I've been in New York for six months. I have gotten two part time jobs that I like. I've worked an unpaid internship for an internationally known theatre company with a huge name.
All of that is great. It's amazing. I've accomplished all of that in six months. And what's more, I've gotten interviews at well known companies. I've made some good friends. I have a social life like I never had in Iowa. I have a relationship I'm really happy about. I love this city. I have seen so much art. I have been to so many museums. I am doing really, really well.
It isn't enough. I'm trying. I'm earning just enough every month to cover my rent. Not my phone, not my food, not my transportation, just my rent. I'm still paying for my entire life in Iowa- Internet, electricity, mortgage, car... I still have half of my savings. In theory, I could live another five or six months like this. Which means I'm in trouble in two. I have to have a solution, or at least a plan, in two months.
Work at Trader Joe's, says a girl I work with. No. I won't do a job I could have done in Iowa. That's the same as saying that I've failed, and I might as well go back there. I have to be doing something that fulfills me. I have to be, or I've failed at the very reason I came here- to do work I love.
"I won't let you fall," he tells me. Which is so different from, "What am I supposed to tell you? I can't help you," that it not only goes a long way towards fixing my crappy mood, it reminds me exactly how far I've come.
Something will happen. Something always does. I'll figure it out.
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Saturday, December 9, 2017
If I Could Work My Will
I'm tired of Christmas and it's only December 9th. Miracle on 34th Street makes more sense in the actual, literal context of New York City, where Christmas is everywhere and wholly insincere. It's a marketing scheme, that even Macy's embraces by putting a giant lighted, "Believe," in Herald Square in November.
Believe in what? Tourism?
I'm jaded. I also haven't liked Christmas for years. Sometimes, I want to. I want to decorate and do for others I care about, but my efforts never seem to go the way I think they will, so, I stopped.
It's snowing today, which makes it both better and worse. It's giant, sappy Christmas movie snowflakes because this city is so humid in the wintertime. I know the answer to this is to feel however I feel and be OK with that. Expectations and I have a weird relationship: some of them I arbitrarily care about very much.
Believe in what? Tourism?
I'm jaded. I also haven't liked Christmas for years. Sometimes, I want to. I want to decorate and do for others I care about, but my efforts never seem to go the way I think they will, so, I stopped.
It's snowing today, which makes it both better and worse. It's giant, sappy Christmas movie snowflakes because this city is so humid in the wintertime. I know the answer to this is to feel however I feel and be OK with that. Expectations and I have a weird relationship: some of them I arbitrarily care about very much.
Sunday, November 12, 2017
Not Even the Elephant Knows How It's Done
My dreams are full of magic. Vanishes mostly. A card will only disappear in your hand depending on your perspective. Turn your hand the wrong way, and the audience will see it. You have to know what the audience can see to know that they can't see.
There are seven kinds of magic, everything else is just combination and variation. The metamorphosis is just a vanish and a reveal, no actual change occurs. The secret is in how well someone else believes it. Restoration tricks rely on duplication and misdirection. Water can become wine if you know where the wine is hidden.
There's a certain irony in getting out of a relationship with a liar and immediately finding someone who made a business of deception. I trust perhaps too easily, but that's the only way.
A magician tells the audience it's all an illusion. It's up to you to figure out how it's done, and that's the game. There are rules, and the magician will explain the rules, but not the secrets. And that's OK.
There are seven kinds of magic, everything else is just combination and variation. The metamorphosis is just a vanish and a reveal, no actual change occurs. The secret is in how well someone else believes it. Restoration tricks rely on duplication and misdirection. Water can become wine if you know where the wine is hidden.
There's a certain irony in getting out of a relationship with a liar and immediately finding someone who made a business of deception. I trust perhaps too easily, but that's the only way.
A magician tells the audience it's all an illusion. It's up to you to figure out how it's done, and that's the game. There are rules, and the magician will explain the rules, but not the secrets. And that's OK.
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Not Me
The entire Internet has been going through the Me Too phenomenon, women (and occasionally men) posting about sexual harassment and abuse and men apologising and saying they didn't know.
I have nothing to offer. Unlike the entire rest of the female population, I've never been abused. I was followed for less than a block on my way to school in third grade by a guy once who walked behind and asked me if I was a good girl, but that's the extent of it. I'm not a victim of anything; I wasn't even afraid because we'd been warned about him and I made it to school. I didn't even think about it again for years.
This kind of movement has always had the effect of making me think there's something wrong with me. I'm not normal, I haven't been abused, I'm not a victim.
