Freedom.
It's a rare, precious thing, when you think of it.
To stand up and say: "This is what I love, and I'm going to do it. With or without you, your permission, your validation, your approval, regardless of whether or not you value it. I'm going to make this happen, by the sheer force of my will."
Because it is my life.
Where does this come from?
Most likely from being told "No" again, and again, and again. From being smiled and chuckled at, from empty promises heavy with sordid expectation. From naysayers and critics and skeptics hiding safely behind their masks of 'practicality'.
And isn't it funny that those very same naysayers are the ones found sniffing for a piece when everything at last falls into place, when the chips are collected after an enormous gamble.
There comes a point in the lives of all great men and women, where they make a choice to accept the doubt, the fear, the uncertainty, the life of risk and loss and toil and humility-in order to accomplish something truly phenomenal, to carve their legacy into the wall of time.
Those that choose a life of safety will never understand this life. And that is why no one will ever remember their name.
Mind me-I do not speak of fame, because there's no guarantee that you will find fame, or that it will fulfill you when you do find it. In fact, the general consensus is that it leaves one rather empty and paranoid. Those revolutionary beings that have claimed said fantasy recognize it for what it is and move on to greater things in spite of it.
I speak of changing your world, of living for yourself, for the sole purpose of living. I speak of making your dream and your life one and the same. If you wake every day and work towards your goals and dreams, if you live on and pursue in spite of EVERYONE that will tell you "No", then you are truly living a life worthy of recognition, and you will change the lives of those around you with that disposition alone.
I woke a day ago and knew that I would be meeting a 'very big agent' that day. For some silly reason, I felt a small rock of fear in my center. Four years ago, that small rock would have been a wave that crashed over my head every few hours until said meeting was over.
That morning, I evaluated why that rock was there. I have not pursued representation for several years, because I've been booking work successfully as an Independent artist, and working on myself and projects I loved. In those years, I watched my brother and his best friend write, produce, direct, edit and finalize their very own Feature film. A script that I loved, a crew and cast of phenomenal new faces that quickly became a family with which I spent easily the best two weeks of my life so far.
All of this was done with everyone telling them no, they needed to change on this, give on that, wiggle and budge and maybe-maybe they'd be able to make it happen.
They made it anyway, on a wonderful budget, without the help of all of the naysayers and 'practical' people that had promised without delivering. It went smoothly, and everyone had a phenomenal time.
So I asked myself why. Why did I fear this faceless agent that I had not even spoken to yet?
Then I realized-with a little help from my brother-it wasn't her I feared. It was myself. I had already begun to judge myself, to second guess my worth before I'd even heard her speak. For all I knew, this person could be a great ally, and great to do business with. Or I could be useless to their business. Either way, it was simply another audition, another go-see, another job interview. Not one thing about that meeting would change whether I would, or would not, be a great artist.
That part is up to me, and me alone.
And so, that night, I went home and continued brainstorming for my film. Which I'm sure people will tell me is silly, useless, that I must change this in order to accomplish that, so on and so forth.
The fact remains, I'll be doing it with or without them. Being reminded of that, and the endless possibility that came with that, made the air that flew into my lungs that day as I ran through the park that day sweeter than ever.
I thought for certain that I tasted Freedom.
There's nothing quite like that feeling, I must say.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
"Signals"
Signals are funny things. They exist in our society as an essential means of communication, but many of them lead to miscommunication. I've been thinking a lot about signals, mainly because the feedback from people I've known a while generally is one of the following:
"When you met me, I thought you were a bitch."
Well, that's uplifting.
"I don't really know what to make of you."
Nice and neutral. Could be a good thing.
" I didn't know if I could trust you."
Well....duh. You had just met me.
"You're a very intense person."
Thank...you?
"I thought you hated me."
No, no, no. I don't hate anyone in the beginning. I give everyone an equal opportunity to embarrass themselves. I expect nothing and end up getting everything, because I listen. Which is much simpler than worrying about sending them the right/wrong 'signals', which sounds like a bad Sci-fi plot.
What I find so interesting about people in general is that no one really sends "signals" anymore-consciously, anyway. There's enough talk about signals-which ones to send, how strong to send them, whether or not you've sent them or if they've been seen-and all the while it turns out you've been sending the wrong ones!
In Elizabethen and Regency England, it was said that everything was done with a nod of the head, the lift of ones eyes, a certain touch of the hand. When's the last time a guy or girl did that to you? Most interactions I see between the sexes are passive aggressive and petty, at best.
I used to torture the men I liked-but that was just because I was a sadistic brat of a girl. It was only later on down the road that I realized how much it had affected them, and by then I was alone. Lesson learned.
Nowadays, I typically just listen-to anyone and everyone I meet. I figure that's what life is about-relationships. There's such an enormous amount of diversity in our world-and no two people are ever alike. Yet I'm often dissappointed at how transparent people are. i meet men and women all the time that begin our first interaction bragging about who they are and what they've done. They'll launch into a half an hour spill about themselves and halfway through I feel I pretty much know everything about them-including several very personal issues they've just confessed to me that I know they'll regret later. They try so hard to impress that they repulse.
I get this from a surprising amount of people-and I can only come to the conclusion that people no longer listen to one another. So when they meet someone that at last truly listens, it's an impulsive reaction to vomit as much as you can-because God knows when they will have some one to listen again. This makes me sad.
Due to this habit, I have been accused of sending the 'wrong' signals. I had a man once try to kiss me as he suffocated me in what I'm sure he felt was a romantic embrace, and it seemed completely out of the blue. I was shocked and confused and angry-but when I confronted a friend about it, they said- "Well...I mean...I can see how he would think..."
"How?!" I exploded. "How would he just assume that was okay?"
"You're just a really good listener." They said.
What??????? But there was more.
"You've also got this thing where you look at people."
I had to laugh at that one. They said:
"No, no! Seriously. You've got this thing where you look at them and you make them feel like they're the only one in the world."
Maybe that's because I'm paying attention instead of simply waiting for my turn to speak!
I realized shortly after that that was just it! Very few people have actualy conversations anymore-because they don't feel like what they say will matter to the person they're talking to. Or they're uncomfortable, so they discuss mediocre things that can be dropped as soon as one person comes up with a good enough excuse to leave. My favorite is "I have to check on the bathroom. I'll be right back."
