Purging My Soul
If you know me, you know I'm a basketcase. Among my many basketcase-y symptoms, one that causes lots of emotional problems is my tendency to dwell. I hold grudges. I lament missed opportunities that are 15 years old. I remain angry at people even when the situation is long gone. I daydream about things that I could have done had I not made certain decisions. Worse, I daydream about things that I could have done had something else not happened, and I get angry about it.
Well, no more. What good are the antidepressants I'm taking now if I continue to get depressed about my past instead of being hopeful about my future?
I have to stop looking back. I have to stop musing over those things that I wanted, that I thought I deserved, toward which I was on the supposedly right path. I have to leave all of that behind me. I'm 31 now, past the boundless exuberance and possibilities one's 20s have to offer. I'm graduating in December, and a career in graphic design offers its own desirable zeniths.
So it's time I clean house, get focused, and accept those things that I'm never ever ever going to do, have, or get. It's not a sad thing. If anything, it's making room, cleaning out the attic to put in a sweet foosball table.
Therefore, here is a reasonably complete list of goals/desires/fantasies/expectations/pipe-dreams I have had in my head, some for many years, none of which I will attain and all of which I have to stop thinking about:
- I will never own a foosball table.
- Aphex Twin will never contribute a track to my remix album.
- I will never write a full-length play or feature-length screenplay.
- I will never direct an Obie-award winning production of Christopher Marlowe's Doctor Faustus.
- I will never win an Oscar.
- I will never own a 6,000-square-foot loft apartment with exposed brick walls and room for a trampoline, a recording studio, and a foosball table.
- No matter how many great scripts come in that don't have directors attached to them, no matter how many times someone tells me that my chance is coming, no matter how hard I work to prove my dedication to what I consider to be the core ideals of the company, I will never direct a play for Defiant Theatre because (1) I didn't go to U of I, (2) no one will trust my emotional volatility with an entire production, and (3) no one seems to like Mac Wellman as much as I do. (Phew. I've been holding that one in for a while.)
- I will never live in London.
- I will never see India.
- I will never get that directing MFA from CalArts.
- I will never be interviewed by David Letterman or Jon Stewart.
- There are plenty of women I will never have sex with, e.g., Parker Posey, Naomi Watts, Hungarian porn starlet Sophie Sweet, any of the Suicide Girls. But there is one woman who I was very enamored of in college that I still think about. (If you knew me then, or if you are her, you know exactly who I'm talking about.) I know, clinically nuts, right? Well, from this point on, GONE. No more. I haven't seen her in years anyway, and I've already taken a vow to never become romantically involved with anyone involved in theatre ever again. (I like going out on the weekends.) I won't kick myself for where I went wrong anymore.
- I will never be a world champion "Yar's Revenge" player.
- I will never be organized. I'm a frenetic, messy, lazy son-of-a-bitch. Might as well accept it and deal with it instead of flagellating myself for trying to be something I'm not.
- I will never own a building in which I can live, work as a freelancer, rent out apartments, and operate a modest theatre space for itinerant theatre companies.
- I will never knock any sense into Newt Gingrich, Antonin Scalia, Henry Hyde, George Bush, or any other politician who in my lifetime worked or is working or will work to restrict freedom.
- I will never hack the guts of a Mac mini into an original Macintosh 128K and build a home file/web/email/media server.
- I will not win Best in Show at the Graduate Portfolio Show in December. (I've been far too recalcitrant to far too many teachers for any of them to vote for me. For the record: I did apologize to one of them.)
- In fact, I will probably never win any awards for anything. They don't matter anyway.
- I will never have an annual salary greater than $50,000. ($50,000 is nothing to scoff at; I just doubt I'll ever do better. And when I look at this list in the future, I should recognize that this is in 2005 dollars and that I should calculate inflation appropriately.)
- I will never own a custom-tailored, pinstripe Ermengildo Zenga suit.
