Life is for the living

Arrived in NYC safe and exhausted 7:45 am (EST) Monday morning. Napped. Met up with Missoula Touring friends for lunch. And shopped at Kmart.

Only in New York have I finally begun to appreciate the idea of "one stop shopping". Three things I can no longer imagine life without- Googlemaps, Cell Phones, and Superstores. How ever did people survive?

Trying to get the idea into my head that I am living here, not vacationing. That this life long dream/idea/fantasy is actually happening. Right now.

Totally unprepared. Where was the catering 101 class in college for the acting program?

I have my first audition tomorrow for a straight (well actually... gay) play. It was that or an union audition for The Addams Family musical workshop- of which since I'm not union, I would probably have to sit around all day for chance to be seen, which isn't even guaranteed. At least with "Loaded", as it's called, I have an appointment and set time.

Audition time 10:15 tomorrow morning. It is now 1:35 am. And I have just realized that my headshot is smaller than my resume... and there is no paper cutter insight. Tried scissors and then printer- neither one was pretty.

So it looks like a trip to Staples is imminent tomorrow prior to the audition.

Suddenly NY feels real.

In closing some words of wisdom from the crazy lady in a giant red coat on the subway talking straight at me.

"Now is Now. Tomorrow is not Now. I am now."

Followed by:

"God is good. Keep him. Jesus is good. Keep him."

Wonderful.

You can never go back, never go back...

You can never go home again.

I tend to overthink things.
That is an understatement.
And it is also a preface.
Of which I am very fond.
(Prefaces- not understatements)

A wedding today. Of a close friend. Finally hitting home the fact that time moves on. Even when you feel you're standing still. Such an odd disorientating sensation. Sure you glance out the window every once and a while and see that perhaps the leaves are turning, the cinema you used to frequent now a pile of rubble, fields and woods now cookie cutter condominiums. But that's all detail. Outside the bubble. Surrounded by the familiar and the comfortable, a barrier against time is formed. A spaceship traveling at light-speed. The outside world whizzing by, but those inside are seemingly unaffected. High school easily could have been yesterday and who knows, perhaps it will be tomorrow as well. So comfortable living in denial of time. Cracks may appear, as they do in any structure built against something that can not be withheld, creating suction and tension- breaking the seal. But spackle is quickly applied and the structure is once again sound.

Sara married. My best friend from middle school through high school. The gang. We're all grown up. Finally realizing that the past has past. There is no going back. High school is just a memory. It's time to move on.

New York marks a step forward. Off this circular track I've been running on for the past, who knows how many, years of my life.

Don't get me wrong. I'm beyond excited for this move. New York hold adventure, friends, and my path to the future.

But I'm currently undergoing a state of mourning. For my past. Which I must now leave behind. It hurts, but it's ok.

It's good to feel every once and a while.

Die Vampire Die

It's funny the stories we tell ourselves.

Stories of how we are not good enough. How our lives are only full pain. How bad things always happen to us.

And how we believe them to be true.

Beyond belief- often we forget that they are even stories.

Mistaken for reality, we no longer even hear the little voice whispering the lies into our ear.

I like to make up stories about myself.

One of my favorites includes daring deeds of procrastination. Scandalous subterfuge useful for avoiding follow through. Exciting encounters held off due to unprecedented lateness. Can not. Instead of can do. Frustration at every turn. Why even try.

This story is told to me over and over, by a funny looking little old man riding on my back. His eyebrows angle down and center, perhaps pulled south by his thick purple rimmed glasses. These lenses rest solidly on his greasy nose which strangely lifts upward at the tip- contrary to every other drooping feature on his face. Breath smelling of decay and half eaten cheesecake he spins this story to me, in a surprisingly soothing voice. It sounds like the wind sometimes, or is mistaken for a passing car. Often it's the hum of my computer. Generally I don't even recognize him speaking to me. I've heard this story so often that it has become my reality.

It's a spiral. A mobius strip. The story feeding my action. Each action feeding the story. Ad Infinitum.

A question: Which came first? The action or the story?

A better question: What will break the cycle?

A contradiction.

To every rule an exception. (Even to that rule?)

The problem with this crazy old man on my back is that he doesn't always think things through. Sometimes he'll just spout off a story full of holes. Thinking (a story of his own perhaps) regardless I will still accept it. And much to his credit, often I do.

But I've discovered a hole in his logic, and in this novel of non-committal action: I have followed through, full heartedly, in believing that story and putting everything off, like an Olympic gold medalist. Now how is that possible? This story is true... but by being true it also proves itself false.

I imagine the little old man shrieking into the wind as he jumps off my spine and runs down the street, smoke rising billowing from his back.

Time for a new story.