For a while I began to wonder if I should just stop being social. Then I began to meet more interesting people, of the same disposition as me. People that wanted to find out about me just as much as I wanted to know about them. That was terrifying, but well worth the many friendships that followed.
My solution? Forget about signals. Listen, and watch. Usually everything you need to see in a potential relationship will reveal itself in 30 to 45 minutes.
I still regress-when a cute guy talks to me, I have no idea what to do. There's a co-worker of mine that happens to be a beautiful man. I teach his son, and he always nods and gives me a warm hello with a smile. My tongue sticks to the top of my mouth and I don't know what I'm supposed to say, so on a bad day I stare at him, swallow and walk away. On a good day I smile big and then turn and walk away. Poor guy probably thinks I hate him-but if he asks, I'll say: "Honestly, you're a very attractive man and I grew up as the fat girl with braces. So whenever a beautiful man says hello to me, I still feel the toilet paper sticking out of my bra and I don't know how to answer him."
I've told this to other people, figuring honesty was best. They say "But you're a model-isn't it like, your job to flirt with people?"
Where do people get these ideas from?
In case you're wondering, no, we don't have to flirt with people. In fact, we're discouraged from doing so. We stand there. That's it. That's the extent of it.
So if you're a cute guy, or someone that's tried to kiss me in the past, or you think/thought that I am a bit 'intense' and 'unnaproachable', then I'm sorry, but I'm not going to change anytime soon. If you'd like to dispel the mystery and ask, that's perfectly fine with me.
Let's ditch the focus on 'signals', people-they aren't helping anyone.
(Except, oubviously, street lights, turn signals, caution signals, etc.-pay attention to those).
"When you met me, I thought you were a bitch."
Well, that's uplifting.
"I don't really know what to make of you."
Nice and neutral. Could be a good thing.
" I didn't know if I could trust you."
Well....duh. You had just met me.
"You're a very intense person."
Thank...you?
"I thought you hated me."
No, no, no. I don't hate anyone in the beginning. I give everyone an equal opportunity to embarrass themselves. I expect nothing and end up getting everything, because I listen. Which is much simpler than worrying about sending them the right/wrong 'signals', which sounds like a bad Sci-fi plot.
What I find so interesting about people in general is that no one really sends "signals" anymore-consciously, anyway. There's enough talk about signals-which ones to send, how strong to send them, whether or not you've sent them or if they've been seen-and all the while it turns out you've been sending the wrong ones!
In Elizabethen and Regency England, it was said that everything was done with a nod of the head, the lift of ones eyes, a certain touch of the hand. When's the last time a guy or girl did that to you? Most interactions I see between the sexes are passive aggressive and petty, at best.
I used to torture the men I liked-but that was just because I was a sadistic brat of a girl. It was only later on down the road that I realized how much it had affected them, and by then I was alone. Lesson learned.
Nowadays, I typically just listen-to anyone and everyone I meet. I figure that's what life is about-relationships. There's such an enormous amount of diversity in our world-and no two people are ever alike. Yet I'm often dissappointed at how transparent people are. i meet men and women all the time that begin our first interaction bragging about who they are and what they've done. They'll launch into a half an hour spill about themselves and halfway through I feel I pretty much know everything about them-including several very personal issues they've just confessed to me that I know they'll regret later. They try so hard to impress that they repulse.
I get this from a surprising amount of people-and I can only come to the conclusion that people no longer listen to one another. So when they meet someone that at last truly listens, it's an impulsive reaction to vomit as much as you can-because God knows when they will have some one to listen again. This makes me sad.
Due to this habit, I have been accused of sending the 'wrong' signals. I had a man once try to kiss me as he suffocated me in what I'm sure he felt was a romantic embrace, and it seemed completely out of the blue. I was shocked and confused and angry-but when I confronted a friend about it, they said- "Well...I mean...I can see how he would think..."
"How?!" I exploded. "How would he just assume that was okay?"
"You're just a really good listener." They said.
What??????? But there was more.
"You've also got this thing where you look at people."
I had to laugh at that one. They said:
"No, no! Seriously. You've got this thing where you look at them and you make them feel like they're the only one in the world."
Maybe that's because I'm paying attention instead of simply waiting for my turn to speak!
I realized shortly after that that was just it! Very few people have actualy conversations anymore-because they don't feel like what they say will matter to the person they're talking to. Or they're uncomfortable, so they discuss mediocre things that can be dropped as soon as one person comes up with a good enough excuse to leave. My favorite is "I have to check on the bathroom. I'll be right back."
For a while I began to wonder if I should just stop being social. Then I began to meet more interesting people, of the same disposition as me. People that wanted to find out about me just as much as I wanted to know about them. That was terrifying, but well worth the many friendships that followed.
My solution? Forget about signals. Listen, and watch. Usually everything you need to see in a potential relationship will reveal itself in 30 to 45 minutes.
I still regress-when a cute guy talks to me, I have no idea what to do. There's a co-worker of mine that happens to be a beautiful man. I teach his son, and he always nods and gives me a warm hello with a smile. My tongue sticks to the top of my mouth and I don't know what I'm supposed to say, so on a bad day I stare at him, swallow and walk away. On a good day I smile big and then turn and walk away. Poor guy probably thinks I hate him-but if he asks, I'll say: "Honestly, you're a very attractive man and I grew up as the fat girl with braces. So whenever a beautiful man says hello to me, I still feel the toilet paper sticking out of my bra and I don't know how to answer him."
I've told this to other people, figuring honesty was best. They say "But you're a model-isn't it like, your job to flirt with people?"
Where do people get these ideas from?
In case you're wondering, no, we don't have to flirt with people. In fact, we're discouraged from doing so. We stand there. That's it. That's the extent of it.
So if you're a cute guy, or someone that's tried to kiss me in the past, or you think/thought that I am a bit 'intense' and 'unnaproachable', then I'm sorry, but I'm not going to change anytime soon. If you'd like to dispel the mystery and ask, that's perfectly fine with me.
Let's ditch the focus on 'signals', people-they aren't helping anyone.
(Except, oubviously, street lights, turn signals, caution signals, etc.-pay attention to those).
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Reversal
It was addicting.