- I will never work for or with Stanley Kubrick, Quentin Tarantino, Peter Sellars (the theatre director, not the silent film star), Peter Brook, Mac Wellman, David Cronenberg, Chip Kidd, Stefan Sagmeister, Milton Glaser, Radiohead, Hungarian Porn Starlet Sophie Sweet, or any of the Suicide Girls.
- Though he'll call to ask if I've "forgiven him," Greg Cartwright will never actually say, "I'm sorry."
- I will never have a son named Xavier or a daughter named Zelda.
- No one would care to publish my memoirs.
- I will never try peyote, opium, or absinthe.
- "Like You Really Care" will never have the readership of BoingBoing, nor will it ever spin off into a print magazine, with me as the art director, Kelly as editor-in-chief, and Richard as editor of the entertainment section and the model for every cover, like Oprah or Martha.
Now I have room in my head for new goals, some of which could be pretty freaking awesome.
While I'm on the subject:
To anyone who I hurt or offended in either my attempts to attain these goals or during my childish hissy-fits thrown due to an unfulfilled expectation, I'm sorry.
Thanks for listening.
8 Comments:
Good for you. I was actually considering purging my soul as well, but I quickly realized that my I actually will win an Oscar, gruesomely violate a whole busload of Suicide Girls and go on a three week long peyote binge in the catacombs beneath Vatican City. Let me tell you what… that realization picked me up quicker than any purging ever would've!
As for your "vow to never become romantically involved with anyone involved in theatre ever again", you're not alone. I sat next to a girl on the train this morning who was bitching a blue streak about how horrible theatre people are. As an actor I am very aware of the fact that people go to great lengths to avoid dating us. Or touching us. Or being in the same room with us. Or disposing of our remains in sanctified ground. So forgive me if I ask you, with all due respect, to pardon our motherfucking dust.
I will never star in the role of Maureen in RENT.
I will never drive cross country in a red VW cabriolet with the top down.
I will never meet Lionel Ritchie.
I will never marry before age 30.
I will never get my ass in gear to throw a "Come as your favorite John Hughes character" party.
Brendan Fraser will never be my dutiful and scantily clad house boy.
I apologize for the generality. Allow me to qualify my statement further and paint a far narrower stroke:
I will never become romantically involved with a marginally talented woman who is chronically addicted to working on non-paying, amateur theatre productions, losing sleep and quality free-time for no artistic and/or financial reward.
If I were seeking a companion, talented women who are committed to good work with artistic merit and/or making a living would not be so quickly overlooked.
But we all have to face the truth: Those in the theatre community are hard to date.
On the surface, the hours suck, so there isn't much time for canoodling except after rehearsals and shows.
But most importantly, for many—you and many others excluded—theatre is essentially a very expensive, time-consuming hobby, not a career choice. If one is going into the performing arts, one has to truly commit to it, putting everything on the line. You can either (A) commit to being a professional, (B) commit to being a principled artist, or (C) be a principled artist willing to compromise occasionally to be a professional.
Too many times we see the actor who does theatre abusively and never get beyond doing shows for no pay, showing up to their day jobs exhausted, spending their grocery money on their own costume because the company has no budget. For what? To perform for 5 people a night? That's not a committment to craft: that's an addiction. A committment to craft is saying, "I'm better than this crap, and I'm going to do it right."
Let me be clear: I have all the respect in the world for my friends who are working hard and doing great shows. But I have to ask them: when is the last time you called your agent? Or updated your headshots? Or sent a mailing to casting directors?
When you've, i.e., staged the fights for three dozens shows in four years and still haven't gotten a paying gig, when you've cancelled your third show of the weekend because there was no audience, when you haven't seen your significant other anywhere other than home or the bar around the corner from the theatre in six months, when your company isn't growing or receiving increasing amounts of grant money, when you aren't doing everything you possibly can to further your career and get your name and face out there but continue to accept every non-paying role offered to you by every fresh-out-of-college theatre company doing the third production of Sam Shepard in Chicago this season—you are no longer an artist. You're an addict.
I would have no problem with dating an artist. (And you, Kelly, are an artist. If it weren't for my preference for boobs, I'd take you out for a drink.)
