7/26/12

I feel like I’m having a midlife crisis at the ripe old age of 21. Everyone thinks growing up that they’re going to have this awesome, fabulous life. That somehow they’re just so special that they’ll slingshot over everyone else who leads an average existence and become some super happy person with a super fantastic job and a super fantastic life. Accepting that I’ll lead a very average life in a very average way with probably a very average job makes me feel like a fifty year old who wants to buy a Camero.

7/25/12

Saturday I’ll be gone. My roommate doesn’t move out until the first week of August, but apparently she absolutely had to move all of the silverware out with her this weekend. For the next four days I’ll be living off of forty four plastic knives, three plastic spoons, and a giant spatula. I’ve packed everything of mine except for one frying pan and one pot. Though I’ve cooked enough food for the week that I probably can pack those up, too. But still, you don’t see me taking silverware from her. It’s not like I’m still here or anything, no, thinking of others instead of yourself is silly. By all means, take my silverware. I’ll go back to caveman days and eat with my hands. Or make bizarre chopsticks from plastic knives.

7/24/12

There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me.

The idea being that if you say something enough, it becomes true. It's all about acceptance, dietitians and therapists say. Accepting yourself, being happy and comfortable in your own skin. Being aokay with being who you are, because dislike doesn't cause change that sticks, being comfortable lets change happen gradually.

Yeah, sure.

7/23/12

Alphabetical Exercise Cont.

Look for the extraordinary in the ordinary, you're told, everyday has an adventure you're not seeing yet. Maybe it's because you're too busy running to auditions and rehearsals and trying to pay the rent and eat in the same month, but you know you can't do both. Or maybe it's hard to see the excitement when your neighbors party and fight 'til three am while all you want to do is practice and sleep. People don't see you as you, you're "alternative", living the lifestyle that doesn't need a nine to five and a white picket fence with 2.5 kids and a dog named chappie. Question your reality, that's what they want, to pull you into the normal and boring. Relax, you live in a world of glitter and sequins, of performance and stages of lights and booming sound. Slip into the comfort of that alternative world and run from ergonomic chairs and keyboards. Tomorrow you'll wake up to worry all over again but tonight it's you, the audience and that stage. Under the cloak of blackness, you're ready. Wait for it. Xanadu, my Xanadu, live in a world of your own accord! Your life is your own and it's full of bourban smiles and red velvet curtains being opened. Zap, you're there, live it.

7/22/12

T-minus four days 'til lift off. We have a go, I repeat, we have a go. Ready to launch. Launch where? What next?

7/21/12

They stare at you as you lay your blanket down next to theirs. It's strange, they think, that you're there. But why is that? They're there too. Why is your arrival so strange? You're stared at like a shiny new penny until your luster wears off and they go back to staring at the water. Suddenly you're less interesting.

7/20/12

Alphabetical Writing Exercise

"Audience" is just a fancy word for a group of people you've forced and coerced and tricked into listening to and watching you, despite their better judgement, despite their flailing bank accounts, in spite of their overwhelming urge to run and leave in search of something less artsy fartsy, more raunchy, like a club called Bottoms Up with a waitress wonderfully named Chastity, trading a gilded theatre for sticky floors and neon lights with which somehow seem safer and more anonymous than a theatre full of sleepy patrons, all discovering their insomnia is suddenly cured but all all battling like Vikings to stay awake until the end, if only to join in the pseudo-intellectual lobby conversations to follow. Bottles of bourbon roll across your dressing room floor that night, a tinkling reminder of your lack of energy on stage. Creativity, it's a drug. Don't get addicted, but of course you already are. Even a drop, they say, can hook you for a lifetime. Forget family, fame, friends, finances and chase that next hit that'll never be as good as your first. Go out at night and twirl in the rain 'til inspiration strikes, because that's what artists do, right? Hole up inside your apartment with blankets and Mrs. Grass Soup because you, Madame Super Artist, are not impervious to germs. Ideas strike like mocking lightning , knowing that you're down for the count and can't even open your eyes to jot them down. Joke's on you, you laugh, 'cause you're a performer and your memory is a hard earned skill. Keep from crying when you realize you're full of shit.

TBC