The world drew me-a dark, sensuous spiral downward
Imagine your most forbidden thoughts-
The ones you know you could never tell anyone-
There, not only accepted, they were expected. Demanded.
I knew it was sick…I was sick. That’s what I loved most, I think.
Knowing how wrong it all was.
His hands, His teeth
His touch never blatantly perverse, never lewd
Yet far more sinful than the actual deed
I discovered Power in Fear, and when lust was mixed in….
Irresistible.
"...I took you home
Set you on the glass
I pulled off your wings
Then I laughed…"
He reveled in the sin as he reveled in the taste of my blood.
The razor on his tongue, and then drip that followed-heavy and thick….
His tongue slipping along mine
The metallic taste I came to crave more than anything
The charge of the mixed feelings
"I’ve watched you change
Like you never had wings
And you feel
So alive
I’ve watched you change…."
I became a new creature
And we dwelt in a different world
In dark, dank places. Black so pitch you couldn’t see the hand on your face
Or around your throat
The proof-the marks and bruises, the scars-came in the daylight
So we simply avoided it
There were no rules in the dark, no judgments,
No protection.
No escape.
No salvation.
I slipped further and further until I truly believed I was absorbing another’s life when we drank.
We stalked the desert mountains well past midnight, howled with the cyotes, smiled at the stars.
We defied understanding.
“We proudly feast on those that would subdue us…”
It all almost took my life.
I was happy letting it consume me.
I loved the pain, the steady drip, the throbbing sting, then the warmth of his mouth on the wound, his strong palm cradling my head, the velvet expanse of his back
Taking from me, draining me physically as I drained him psychologically.
He was reduced to his infantile nature. I became a pale, frozen husk.
I loved the pain (given and taken) so much, craved it so much-
That there was no room for anything else.
No love
No hate
No joy
No pain
Emptiness, and the resounding chill.
I was Frozen, lost in my own dark wintry world.
He slipped into madness, eventually, and I lost Faith in all I had ever believed and known as true.
Then I lost control.
He moved on to another, and I lost the ability to puppet him. His strings slipped through my fingers even as I clenched my fist desperately.
The Ice Queen was stripped away and all I had crumbled-I wept, begged, stormed.
Until one fateful night
He held me down
I cried out as he pried me open, calling for salvation I thought beyond me.
And then, my big bad 'Tutor' fled, weeping.
Disgust flooded me.
I laughed about it later, when I realized-
I had been stronger all along, and he knew it.
It was why he chose me.
If he could take me down-what a conquest.
Only to discover the darkness within me ran much, much deeper than he could ever comprehend.
The seed that he had uprooted, the animal he uncaged-was real, heart wrenchingly so.
It almost worked.
Almost.
I laugh about it to this day, and though I may be closer to the Salvation I yearn for-
There’s still that nagging voice in the back of my mind…Always.
The memory of the sweet metallic tang
The hunger that surfaces every time blood rises to the surface of a particularly delicious specimen
The racing of my heart at the feel of a strong pulse beneath my tongue, the harsh pounding of a terrified heartbeat…
The world drew me-a dark, sensuous spiral downward
Imagine your most forbidden thoughts-
The ones you know you could never tell anyone-
There, not only accepted, they were expected. Demanded.
I knew it was sick…I was sick. That’s what I loved most, I think.
Knowing how wrong it all was.
His hands, His teeth
His touch never blatantly perverse, never lewd
Yet far more sinful than the actual deed
I discovered Power in Fear, and when lust was mixed in….
Irresistible.
"...I took you home
Set you on the glass
I pulled off your wings
Then I laughed…"
He reveled in the sin as he reveled in the taste of my blood.
The razor on his tongue, and then drip that followed-heavy and thick….
His tongue slipping along mine
The metallic taste I came to crave more than anything
The charge of the mixed feelings
"I’ve watched you change
Like you never had wings
And you feel
So alive
I’ve watched you change…."
I became a new creature
And we dwelt in a different world
In dark, dank places. Black so pitch you couldn’t see the hand on your face
Or around your throat
The proof-the marks and bruises, the scars-came in the daylight
So we simply avoided it
There were no rules in the dark, no judgments,
No protection.
No escape.
No salvation.
I slipped further and further until I truly believed I was absorbing another’s life when we drank.
We stalked the desert mountains well past midnight, howled with the cyotes, smiled at the stars.
We defied understanding.
“We proudly feast on those that would subdue us…”
It all almost took my life.
I was happy letting it consume me.
I loved the pain, the steady drip, the throbbing sting, then the warmth of his mouth on the wound, his strong palm cradling my head, the velvet expanse of his back
Taking from me, draining me physically as I drained him psychologically.
He was reduced to his infantile nature. I became a pale, frozen husk.
I loved the pain (given and taken) so much, craved it so much-
That there was no room for anything else.
No love
No hate
No joy
No pain
Emptiness, and the resounding chill.
I was Frozen, lost in my own dark wintry world.
He slipped into madness, eventually, and I lost Faith in all I had ever believed and known as true.
Then I lost control.
He moved on to another, and I lost the ability to puppet him. His strings slipped through my fingers even as I clenched my fist desperately.
The Ice Queen was stripped away and all I had crumbled-I wept, begged, stormed.
Until one fateful night
He held me down
I cried out as he pried me open, calling for salvation I thought beyond me.
And then, my big bad 'Tutor' fled, weeping.
Disgust flooded me.
I laughed about it later, when I realized-
I had been stronger all along, and he knew it.
It was why he chose me.
If he could take me down-what a conquest.
Only to discover the darkness within me ran much, much deeper than he could ever comprehend.
The seed that he had uprooted, the animal he uncaged-was real, heart wrenchingly so.
It almost worked.
Almost.
I laugh about it to this day, and though I may be closer to the Salvation I yearn for-
There’s still that nagging voice in the back of my mind…Always.
The memory of the sweet metallic tang
The hunger that surfaces every time blood rises to the surface of a particularly delicious specimen
The racing of my heart at the feel of a strong pulse beneath my tongue, the harsh pounding of a terrified heartbeat…
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Identity
It's a strange thing. Not even-I'd say it's more of an organism, a thing that lives and evolves outside and inside of us-molding who we are, how we act, what we do, tainting our perceptions.