I refuse to date an addict.
Wow. Double wow. Well, I'm all for realistic assessment of goals, and so on. I don't want to give you any kind of false hope, but I think you might be able to achieve some of these things. Still, I understand wanting to jettison a whole mess of stuff, just so you can finally stop thinking about it. That being said, I would just like to rebut a few of your points. Understand that I'm not trying to be cruel here. I just think its important to hang onto some particular dreams. I mean, here I am, pushing forty, and I still think that one day, I'll have Boris Karloff's career, and a laptop with a Windows 98 OS which I only use to play Dungeon Keeper 2. Sometimes this belief is all that will get me out of bed in the morning.
Ok--this is less a rebuttal, and more some suggestions of how to achieve a few of these crazy-making goals:
Any number of people own foosball tables. I'm gonna go out on a limb here; Lisa and I are moving to LA at the end of the school year, come hell or high water. The first national commericial or decent-paying speaking role in a movie that I get, the first purchase I make is gonna be a foosball table for my boy A. B. Guthrie. Or, I'll just send you the money, and you can pick it our for yourself.
You might write a play or a screenplay--you can write anytime, and you don't need fancy equipment to do it. You might surprise yourself.
The 6,000 sq ft loft--hey, you might score a sweet gig in your field. And, since so much of your work is electronic, you can basically live in any city--go to where the lofts run wild and free--Tucson for instance--its cheeeep here. And I miss my friends...
Well, Defiant is dead and food for worms at this point. But, I guess some sort of reunion show is possible. Honestly, Arlo, I think it had more to do with the emotional volatility than anything. Mac's Dracula is probably in my top five fave plays, and I like Harm's Way as well. I know I voted yes to that one a few times. Anyway, I'm glad you got that out. I'm sorry we treated you like shit. But, then again, we all treated each other like shit most of the time, so I guess that's some form of acceptance. Sigh.
Never live in London? Never see India? Dude! Come on! Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater. Let's make it a race. I've always wanted to see Japan--last one to the Orient drinks bong water.
In my experience, getting to fuck a porn star is purely a matter of right place/right time. Get Coates to tell you about Debi Diamond sometime. Does Sophie Sweet ever do pro-am? Let's hope so. And I'm with ya on that one brother--that girl is a piece of ass that'll bring a tear to your eye. And I'm sure she's very smart and nice to her parents.
How to nail a Suicide Girl--this'll work for most anyone: Step 1--Get a girlfriend (you're one ahead already) Step 2--Introduce said girlfriend to the SG website (we are assuming that this girlfriend is porn- or at least cheescake-friendly, and not Christian, or anything horrible like that) Step 3--Point out that SG is not just hot hot pix of punk/goth/emo girls, but is also a thriving web community, and they do live shows too. Step 4--Say "Jeepers, babydoll, you're puh-lenty sexy enough to be an SG. Reach me that camera, will ya?" Step 5--Take some Bunny Yeager-quality shots of your girl. The great thing about SG is that the pictures don't have to be nekkid--they just have to be sexy. Step 6--Send the pix to SG, set up an account, what have you. In a word, publish. Step 7--Bring up her page on the ol' Mac. Look from the page to your girl, who is watching teevee. Look from your girl to the page. There's a fucking Suicide Girl in your apartment, sitting on the sofa, watching teevee! Step 8--Depending on your preference, lay her down by the fire and make sweet love to this her, or throw her onto the kitchen table and use here with the utmost barbarity. I think you know which one I would suggest.
Just so you don't think I'm operating with an agenda here--my SG sub lapsed a long time ago, and I can't really afford to renew. So, I will not be ogling pix of your girl. I cannot speak for Kelly, Deej, Fock, or Dr. Smith (although Dr. Smith probably won't be interested unless there are teddy bears, lollypops, and pigtails involved in the shoot)
Bonus--do a project with Suicide Girlfriend. Wah-LAH! You're working with a SG. Two birds...
Back to the list:
I still carry torches for girls I crushed on in high school. So I hear ya talking. No advice, just empathy.
