It is one of the serendiptious beauties of life that so often when you are in search of an answer, it appears. Yesterday, when I was melancholic and life seemed uncertain, possibilities appeared that have galvanised and excited me, and once again I'm ready to take on the world.
I'll explain.
Before I boarded that fateful flight to London, I had it all worked out. I would spend Jan through April in London and Portugal working on a show with Alex, seeing friends and those dear to my heart, and possibly earning some cash. Then I'd head to Newport, where I'd live with friends and continue work with Aram and Diogo on the theatre project we'd started working on in Portugal this past fall until the end of July, when we'd perform at the MN Fringe. After August things got a little fuzzier, but I was sure I'd be in LA at some point, working with my dear, beautiful, intelligent, and highly talented friend, Erin.
You know what they say about the best laid plans, however. Obviously, being turned away at Heathrow by British immigration was in no way part of my grand scheme, and was a significant wrench in the works. But then other complications began to arise as well... Aram having other, previous commitments to theatre projects that would potentially clash with the MN Fringe and Portugal project rehearsals; Diogo being broke and unsure of when he'd be able to come Stateside... these significantly contributed to the erosion of what had seemed to be such a perfect, albeit a bit mad, plan.
So this is where I was yesterday... feeling a bit adrift, unsure of whether it was worth it to even apply to the Fringe so late in the game, unsure about going to Newport, but panicked at the thought of not having any plan at all, no goal to drive me forward, no inspiration to galvanise me to action.
Enter Erin, and a very inspirational email.
So now there's a new plan, which is LA in June, and anywhere from one to three fringe and theatre festivals in the following months. Now there's the great and very real possibility of returning to a piece (her final piece from LISPA) which was always immensely inspiring to me, and the opportunity to work with one of the artists and human beings I admire the most, and to discover a new place while I'm at it. And as far as I'm concerned, whether or not this all actually comes to pass, life is awesome again.
Another silver lining: until June, more time in Minneapolis, with Mom, and Finn, and friends. It was so lovely to be home over the holidays. So lovely. And I'm looking forward to being there again.
Thursday 29 January 2009
Wednesday 28 January 2009
Stay
This isn't My Dramatic Life, part 2 - that entry is still forthcoming. Since time is short and battery is low, only a note for the moment.
I'm in Portugal (how I got here is My Dramatic Life, part 2). I'm happy, and I'm where I need to be. Today, though, I find myself being particularly contemplative. About how easy it would be to just *stay*. And about what that means.
I don't think the answers are obvious. I mean, there are the obvious answers, to be sure. But I think it's something else, as well; something about wanting to stay somewhere safe so you don't have to take on the world. These questions that have been plaguing me (and so many others) of late - what do I want? Where do I want to be? Who am I in the world? What kind of artist? What kind of art do I want to create? - are quieted here. Put off in the simplest way.
And it makes me want to stay. But it makes me question why.
I'm in Portugal (how I got here is My Dramatic Life, part 2). I'm happy, and I'm where I need to be. Today, though, I find myself being particularly contemplative. About how easy it would be to just *stay*. And about what that means.
I don't think the answers are obvious. I mean, there are the obvious answers, to be sure. But I think it's something else, as well; something about wanting to stay somewhere safe so you don't have to take on the world. These questions that have been plaguing me (and so many others) of late - what do I want? Where do I want to be? Who am I in the world? What kind of artist? What kind of art do I want to create? - are quieted here. Put off in the simplest way.
And it makes me want to stay. But it makes me question why.
Tuesday 13 January 2009
My Dramatic Life, part 1
It's been a very eventful and emotional past 72 hours. Allow me to fill you in.
As you know, on Saturday I got on a plane to London. What you may not know, is that while going through passport control at Heathrow on Sunday morning I was stopped, questioned, and detained. My wallet was gone through, as was my luggage. I was held in the immigration holding pen/waiting room for hours, and interviewed again. Then, I was denied entry to the UK, and informed I'd be put on the next flight out to NYC.