Who was it that said we needed it? This city in particular seems to be obsessed with the import of identity. It's vital-as necessary as air-and yet what I've found more valuable (invaluable even) is the lack of an identity. In a city full of lights and glamor, grime and chrome, where everything is always opening and closing, torn down, built up, re-built and imported. Where the place seems to move like a machine oiled with the blood, sweat and green of it's inhabitants. A city that takes all in-the pure, the sullied, the rich, the poor, the majority and minority-and grinds them into adults or spits them back on to the cold, dirty streets to lick their wounds and drag themselves back home. A city where you can find anything, be anything (and be convinced of anything) it's particularly important to know who you are. But what is that, exactly? A compilation of morals and/or ethics stemming from past challenges and experiences? A code of honor? Won't those then be shaken by the new challenges and experiences that confront you? So you can never really be absolutely certain, and if you are you are constantly aware of it and therefore constantly on edge so as not to shatter the perfect mold you've demanded of yourself.
So what is identity? Is it a creation of your own or one society has foisted upon us? For some, it's a mixture of both. For some, it's ingrained in our upbringing.
I'm going to venture that identity is a comforting illusion. Another way for mankind to control what he will never have control of-the future.
Consumerism would have us believe that by purchasing A, B or C we can create an identity for ourselves. Indeed, what we drape ourselves in is no doubt an expression of ourselves. The Native Americans are a wonderful example. However, so many I see today submit to a group identity, a truly saddening sight. Our country has named it, furthering the perversion. The flocks are now termed 'demographics.' Creativity is reserved for those bold enough or those paid enough. Or those that have created an identity out of their infamy-Jersey Shore, Paris Hilton. Now we must ask ourselves how low we have sunk if we begin to form our identities on such base examples of humanity.
When we are in a relationship our identities begin to mix with too much relation. Too much time breeds irritation and lack of appreciation because you begin to lose your 'identities'. You also begin to notice each others traits in one another, and a mirror affect is only charming for so long. You fall into such comfort that you've forgotten what it was that excited you.
Is that identity then? A routine? The same pattern you carry out every day? I would hope it's not as flimsy as that.
Then you get into 'identifying with someone'. There's an interesting theory. Do you allow another perception or opinion dictate who you are? What a terrifying concept. No one should have such power over you.
I invite you to imagine your life with out an identity. How amazing would it be to live as a purely instinctual creature? Suppressing nothing, denying yourself nothing, no censure, no societal norms, no labeling yourself or others. Such freedom!
I look in the mirror every day without ever really seeing myself. The other day I caught sight of my reflection. I had been crying, so the expression was uncensored, angry and raw. What I saw made my stomach drop. I realized I had no idea who was looking back at me. This woman's face had lengthened, her skin was pale. She had fire-red hair. The make up made her face look cruel.
I've been asked on shoots before: "Has anyone ever told you-you are an extremely intense person. There are times when you look straight into the lens, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up."
After all that's happened in my life I'd like to think that I came out pretty good. None of my scars are really noticeable. No one expects to hear what they hear when they've grown close enough for the intimate details conversation. Luckily I rarely have to have it.
I have always 'identified' myself as a mature, strong, passionate, sophisticated young matron figure with a healthy ambition and an odd infatuation with intelligent, powerful men usually twice my age. Though I've had the honor of playing both Medea and Lady Macbeth, I've never really put much thought into why those roles came so easily to me. After seeing that reflection, I know now that I've been afraid to. There was something there, something that's been with me for most of my life, something I didn't want to include in my identity. Something that had frightened people away in my youth. Something I've been afraid to recognize because it didn't fit with my finishing school, with my elegant foster mother and her dinner parties and country club and the world I grew accustomed to as a young adult.
I know now that the reason I relished those roles so much was because I could touch those impulses, caress them, breathe life into the actions we never think ourselves capable of. I shared it all without shame and relished the horror on their faces. I danced with the demons that I had imprisoned for so many years.
Sometimes when you cage the beast, the beast gets angry. Unfulfilled wishes and desires swept under the rug for the sake of a carefully constructed identity is a terrible way to live. And when the wave of life comes and sweeps it all away, you're left with empty confusion.
So from this day on I endeavor never to "identify" myself. It has not done me much good so far, and the idea of living with such wild abandon is delicious to me. either will I attempt to "identify" with another. Why do them the injustice of my ignorant assumptions? How much more could I learn if I took the time to watch and listen as their instincts took over? It's amazing how much people will reveal to you when you shut up for 20 minutes.
This is life. Do you really want to follow a plan the entire time? Must you always know what's coming? Do you really want to live in a carefully constructed box forever?
Remember: A prison is still a prison, even with Peruvian marble and crystal chandeliers.
So set yourself free.
Who was it that said we needed it? This city in particular seems to be obsessed with the import of identity. It's vital-as necessary as air-and yet what I've found more valuable (invaluable even) is the lack of an identity. In a city full of lights and glamor, grime and chrome, where everything is always opening and closing, torn down, built up, re-built and imported. Where the place seems to move like a machine oiled with the blood, sweat and green of it's inhabitants. A city that takes all in-the pure, the sullied, the rich, the poor, the majority and minority-and grinds them into adults or spits them back on to the cold, dirty streets to lick their wounds and drag themselves back home. A city where you can find anything, be anything (and be convinced of anything) it's particularly important to know who you are. But what is that, exactly? A compilation of morals and/or ethics stemming from past challenges and experiences? A code of honor? Won't those then be shaken by the new challenges and experiences that confront you? So you can never really be absolutely certain, and if you are you are constantly aware of it and therefore constantly on edge so as not to shatter the perfect mold you've demanded of yourself.
So what is identity? Is it a creation of your own or one society has foisted upon us? For some, it's a mixture of both. For some, it's ingrained in our upbringing.
I'm going to venture that identity is a comforting illusion. Another way for mankind to control what he will never have control of-the future.
Consumerism would have us believe that by purchasing A, B or C we can create an identity for ourselves. Indeed, what we drape ourselves in is no doubt an expression of ourselves. The Native Americans are a wonderful example. However, so many I see today submit to a group identity, a truly saddening sight. Our country has named it, furthering the perversion. The flocks are now termed 'demographics.' Creativity is reserved for those bold enough or those paid enough. Or those that have created an identity out of their infamy-Jersey Shore, Paris Hilton. Now we must ask ourselves how low we have sunk if we begin to form our identities on such base examples of humanity.