Organization is overrated. Messy is WHERE ITS AT!
People win awards all the time. The odds are in your favor.
Zenga suit--could happen. Big job, big payday--you decide to treat yourself--zap, suit city.
I don't know about you working with all those folks--maybe you'll do a poster for QT or DC one day. Boy, wouldn't it be neat to work with Chip Kidd? He's one of my idols, too--Batman Collected, Batman Animated, and Mythology all hold very prominent places on my bookshelf. And imagine my voice hushed and filled with awe as I mention two things that give me great pleasure--Batman The Animated Series, and Batman: Mad Love (..."it felt like a kiss..."). Anyway, it could happen, I say!
Someone might publish your memoirs--your life isn't over yet. There's still time to do neat things and see stuff. That's all a good memoir is. Heck, Klaus Kinski didn't even do that--he just made some movies, punched some people, and had a bunch of sex, and his memoir got published. And a mighty entertaining memoir it is, too, I might add.
Your right--opium is hard to find. Absinthe, not so much these days. Didn't Fock have a fixation on the Green Fairy? Tell him to share! And I'll call you when I track down some peyote.
Well, gee--now I want us to do a magazine. Are pipe dreams contagious? Is that what they call a meme? Maybe there's a law of conservation of pipe dreams--they cannot be created or destroyed. Maybe in getting rid of that when, you just passed it on to me. That's kind of neat.
Well, I hope I don't come off like Lucy re-hooking Linus on the blanket after he managed to kick the habit with this--I just honestly feel that you can do some of this stuff--especially the foosball table and the Suicide Girl thing.
Satan's Clawed Hooves, look at the size of this thing. I should have just done a post. Let's see if I can come up with something good for the front page...
Why would I be irritated by attacks on struggling artists? It's not because I meet every single qualification for your definition of "addict" (which I do), but because the person who sacrifices financial independence, the esteem of their peers, the warm regard of society and – by your own dismissive calculus – the felicity of love, has carved out a life plagued by an overabundance of challenge. Heaping scorn upon the damned is hardly a virtuous pastime… unless, of course, by their actions you come into suffering as well.
You don't need to ask me when the last time I called my agent was, or updated my headshots, or sent a mailing to casting directors. You don't. It doesn’t concern you.
Tonight I'm going to go to a theatre that hasn't paid me a dime, put on a costume I pulled from my own closet, and perform for three hours. I'm 34 years old, single, nearly broke, and I've been pursuing acting exclusively as a profession for over 20 years. If you pick up a copy of today's Chicago Tribune you'll see my picture in it, along with a glowing review. Last week our show was the Critic's Choice & Highly Recommended in the Chicago Reader. Anyone who wants to see the show can do so for free. Don't pay a thing. Just walk in.
If you don't come, or if you walk out in the middle, that's okay too. Whatever makes you happy, that's what you should do. It's what I'm doing.
No, Kelly, you are not an addict. Love for the craft and principled artistry go a long way in my book. And you, my friend, have those in abundance. The line between passion and compulsion is a fine one, but when you see it, it appears huge.
The $50K salary cap is a little defeatist. Especially if you go into business for yourself. I know a photo retoucher who made $100K a year at Leo Burnett. And all he did was remove "hail damage" from supermodels' asses.
Let go of the grudges. Keep some room for the dreams. I think you would look good in pinstripes.
Ok, I'll spill a bird here. I still haven't found Absinthe that I'm sure is Absinthe..but when I do, Arlo and I meeting the green fairy in a graveyard at midnight. Now, I hope the fucking government isn't reading this, but if they are FUCK OFF YOU FUCKING FASCIST FUCKTARDS.
I got me some poppy seeds. Soniferum like. So far, none of them have sprouted, but when they do...opium for days. I got tired of looking for it and decided to grow my own for my own personal edumacation. And for all the FUCKTARDS still in the room, you can buy poppy heads, grind them up in a coffee grinder (3 big ones should do) steep it in with some tea, add some honey and lemon and voila - opium tea. This I have tried and its very nice.
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