill Maher with his arms proudly folded across his chest and a bunch of half-naked vampirey folks.
Holy shit, this is the HBO-building.
And then my temporary photo-ID and I are heading through the main lobby towards the elevators. And I'm in shell-shock. I feel like I don't know what to do with myself.
Holy shit. This is the HBO-buildling.
And then I'm in this little elevator mini-hallway all by myself, waiting to head up, and I get smacked upside the head with this enormous sense of calm.
This is only a building.
These are only people.
This is only an opportunity--this is not life or death.
You've already gotten here. That's enough.
And suddenly, it was.
I got upstairs and I looked around and I saw cubicles and an officey-carpet.
This is only an office.
Granted, an office where they're playing Wolverine on a huge screen right smack in the middle of it.
But, it's an office.
Calm.
And there were three of us waiting there, three of us out of a relatively small list of names, and all of us doing our best to keep to ourselves and focus solely on the thing that we were all there to do.
We could not have looked more different.
(I thought I looked the part best, but that's just me.)
But it was a crazy way to ground yourself before walking into an audition room--to look around and see that you were nothing like your immediate competition appearance-wise, and that it was certain that you would all bring something wildly different into the room.
If they don't choose you, it's not because of you, it's that they want something different:
maybe that goth-looking one, maybe the put-together one.
That's entirely out of your control.
Just go in and have a conversation with "your Dad"/the camera.
And then, I went in.
And then, it was done.
I heard "Really great, you did a really great job," by this smiling woman behind the camera. Done.
I told the other two actresses Break legs, have fun & walked out of the building. In shell-shock.
And then eventually feeling really really really stupid good.
...
I've been told that it takes about two weeks to hear anything either way.
I refuse to get my hopes up (because that's just a foolish idea), but I refuse to feel any sense of defeat either (...that would be equally as foolish).
Regardless, I get to say that I was handed this amazing opportunity, and that I know that I kicked ass with it.
I'm crossing my fingers.
Just as much to book the thing as I am to have more opportunities like that come my way.
I feel like they will.
I feel like I'll fall on my face a few times, and I feel like I'll nail it even more.
...I feel like I'll be lucky to actually book something once or twice.
We'll see.
I'm hopeful.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The Starving Artist's Lesson in Breathing
There are a couple months out of the year that are essentially dead in New York.
...
OK, let's be real here: there are no truly "dead" months in New York--even the most quiet and sleepy of times here are still 10millionX more lively and nuts and crazy and exciting than...everywhere. Odessa, MO. (No offense.) ...But really, everywhere.
Just the same, there's the gradual slumping of November and December and out-and-out lull of January/February that leaves one just kind of meandering around the city, braving the cold just to kind of go somewhere and be responsible for a bit before you hunker down and get cozy for the rest of the evening. There's not a ton of ambition-boostyness going on anywhere on anyone's behalf ever during New York-"Dead". Everyone's too busy hibernating. With hot chocolate. And bourbon. And NetFlix Watch-It-Instantly and the need to stay warm to bother with a need to do stuff.
(In retrospect, this was probably the primary contributing factor to my extended job search of the past couple of months...I get that now, in hindsight, of course. Like you do. ...I digress.)
My point is that the city-wide need to hibernate and the dead calm always seems to end very suddenly, and without warning.
And then, there is Chaos.
Complete. And utter. Chaos.
Prepare yourself. ...
So, Chaos happened about a week-and-a-half ago. And it has been running full-throttle ever since.
A recap:
*Second job happened (YAY!) and last year-job was asking for coverage at the same time. And primary job was still going strong. The result: My first nearly 74-hour work week in....just a very very long time.
Breathe.
*In the midst of said chaotic work week, I received an email on my lunch break from my (talent)manager with the subject Bored to Death Audition... which meant that I had 48 hours to prepare for my first audition at HBO as a recurring role on a hilarious show where I'd be playing a recovering alcoholic-daughter. ... Fine. ... EEEEEK! (More on that later.)
Breathe.
(Cross your fingers.)
Breathe.
*Two more days of running from work to an audition. Literally. In heels. Equity-card in tow.
Breathe.
*Coffee leaps out of my cup (not kidding), lands on my phone (not kidding), and frizzes it out.
Breathe.
(...Side bar: Let's also just talk for a moment about how entirely awful it feels to be even pseudo-inaccessible in New York. It's scary. Like panic-enducing I-Need-To-Drop-What-I'm-Doing-To-Head-Home-And-At-Least-Check-My-Email-So-I-Can-Connect-Somehow-scary. ...And I'm sure that undergrad-Me would've never ever ever thought I'd be the girl who needed phone/email-capabilities at all times, who needed to be in everyone's reach always. Why?! Who could really ever be that reliant on a phone? ...Me, goddammit. Me.)
*Friends who have been hibernating "need to see you ASAP".
*Other Friend in Kansas City isn't doing so well... What?!
*Other Friend asks Me to do a last-minute play reading....When?
*I'm asked to cover one extra shift... ...When?
*I'm missing a package in the mail...They're birth control pills.