When we are in a relationship our identities begin to mix with too much relation. Too much time breeds irritation and lack of appreciation because you begin to lose your 'identities'. You also begin to notice each others traits in one another, and a mirror affect is only charming for so long. You fall into such comfort that you've forgotten what it was that excited you.
Is that identity then? A routine? The same pattern you carry out every day? I would hope it's not as flimsy as that.
Then you get into 'identifying with someone'. There's an interesting theory. Do you allow another perception or opinion dictate who you are? What a terrifying concept. No one should have such power over you.
I invite you to imagine your life with out an identity. How amazing would it be to live as a purely instinctual creature? Suppressing nothing, denying yourself nothing, no censure, no societal norms, no labeling yourself or others. Such freedom!
I look in the mirror every day without ever really seeing myself. The other day I caught sight of my reflection. I had been crying, so the expression was uncensored, angry and raw. What I saw made my stomach drop. I realized I had no idea who was looking back at me. This woman's face had lengthened, her skin was pale. She had fire-red hair. The make up made her face look cruel.
I've been asked on shoots before: "Has anyone ever told you-you are an extremely intense person. There are times when you look straight into the lens, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up."
After all that's happened in my life I'd like to think that I came out pretty good. None of my scars are really noticeable. No one expects to hear what they hear when they've grown close enough for the intimate details conversation. Luckily I rarely have to have it.
I have always 'identified' myself as a mature, strong, passionate, sophisticated young matron figure with a healthy ambition and an odd infatuation with intelligent, powerful men usually twice my age. Though I've had the honor of playing both Medea and Lady Macbeth, I've never really put much thought into why those roles came so easily to me. After seeing that reflection, I know now that I've been afraid to. There was something there, something that's been with me for most of my life, something I didn't want to include in my identity. Something that had frightened people away in my youth. Something I've been afraid to recognize because it didn't fit with my finishing school, with my elegant foster mother and her dinner parties and country club and the world I grew accustomed to as a young adult.
I know now that the reason I relished those roles so much was because I could touch those impulses, caress them, breathe life into the actions we never think ourselves capable of. I shared it all without shame and relished the horror on their faces. I danced with the demons that I had imprisoned for so many years.
Sometimes when you cage the beast, the beast gets angry. Unfulfilled wishes and desires swept under the rug for the sake of a carefully constructed identity is a terrible way to live. And when the wave of life comes and sweeps it all away, you're left with empty confusion.
So from this day on I endeavor never to "identify" myself. It has not done me much good so far, and the idea of living with such wild abandon is delicious to me. either will I attempt to "identify" with another. Why do them the injustice of my ignorant assumptions? How much more could I learn if I took the time to watch and listen as their instincts took over? It's amazing how much people will reveal to you when you shut up for 20 minutes.
This is life. Do you really want to follow a plan the entire time? Must you always know what's coming? Do you really want to live in a carefully constructed box forever?
Remember: A prison is still a prison, even with Peruvian marble and crystal chandeliers.
So set yourself free.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Creative Genius and Insanity-made, not born.
I've spent the last few years of my life tinkering with a question that is asked of me so frequently it's surprising.
"Who is your favorite actress?"
"Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins, Denzel Washington. Top 3."
"But those aren't actresses."
"I don't have a favorite actress."
"Why?"
"I have yet to find one that is truly remarkable in more than just talent."
"What do you mean?"
What do I mean? What do Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins and Denzel Washington all have in common? All were made, not born. All were born the furthest from the entertainment Industry as humanly possible. Pacino-raised by a beautiful single mother in the Bronx, was also homeless for a while. Hopkins- father was a fish monger. His mother once said to his father: "There's something very wrong with this boy." Washington-father was a minister, mother ran a beauty parlor. He attended Fordham and played Othello before he ever stepped foot in films.
All had a dream that they refused to give up on. None of them had wealthy parents. None of them had connections. All of them realized and accomplished one very important thing: They were fearless and relentless in their work-which made them unforgettable. All of them made themselves who and what they are today, by burning snapshots of their souls within our eyelids.
I'm not saying that there aren't actresses out there that may have done the same, merely that I have yet to find one-and yes, I've searched. Other than Norma Jean (who I have the greatest respect for) and Clara Bow, I have yet to find a struggle that strikes and inspires me in any of the past or present moments in the lives of the major female celebrities of today. I believe that without that struggle, you will always lack what Anthony, Al and Denzel manage to deliver us. They are simply more fascinating because they've lived so much more in so many ways. There's so much more to them.
In my travels as a young girl as a ward of the State I had the honor of being commited to a Level 5 facility due in part to the incompetence of my social worker and my own antagonistic behavior. Karma is truly a bitch, my friends. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the term 'Level 5', allow me: Lockdown. Constant Supervision. Removal of all sharp objects-including a pen (I might as well have been raped) and paper. See where I'm going? Institution.al.ized.
Though the nurses and psychiatrists could find nothing wrong with me, most of the staff didn't want to deal with me. At the time I was also antagonistic towards my fellow patients. I found them fascinating. I thought it great amusement to push a button and see how an unstable person reacted. Some of them avoided me. One eventually got sick of it and calmly walked over, looked down at me with what seemed to be quizzical indifference, and then proceeded to beat the shit out of me, calmly and methodically.
After that I observed from a reasonable distance. I grew even more entranced with them. Some of them were literal geniuses. The man that taught me chess would mutter equations to himself. The sex addict down the hall was beautiful, even in her white gown. Sometimes on nights when she heard me crying she'd sing softly to me through the wall. She would recite the most beautiful poetry I had ever heard.
One of them helped me arrange our failed escape. I say failed because only a few of us made it over the wall. I feel badly about it to this day, wondering where those poor souls are.
Due to further idiocy on my social workers part, I ended up staying there for about a year and a half, as I would watch new patients come in. I watched with a morbid fascination as a boy about my age stared at a wall, muttering to someone he was convinced was there, as he pulled his hair out, strand by strand. Though he didn't always see bad things. There were days when he would go into ecstatic fits of joy because he saw such beauty, beauty that no one else could see. I envied him on those days, wishing I was where he was. Then the nurses would shove his pills down his throat and that envy dissipated.