The assistant stage manager yesterday relayed a story to me. The set was in place earlier this week, and after rehearsal, she went to walk a particularly complicated actor exit path. The production manager was in the space, watched her and told her he wasn't comfortable with her doing what she was doing. She explained that it was some of the blocking in the show and she'd come down to check it on the set, what about it was unsafe? He explained a couple of details, and asked her not to do that.
The ASM passed this information on to the director, who was perturbed by this. The next day, the director came to the ASM and said, "The production manager told me it isn't a problem." "I'm telling you what he told me," she said. "Why would he tell you one thing and me another?" asked the director. "Because I'm a woman." And the director stopped, she told me, and his eyes got wide and he realised that not only had this not occurred to him, his question made it sound like she had lied to him for some reason, whereupon he apologised for everything. "Don't be sorry," she said, "This is this industry for me. Don't be sorry, be aware."
And she tells this to me like this is something I understand, that I experience, that I recognise. By and large, no. I spent a semester working for a technical director who I hated for reasons that were entirely related to his ability to do his job, but he was also sexist. Years later, when I understood that telling women to smile was a thing men did, I remembered he did tell me to smile once, and I shot back, "I'll smile at your funeral," whereupon he shut the hell up. Then there was the gay, tenured professor from the year I spent in grad school who found out I was married and, on the first day of class, asked when I was planning to be pregnant. "I'm not." "That's what they all say, you wait." He'd once been married to a woman and had two children. Presumably, that's his bitter backstory showing, but I don't know. He was a dick and a terrible writer, and hated everything I did, but that was the extent of the actual misogyny.
A friend from high school always tells me that she envies my ability to not give a damn about authority and people who treat me poorly, that I stand up for myself. And maybe that's the difference, that I don't experience this not because it doesn't happen to me, but because I don't categorise it as, "men harrass me because I am a woman," but, "hey you, stop being a jerk to me." Because I've gone up against more women who have made it clear they think I'm a liar, and a threat to them- most of my teachers were women.
I could suppose, like Blossom did in her op ed, that it's because I'm not pretty and I don't drink and because I'm smart, and sometimes I do (though, generally not aloud and in public to strangers, because, gee, Blossom, people are going to take your words way out of proportion; it ceases to be self-deprecating when the New York Times publishes it) but I know that implies that the inverse is true of victims of sexual harassment and abuse, and it isn't.
So, Not Me. And maybe the question is simply, "when?"
I have nothing to offer. Unlike the entire rest of the female population, I've never been abused. I was followed for less than a block on my way to school in third grade by a guy once who walked behind and asked me if I was a good girl, but that's the extent of it. I'm not a victim of anything; I wasn't even afraid because we'd been warned about him and I made it to school. I didn't even think about it again for years.
This kind of movement has always had the effect of making me think there's something wrong with me. I'm not normal, I haven't been abused, I'm not a victim.
The assistant stage manager yesterday relayed a story to me. The set was in place earlier this week, and after rehearsal, she went to walk a particularly complicated actor exit path. The production manager was in the space, watched her and told her he wasn't comfortable with her doing what she was doing. She explained that it was some of the blocking in the show and she'd come down to check it on the set, what about it was unsafe? He explained a couple of details, and asked her not to do that.
The ASM passed this information on to the director, who was perturbed by this. The next day, the director came to the ASM and said, "The production manager told me it isn't a problem." "I'm telling you what he told me," she said. "Why would he tell you one thing and me another?" asked the director. "Because I'm a woman." And the director stopped, she told me, and his eyes got wide and he realised that not only had this not occurred to him, his question made it sound like she had lied to him for some reason, whereupon he apologised for everything. "Don't be sorry," she said, "This is this industry for me. Don't be sorry, be aware."
And she tells this to me like this is something I understand, that I experience, that I recognise. By and large, no. I spent a semester working for a technical director who I hated for reasons that were entirely related to his ability to do his job, but he was also sexist. Years later, when I understood that telling women to smile was a thing men did, I remembered he did tell me to smile once, and I shot back, "I'll smile at your funeral," whereupon he shut the hell up. Then there was the gay, tenured professor from the year I spent in grad school who found out I was married and, on the first day of class, asked when I was planning to be pregnant. "I'm not." "That's what they all say, you wait." He'd once been married to a woman and had two children. Presumably, that's his bitter backstory showing, but I don't know. He was a dick and a terrible writer, and hated everything I did, but that was the extent of the actual misogyny.
A friend from high school always tells me that she envies my ability to not give a damn about authority and people who treat me poorly, that I stand up for myself. And maybe that's the difference, that I don't experience this not because it doesn't happen to me, but because I don't categorise it as, "men harrass me because I am a woman," but, "hey you, stop being a jerk to me." Because I've gone up against more women who have made it clear they think I'm a liar, and a threat to them- most of my teachers were women.
