Since Last We Spoke


Well, okay.  I tried.  I got a job at a coffee shop, tried to work three jobs.  Of course the one I spend the most time on gets me no money right now, an internship – “it doesn’t pay yet but it might lead to a job!”  That old refrain of 20-somethings everywhere.  

Of course I was doomed.  I quit a week in – and still had to fill up my two weeks notice.  Oh, I tried.  

It was my fourth coffee job.  Four.  It was the end.  Should’ve known.  I hated it, dreaded it, bitched and moaned.  And so, a couple nights ago, I walked home, covered in coffee grounds and that  kitchen sweat smell specific to food service.  For the last time in my coffee stained converse shoes, looking fourteen, walking past the bars on a Thursday night.

Freedom.  Money is still low.  But I can breathe.  I can sleep.  I can take moments to write, like this one.

The train rambles by.

Things are better since last we spoke.

I’m working on Eliza Gilkyson’s “Wildwood Spring” on guitar.

I got a mini promotion in my internship.

We made it to a script reading event.  Free wine and cookies, sweet people, wild enthusiasm.  Some talent.  A whole lot of ego.  I’ll go back though.

Didn’t we know this would be LA?

It’s reassuring and disturbing.  How much we want it here.  In that room – a condensed version.  

Who has it.  Who goes for it, who dares no matter what.  Who’s quiet in the corner, sitting on gold.  Who never speaks up.  It’s a lot of watch and see right now.

I’m reading Diane Keaton’s incredible memoir Then Again.  Not about craft so much (not like Steve Martin’s Born Standing Up), but a beautiful moving shared memoir with her mother – journals and letters.  

She writes this:

“Now that I’m the age [Meisner] was when he stressed the necessity of being more mature in order to become a fully realized actor, now that life has become so much more engaging, if unfathomable, it’s hard to believe the accumulated knowledge I’m ready to give isn’t what audiences are always interested in.”

I love it and hate it.

I’m worried about time passing quickly.  It feels suddenly like it is.  I think that was a big reason why I quit.  I had my head down all hours of the day.  Work.  I have workaholic tendencies, I admit.  

But a life without art is death to me.  Colors gray and objects lose their edges.  It is a real depression that happens when I’m not making something every single day.  

I need to write here more often, it might help.


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