You may think it odd that this was when I chose acting as my profession of choice. It seemed so easy to create a world and live as if it were so-everyone around me was doing it, and there was such escape in it. When they'd shut me in solitary for resisting my meds I would entertain myself and the four stone walls became a rainforest, the steel door my bungalow. (I was twelve, I didn't know a bungalow didnt belong in a rainforest at that time.) There, no one could reach me. There, no one existed but me.
I tell you all of this because I feel that in order to truly stretch an audience, to truly move them, you must be willing to stretch every corner of every piece of your mind. Anthony Hopkins made us shiver and heave in Hannibal because he never allowed a limit to his imagination. Everything was justified and carried out with surgical determination, so we believed it. How was he able to do that? Is there a part if Anthony Hopkins capable of such things?
Well, isn't there a part of all of us that's capable of such things?
Yes.
We don't want to believe it, but yes. Most people-most women-have never been granted an opporunity to play such roles. Why? If we are to speak plainly, I believe that women have an enormous barrier when it comes to such a possibility-a barrier instilled by society to ensure we have good mothers to raise a good generation and so on and all such swill. As a graduate of finishing school, I get it.
However, I haven't forgotten what I've seen. I'll never forget the depravity I know men-and women-to be capable of. Nor does the justification of said depravity escape me. Is it right? Of course not. But with man right and wrong has always been subject to perception. So why limit my imagination when it comes to my work?
Geniuses are never born-no matter what 'high-class' (perception, indeed) mothers assure themselves of, or how much they've paid for school, or how many extra-curricular activities are shoved down a childs throat. No amount of money or 'good breeding' or expectation buys ambition. In all career fields, geniuses are made and the weak catch up or die.
I plan on being around for a very long time, just like Hopkins, Pacino, and Washington. I truly believe the only way to ensure that is to live. And not the slice of cake living I see most women consign themselves to (again, my perception from limited experience-my lack of feminine company is no secret) but the kind of life that I moved to New York for. The kind of life I'm used to. Blood, sweat and tears, love, joy and wild abandon. So that when I'm dying I can say: "You see? It matters not what one is born as, but who they chose to become. Remember that when you remember me."
"Who is your favorite actress?"
"Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins, Denzel Washington. Top 3."
"But those aren't actresses."
"I don't have a favorite actress."
"Why?"
"I have yet to find one that is truly remarkable in more than just talent."
"What do you mean?"
What do I mean? What do Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins and Denzel Washington all have in common? All were made, not born. All were born the furthest from the entertainment Industry as humanly possible. Pacino-raised by a beautiful single mother in the Bronx, was also homeless for a while. Hopkins- father was a fish monger. His mother once said to his father: "There's something very wrong with this boy." Washington-father was a minister, mother ran a beauty parlor. He attended Fordham and played Othello before he ever stepped foot in films.
All had a dream that they refused to give up on. None of them had wealthy parents. None of them had connections. All of them realized and accomplished one very important thing: They were fearless and relentless in their work-which made them unforgettable. All of them made themselves who and what they are today, by burning snapshots of their souls within our eyelids.
I'm not saying that there aren't actresses out there that may have done the same, merely that I have yet to find one-and yes, I've searched. Other than Norma Jean (who I have the greatest respect for) and Clara Bow, I have yet to find a struggle that strikes and inspires me in any of the past or present moments in the lives of the major female celebrities of today. I believe that without that struggle, you will always lack what Anthony, Al and Denzel manage to deliver us. They are simply more fascinating because they've lived so much more in so many ways. There's so much more to them.
In my travels as a young girl as a ward of the State I had the honor of being commited to a Level 5 facility due in part to the incompetence of my social worker and my own antagonistic behavior. Karma is truly a bitch, my friends. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the term 'Level 5', allow me: Lockdown. Constant Supervision. Removal of all sharp objects-including a pen (I might as well have been raped) and paper. See where I'm going? Institution.al.ized.
Though the nurses and psychiatrists could find nothing wrong with me, most of the staff didn't want to deal with me. At the time I was also antagonistic towards my fellow patients. I found them fascinating. I thought it great amusement to push a button and see how an unstable person reacted. Some of them avoided me. One eventually got sick of it and calmly walked over, looked down at me with what seemed to be quizzical indifference, and then proceeded to beat the shit out of me, calmly and methodically.
After that I observed from a reasonable distance. I grew even more entranced with them. Some of them were literal geniuses. The man that taught me chess would mutter equations to himself. The sex addict down the hall was beautiful, even in her white gown. Sometimes on nights when she heard me crying she'd sing softly to me through the wall. She would recite the most beautiful poetry I had ever heard.
One of them helped me arrange our failed escape. I say failed because only a few of us made it over the wall. I feel badly about it to this day, wondering where those poor souls are.
Due to further idiocy on my social workers part, I ended up staying there for about a year and a half, as I would watch new patients come in. I watched with a morbid fascination as a boy about my age stared at a wall, muttering to someone he was convinced was there, as he pulled his hair out, strand by strand. Though he didn't always see bad things. There were days when he would go into ecstatic fits of joy because he saw such beauty, beauty that no one else could see. I envied him on those days, wishing I was where he was. Then the nurses would shove his pills down his throat and that envy dissipated.
You may think it odd that this was when I chose acting as my profession of choice. It seemed so easy to create a world and live as if it were so-everyone around me was doing it, and there was such escape in it. When they'd shut me in solitary for resisting my meds I would entertain myself and the four stone walls became a rainforest, the steel door my bungalow. (I was twelve, I didn't know a bungalow didnt belong in a rainforest at that time.) There, no one could reach me. There, no one existed but me.
I tell you all of this because I feel that in order to truly stretch an audience, to truly move them, you must be willing to stretch every corner of every piece of your mind. Anthony Hopkins made us shiver and heave in Hannibal because he never allowed a limit to his imagination. Everything was justified and carried out with surgical determination, so we believed it. How was he able to do that? Is there a part if Anthony Hopkins capable of such things?
Well, isn't there a part of all of us that's capable of such things?
Yes.