...Breathe.
*"The 1st is in a couple days, have you paid this?"
*"The 1st in a couple days, are you going to do this?"
*"Read this."
*"Research this."
*"Did you go to that audition Friday?" No. "Oh. Why?"
...Breathe.
*"I just got my tax return, I need to go shopping. Come?" I need to do my taaaaaaaaaaxes.
Breeeeeathe.
And everything collides at once. It's fascinating.
Entirely frustrating (somewhat) when it feels like nothing has been happening for weeks on end...but fascinating. I have to wonder where it all comes from, the universal need for everything to jump up in your face at once and say "Oooh, pick me! Think about me! Give me your undying focus and attention NOW! YAY!"
Is it Spring? Has it sprung, is it springing--is that why?
Or is it just because. Just "because" the world decides to wake-up all at once and catch you off guard, knock the wind out of you and run you into the ground.
I wonder.
...Pretty fun, though, right?
Now, if I could have the work-week diminish to a more manageable 50 or (heaven forbid) 40 hours as opposed to the 74, that'd be a glorious day.
Regardless, let the Chaos run rampant.
...Just give me two quick seconds to catch my breath.
...
OK, let's be real here: there are no truly "dead" months in New York--even the most quiet and sleepy of times here are still 10millionX more lively and nuts and crazy and exciting than...everywhere. Odessa, MO. (No offense.) ...But really, everywhere.
Just the same, there's the gradual slumping of November and December and out-and-out lull of January/February that leaves one just kind of meandering around the city, braving the cold just to kind of go somewhere and be responsible for a bit before you hunker down and get cozy for the rest of the evening. There's not a ton of ambition-boostyness going on anywhere on anyone's behalf ever during New York-"Dead". Everyone's too busy hibernating. With hot chocolate. And bourbon. And NetFlix Watch-It-Instantly and the need to stay warm to bother with a need to do stuff.
(In retrospect, this was probably the primary contributing factor to my extended job search of the past couple of months...I get that now, in hindsight, of course. Like you do. ...I digress.)
My point is that the city-wide need to hibernate and the dead calm always seems to end very suddenly, and without warning.
And then, there is Chaos.
Complete. And utter. Chaos.
Prepare yourself. ...
So, Chaos happened about a week-and-a-half ago. And it has been running full-throttle ever since.
A recap:
*Second job happened (YAY!) and last year-job was asking for coverage at the same time. And primary job was still going strong. The result: My first nearly 74-hour work week in....just a very very long time.
Breathe.
*In the midst of said chaotic work week, I received an email on my lunch break from my (talent)manager with the subject Bored to Death Audition... which meant that I had 48 hours to prepare for my first audition at HBO as a recurring role on a hilarious show where I'd be playing a recovering alcoholic-daughter. ... Fine. ... EEEEEK! (More on that later.)
Breathe.
(Cross your fingers.)
Breathe.
*Two more days of running from work to an audition. Literally. In heels. Equity-card in tow.
Breathe.
*Coffee leaps out of my cup (not kidding), lands on my phone (not kidding), and frizzes it out.
Breathe.
(...Side bar: Let's also just talk for a moment about how entirely awful it feels to be even pseudo-inaccessible in New York. It's scary. Like panic-enducing I-Need-To-Drop-What-I'm-Doing-To-Head-Home-And-At-Least-Check-My-Email-So-I-Can-Connect-Somehow-scary. ...And I'm sure that undergrad-Me would've never ever ever thought I'd be the girl who needed phone/email-capabilities at all times, who needed to be in everyone's reach always. Why?! Who could really ever be that reliant on a phone? ...Me, goddammit. Me.)
*Friends who have been hibernating "need to see you ASAP".
*Other Friend in Kansas City isn't doing so well... What?!
*Other Friend asks Me to do a last-minute play reading....When?
*I'm asked to cover one extra shift... ...When?
*I'm missing a package in the mail...They're birth control pills.
...Breathe.
*"The 1st is in a couple days, have you paid this?"
*"The 1st in a couple days, are you going to do this?"
*"Read this."
*"Research this."
*"Did you go to that audition Friday?" No. "Oh. Why?"
...Breathe.
*"I just got my tax return, I need to go shopping. Come?" I need to do my taaaaaaaaaaxes.
Breeeeeathe.
And everything collides at once. It's fascinating.
Entirely frustrating (somewhat) when it feels like nothing has been happening for weeks on end...but fascinating. I have to wonder where it all comes from, the universal need for everything to jump up in your face at once and say "Oooh, pick me! Think about me! Give me your undying focus and attention NOW! YAY!"
Is it Spring? Has it sprung, is it springing--is that why?
Or is it just because. Just "because" the world decides to wake-up all at once and catch you off guard, knock the wind out of you and run you into the ground.
I wonder.
...Pretty fun, though, right?
Now, if I could have the work-week diminish to a more manageable 50 or (heaven forbid) 40 hours as opposed to the 74, that'd be a glorious day.
Regardless, let the Chaos run rampant.
...Just give me two quick seconds to catch my breath.
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