In retrospect, I'm not surprised (at the time, I was VERY surprised. Or shocked, rather). There were enough suspicious things to add up to a very suspect case. I was coming in on the return leg of a flight. I'd only bought my flight back to the States a couple of days earlier. I'd last been in London a mere six weeks previous. I had no proof of enough funds to self-sustain, and no employment in the States. And to top it all off, I had my National Insurance card on me, as well as CVs and letters of recommendation.
Of course they thought I was coming to London to job hunt. Of course they turned me away. And the thing that kills me is that I didn't need to have my NI card and all that paperwork... the only reason I did was stupidity and oversight. But at that point, there was nothing to be done - they held me for a few more hours, then had two airport personnel escort me to my flight, retaining my passport and documents and handing them to the flight attendants to make sure I didn't make a break for it. They didn't give them back until we touched down in Newark.
Needless to say, it was a horrific experience. Humiliating and devastating and emotionally and physically exhausting. By the time I landed in Newark I was a wreck. Luckily Mom had been able to get ahold of my friend Liz, so she met me at the airport, and held me as I broke down immediately upon arrival (one of MANY breakdowns over the previous 18 hours). She put me up in her Bushwick loft in Brooklyn, and made me soup, and shared her bed.
That was Sunday night. The story isn't over. More to come...
As you know, on Saturday I got on a plane to London. What you may not know, is that while going through passport control at Heathrow on Sunday morning I was stopped, questioned, and detained. My wallet was gone through, as was my luggage. I was held in the immigration holding pen/waiting room for hours, and interviewed again. Then, I was denied entry to the UK, and informed I'd be put on the next flight out to NYC.
In retrospect, I'm not surprised (at the time, I was VERY surprised. Or shocked, rather). There were enough suspicious things to add up to a very suspect case. I was coming in on the return leg of a flight. I'd only bought my flight back to the States a couple of days earlier. I'd last been in London a mere six weeks previous. I had no proof of enough funds to self-sustain, and no employment in the States. And to top it all off, I had my National Insurance card on me, as well as CVs and letters of recommendation.
Of course they thought I was coming to London to job hunt. Of course they turned me away. And the thing that kills me is that I didn't need to have my NI card and all that paperwork... the only reason I did was stupidity and oversight. But at that point, there was nothing to be done - they held me for a few more hours, then had two airport personnel escort me to my flight, retaining my passport and documents and handing them to the flight attendants to make sure I didn't make a break for it. They didn't give them back until we touched down in Newark.
Needless to say, it was a horrific experience. Humiliating and devastating and emotionally and physically exhausting. By the time I landed in Newark I was a wreck. Luckily Mom had been able to get ahold of my friend Liz, so she met me at the airport, and held me as I broke down immediately upon arrival (one of MANY breakdowns over the previous 18 hours). She put me up in her Bushwick loft in Brooklyn, and made me soup, and shared her bed.
That was Sunday night. The story isn't over. More to come...
Saturday 10 January 2009
Another farewell
It's the night before I leave for London. The past weeks have been pretty incredible. Full of big emotions and quiet existential crises, but also incredibly and beautifully simple. I think it's a lovely and rare thing to have a place you can return to that always feels comfortable, like home. I'm very lucky.
There's a lot to do yet before I go - packing and errands and cleaning and getting-of-ducks into some semblance of a row. But now it's midnight, I'm just home from a lovely evening at the Dinkytowner with some of my nearest and dearest, and the only thing to do before bed is to look around, take some deep breaths, and absorb the moment before I watch some Deadwood, finish off that pint of Chubby Hubby and go to bed.
Big day tomorrow. But aren't they all?
There's a lot to do yet before I go - packing and errands and cleaning and getting-of-ducks into some semblance of a row. But now it's midnight, I'm just home from a lovely evening at the Dinkytowner with some of my nearest and dearest, and the only thing to do before bed is to look around, take some deep breaths, and absorb the moment before I watch some Deadwood, finish off that pint of Chubby Hubby and go to bed.
Big day tomorrow. But aren't they all?
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