We don't want to believe it, but yes. Most people-most women-have never been granted an opporunity to play such roles. Why? If we are to speak plainly, I believe that women have an enormous barrier when it comes to such a possibility-a barrier instilled by society to ensure we have good mothers to raise a good generation and so on and all such swill. As a graduate of finishing school, I get it.
However, I haven't forgotten what I've seen. I'll never forget the depravity I know men-and women-to be capable of. Nor does the justification of said depravity escape me. Is it right? Of course not. But with man right and wrong has always been subject to perception. So why limit my imagination when it comes to my work?
Geniuses are never born-no matter what 'high-class' (perception, indeed) mothers assure themselves of, or how much they've paid for school, or how many extra-curricular activities are shoved down a childs throat. No amount of money or 'good breeding' or expectation buys ambition. In all career fields, geniuses are made and the weak catch up or die.
I plan on being around for a very long time, just like Hopkins, Pacino, and Washington. I truly believe the only way to ensure that is to live. And not the slice of cake living I see most women consign themselves to (again, my perception from limited experience-my lack of feminine company is no secret) but the kind of life that I moved to New York for. The kind of life I'm used to. Blood, sweat and tears, love, joy and wild abandon. So that when I'm dying I can say: "You see? It matters not what one is born as, but who they chose to become. Remember that when you remember me."
Monday, August 22, 2011
Smoky's Warning
Obsession and Dependency.
Where do they come from? Two of the most fascinating and destructive things in life humans suffer from. A need so palpable for someone or something- it makes you itch and sweat. It’s not like you don’t have other things to think about, more important matters. It’s like a poison that spreads slowly. A poison that remains in your veins long after you realize that you’ve made the pedestal. Long after you’ve broken the pedestal and seen the truth.
The things and people in life that scream danger and excitement. Everything tells you to keep away, and the thrill that sends you racing back again and again- It’s addictive.
I don’t suppose I was ever meant to be amongst peers. I’m not quite sure what those are most of the time. Even when I’m understood I don’t feel understood-I cannot honestly say I understand who or what I am. When asked to identify with myself, I see a vivid image: a forest fire. Bright, wild energy-unpredictable, destructive, fascinating. I wonder often if I didn’t have the anchor of somewhat solid people that surround me-would I burn alive? I know I would. The thought is terrifying, and seductive.
Is it morbid that my obsession is the line between my evolution and my destruction? I constantly wonder which way I'll fall, because in my life destruction has always led to evolution-perhaps I'm just afraid of being content. The thought makes me want to puke.
So perhaps that’s what I leave upon people. A burn that lies beneath the skin-or an itch. I’ve been told by many that I’m magnetic, fascinating, addicting, but perhaps it’s only because I seem to them a tornado blazing through, and they don’t want to miss the sight. So-a compliment, a curse or both?
I’ve heard by many a dear friend-right before they walked out of my life forever-that if they couldn’t have all of me, they didn’t want any of me.
How can I give what I cannot seem to collect? What I have no desire to collect? I always seem to be in the eye of the storm. Nothing calms because I do not wish it to. I am always running for my desire is to do so. Perhaps I feel that in so doing I earn the dreams I have at night. If not enough has been fitted to a day sleep will not come. This is foreign to many, in particular those idle persons that must fill their life by inciting mischief among friends-the detestable cockroaches of mankind that pour negative energy into society because they’ve no wish to become more.
I hear so much speculation on who I am and where I come from, my age and occupation. If you’re looking for my status, I’m afraid you’ll find only disappointment. A forest fire has no status or means to an end-it is its own means, and end.
I suppose that’s exactly what I am as well. I’ve never edited myself nor bothered with pretty speech, though I learned it all as a young woman. I am my own means, I’ll be my own end, and until such time I’ll endeavor to earn my own good opinion.
If you’ve shared my company you know that I am either silent or uncensored. I invest or I leave.
Many have asked me why I operate in such extremes. I do not feel that I do. I operate in concretes. Cause and effect. It’s simple and wastes less time. I’m learning not to invest in the weak, because a forest fire cannot care for the weak, the dependent, the stupid or the cowardly. It is the resilient that remain.
Luckily for me over the years I’ve become delightfully reptilian when it comes to severing ties. It is something I’ve rarely done because I rarely make mistakes with the company I keep.
However, until recently I’ve had a habit of caring for wounded animals. Once I showed them tenderness, however, I was like a fly stuck to glue. I couldn’t seem to untangle myself, and they disgusted me more and more, yet I pitied them more and more. So it was a long, unsavory break.
Luckily I have evolved, and this mental switch has enabled apathy to spread as easily as Aspirin. Thank God, indeed.
I too suffered from obsession and know what it is to burn and hate ones self for allowing another such control over me. I thank God that he had such a switch and was able to turn off so easily. It left me no room for anything but to bleed him out. He taught me many a valuable lesson that I’ll not forget.
A warning-fire is not to be tampered with. Fire does not understand what it is or where it is going. Fire can not be held or understood. It has one purpose-to survive, grow, and complete its course. If I never put the wounded out in the cold, they’ll never learn how to get warm.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Time and Change
The general consensus in this city seems to be that there is never enough time. Time is precious, costly, in high demand. If you asked any New Yorker-"$10,000 or an extra year of life-" I'm willing to bet they would take the year. For many reasons. A year to make the $10,000. A year more to spend with family. A year more to hike that mountain you've always wanted to. A year of old movies with a lover-or the chance to find love and hold it dear. So much can change in a year.
Change-now there's something that no amount of anything can purchase-and as life would have it, change only comes with Time. For the past two years time has seemed to slip through my fingers like sands in the hourglass. There just never seemed to be enough of it. Running from job to shoot to job to rehearsal to shoot back to the third job, so on and so forth.
Anyone that knows me knows that I've always been an ambitious person, I always will be. I work hard to support a career that I'm passionate about. And in this Industry, everyone has an opinion about me. I have the experience of a woman over sixty and the face of an eighteen year old girl. Well, that's great, but it doesn't do much for typecast. I was once told by the casting director for Californication: "You will never play the ditsy teen, or the sweet ingenue. You're too complex for that. If they ever made a re-make of American Beauty, you'd be perfect."
And then I played Medea. Go figure.
