an extremely ME ME ME blog

As I start to de-Nei-Play myself, I find these pockets of frenzied activity are bookended by long periods of hanging out with my laptop like it might give me the secret to life. So I come home after pouring my artistic guts out to Sessoms (and she, as usual, added that extra oomph to the idea and made it twice as exciting*), and fill a cup with Coke from last Thursday's Jack n' Coke brigade.

"At least you got a free bottle of Coke out of it all," Swank had said to me late that night.
It's funny how long a journey from one Thursday to another can be.

I rehearsed "Fiat" today with Jeff & Kingston. After thinking I sorta got the shaft, I believe maybe I got...this enormously challenging role. "You're only the mother of God!," Sessoms remarked over dinner. Ah. Yes. And I come to bring a man, dying of AIDS, who has taken a bottle of Seconals, to heaven. I sing a song. And spend half the play with a Brazilian accent, and the other half with some holy spirit voice. But I really didn't give half a damn til Kingston started talking about finding the mother in myself. The woman who will sit next to her husband when he dies, and say "It's okay. It's okay. Look, I'm bringing you up. You can pass through me."

Well, that hit home, just a smidge.

It's been nearly a year since Tom died in my mother's arms.
Heysus, Choseph and Maria. Me.


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On the career warpath these days. Yesterday I got new headshots at the studio of one Mr. Arthur Elgort. This morning, our class met Bernie Telsey. He talked about "Rent" & Idina a bunch, which was beyond helpful. I've been formulating a plan for myself, a plan to keep acting and not just slink into my directors chair hoping no one will notice. I think I'm gonna take the ol' Shettastic's advice this time. Although Renthead I am not, there's a part in that show that should be mine, at least for awhile.

In order to keep propping myself up and keep my pace going, I'm using room cleaning as a method of momentum. I went in and gutted out my bathroom, bleached the whole goddamn thing, screwed a shelf into the wall and reorganized the cabinets. Then sat down and wrote two scenes. Did all the laundry. Sat down and wrote my bio for the Estrogenius festival. Last night, at midnight, I tackled a clothing clean out and I'm going to sell all of it at Buffalo Exchange on Saturday. I feel like I did after my car accident two years ago. Like just get it out of here. Just get it out. I can't live within this wall of STUFF anymore. Like my personal belongings are actually dragging me down as I try to sprint.

The first few weeks were bound to be difficult. They're not so bad, but I've got to keep myself up here, hovering. Every minor dip feels like utter disaster. Fuck it. "Caaaall on meeeeee, call on me!"

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Yo, my shower curtain rod hates me since I cleaned. It keeps fallin' the hell down.

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I think I'd like to start another band.