In my Industry people like boxes. Boxes are marketable-I get that. My box just happens to be very small-lets face it: Girl Interrupted, The Manson Girls, American Beauty-those roles appear once in a blue moon. That's fine with me, I understand that. I'm willing to go with my market, and I'm willing to adapt to the changes that come with that-and I have played the young ingenue, recently, in a PSA.
What is upsetting is being lied to, and being leeched off of. I knew the dangers of this when I sought representation, when I agreed to take over administrative work on a four month project that went no where, when I dedicate my time to a company in service to my craft and it's art.
I tried to be wary, cautious, shrewd. It turned out to be extremely difficult. It's in my nature to think the best of people until they've proven otherwise. It's also in my nature to be extremely loyal. Unfortunately, those two factors don't always serve you well in business-particularly the Entertainment business. I'm currently reading the Biography of Clara Bow, a girl very, very much like me. She did not have a happy beginning, did not have a happy career-though she was loved by everyone she worked with and her audience.
Her manager had an excellent perception of both Time and Change, and milked both Clara and the system for all it was worth. Clara, wanting to believe the best in him, happy to be working, was none the wiser. She had come from nothing-what right did she have to complain?
But she did. She did have that right, everyone around her-those closest to her-discouraged her. She should be happy that she had 'something', they said.
I thank God that with the Time that has passed from her time to mine, things have changed-marginally perhaps, but they have. There are not nearly as many pigs in the Industry as there were back then, but they still exist. They still exist.
Everyone thinks that once you obtain representation, everything will be easy. Oh, were it that easy. Everything gets much more technical, and you start to learn how valuable your image and self worth are. If you're anything like me, that' a terrifying question to ask. How much are you worth to yourself, really? How much would you sell yourself for? What is it, out of thousands in this city, that you have to offer? When I finally learned that, and began making money from it, I found that most of the people that had had an opinion of me and advice for me-no longer had opinions and advice. They had defenses and excuses, because that's all there had been in the first place. They just knew how to present them well, and I had been very naive.
So what do I do? Do I skulk? Do I give up?
Well I think everyone knows I'm incapable of that.
So I rely on Time-once my competitor, now becoming a dear friend. Because Time has brought me change. Time has also given me that wondrous gift of wisdom. And with wisdom I am finding the strength and courage to seek new representation with a clear head and open eyes.
Time has also slowed for me-I'm seeing sunshine again, instead of a blur of light running from one place to the next. I'm seeing people instead of clients. I'm seeing someone's heart instead of a smiling face. I have love in my life.
Clara Bow ended happily married in Nevada (go figure) as a rancher, to a cowboy that later became Lieutenant Governor of Nevada. She had two boys with him. Will I end as she did? Who knows. At least we have one thing in common-our audience and the people we work with love us. And that, my friends, is priceless.
Change-now there's something that no amount of anything can purchase-and as life would have it, change only comes with Time. For the past two years time has seemed to slip through my fingers like sands in the hourglass. There just never seemed to be enough of it. Running from job to shoot to job to rehearsal to shoot back to the third job, so on and so forth.
Anyone that knows me knows that I've always been an ambitious person, I always will be. I work hard to support a career that I'm passionate about. And in this Industry, everyone has an opinion about me. I have the experience of a woman over sixty and the face of an eighteen year old girl. Well, that's great, but it doesn't do much for typecast. I was once told by the casting director for Californication: "You will never play the ditsy teen, or the sweet ingenue. You're too complex for that. If they ever made a re-make of American Beauty, you'd be perfect."
And then I played Medea. Go figure.
In my Industry people like boxes. Boxes are marketable-I get that. My box just happens to be very small-lets face it: Girl Interrupted, The Manson Girls, American Beauty-those roles appear once in a blue moon. That's fine with me, I understand that. I'm willing to go with my market, and I'm willing to adapt to the changes that come with that-and I have played the young ingenue, recently, in a PSA.
What is upsetting is being lied to, and being leeched off of. I knew the dangers of this when I sought representation, when I agreed to take over administrative work on a four month project that went no where, when I dedicate my time to a company in service to my craft and it's art.
I tried to be wary, cautious, shrewd. It turned out to be extremely difficult. It's in my nature to think the best of people until they've proven otherwise. It's also in my nature to be extremely loyal. Unfortunately, those two factors don't always serve you well in business-particularly the Entertainment business. I'm currently reading the Biography of Clara Bow, a girl very, very much like me. She did not have a happy beginning, did not have a happy career-though she was loved by everyone she worked with and her audience.
Her manager had an excellent perception of both Time and Change, and milked both Clara and the system for all it was worth. Clara, wanting to believe the best in him, happy to be working, was none the wiser. She had come from nothing-what right did she have to complain?
But she did. She did have that right, everyone around her-those closest to her-discouraged her. She should be happy that she had 'something', they said.
I thank God that with the Time that has passed from her time to mine, things have changed-marginally perhaps, but they have. There are not nearly as many pigs in the Industry as there were back then, but they still exist. They still exist.
Everyone thinks that once you obtain representation, everything will be easy. Oh, were it that easy. Everything gets much more technical, and you start to learn how valuable your image and self worth are. If you're anything like me, that' a terrifying question to ask. How much are you worth to yourself, really? How much would you sell yourself for? What is it, out of thousands in this city, that you have to offer? When I finally learned that, and began making money from it, I found that most of the people that had had an opinion of me and advice for me-no longer had opinions and advice. They had defenses and excuses, because that's all there had been in the first place. They just knew how to present them well, and I had been very naive.
So what do I do? Do I skulk? Do I give up?
Well I think everyone knows I'm incapable of that.
So I rely on Time-once my competitor, now becoming a dear friend. Because Time has brought me change. Time has also given me that wondrous gift of wisdom. And with wisdom I am finding the strength and courage to seek new representation with a clear head and open eyes.
Time has also slowed for me-I'm seeing sunshine again, instead of a blur of light running from one place to the next. I'm seeing people instead of clients. I'm seeing someone's heart instead of a smiling face. I have love in my life.
Clara Bow ended happily married in Nevada (go figure) as a rancher, to a cowboy that later became Lieutenant Governor of Nevada. She had two boys with him. Will I end as she did? Who knows. At least we have one thing in common-our audience and the people we work with love us. And that, my friends, is priceless.
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