I could suppose, like Blossom did in her op ed, that it's because I'm not pretty and I don't drink and because I'm smart, and sometimes I do (though, generally not aloud and in public to strangers, because, gee, Blossom, people are going to take your words way out of proportion; it ceases to be self-deprecating when the New York Times publishes it) but I know that implies that the inverse is true of victims of sexual harassment and abuse, and it isn't.
So, Not Me. And maybe the question is simply, "when?"
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
Everything's Coming Up Milhouse
About two months ago, I met a guy for dinner in Union Square. We've sat down and as we're talking and going over the menus, he observes that I'm from Iowa, where I'd lived almost my entire life, and I haven't been in the city for very long, "Am I running from something?" "Isn't everyone?" I counter. I decide to tell him, because the conversation up to now has been good, and if he can't handle it, well, I know now. I tell him I was married for ten years, and it's this point that our server comes over to ask if we're ready to order. I've barely had time to look at the menu, never mind figure out what I want. Sometimes I have an idea and I can make a decision if the other person goes first, but that's not going to do it here. "No," I say to her, "Come back."
From the other side of the table, he tells me later, this story looks a little bit different.
He asks me if I'm running from something and I look visibly concerned, and I think about it for a minute and make the decision to say, "I was married for ten years." The server, who has been eavesdropping on the conversation from behind us almost from the moment she realised this was a first date, immediately comes over to rescue me, "Are you ready to order?" So now I have the opportunity to order, change the subject, forget about it and move on in the evening. She's doing me a favour. And I, in response to her, snap, "No! Come back." I do not need rescuing, I am going to tell the story and I'm OK with that. The waitress is so shocked by my reaction that she gets another server to take over our table, because she just can't with me anymore. "She's tough," he thought.
I did not recognise the second story until it was told to me. Yes, I noticed that we had a new waitress later on, but I did not put it together that I'd smacked down an opportunity to be rescued from a difficult line of inquiry. It's not even part of my thinking, that I would stop talking about something that might be uncomfortable once I'd started telling it.
She is tough, she just doesn't always notice it.
From the other side of the table, he tells me later, this story looks a little bit different.
He asks me if I'm running from something and I look visibly concerned, and I think about it for a minute and make the decision to say, "I was married for ten years." The server, who has been eavesdropping on the conversation from behind us almost from the moment she realised this was a first date, immediately comes over to rescue me, "Are you ready to order?" So now I have the opportunity to order, change the subject, forget about it and move on in the evening. She's doing me a favour. And I, in response to her, snap, "No! Come back." I do not need rescuing, I am going to tell the story and I'm OK with that. The waitress is so shocked by my reaction that she gets another server to take over our table, because she just can't with me anymore. "She's tough," he thought.
I did not recognise the second story until it was told to me. Yes, I noticed that we had a new waitress later on, but I did not put it together that I'd smacked down an opportunity to be rescued from a difficult line of inquiry. It's not even part of my thinking, that I would stop talking about something that might be uncomfortable once I'd started telling it.
She is tough, she just doesn't always notice it.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Yes, And?
I agreed to meet a guy and immediately after realised that he was painfully boring. This is a guy I've conversed with for nearly a month, and the entire conversation pretty much follows a pattern where I make a statement, he either agrees with me or is confused/insecure. If he agrees with me, he hasn't given me anything else to go with, so I try a different statement with a question attached to it. If he's insecure (this happens every time I mention something even a tiny bit outside his comfort zone, which I'm discovering is pretty narrow), I throw him something that's a little nearer on the spectrum to what he might be comfortable with. Repeat. He hasn't really brought anything but his own insecurities to the table. But I didn't notice the pattern until after I agreed we should meet him.
Enjoying and continuing a conversation for its challenges, when the goal is to determine whether you like the person behind the words, is something of a problem. I can talk, indefinitely, about nearly anything, forever. I'm the terrible actor who has forgotten that conversation is subtext, and you only talk because you want something. Talking to me is probably like talking to a sentient search engine. Google doesn't need anything from you, it can find it for itself, all it needs is you to agree to let it look.
I am not buying succulents.
Enjoying and continuing a conversation for its challenges, when the goal is to determine whether you like the person behind the words, is something of a problem. I can talk, indefinitely, about nearly anything, forever. I'm the terrible actor who has forgotten that conversation is subtext, and you only talk because you want something. Talking to me is probably like talking to a sentient search engine. Google doesn't need anything from you, it can find it for itself, all it needs is you to agree to let it look.
I am not buying succulents.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
Gentrification
I spend a lot of time documenting a New York that doesn't really feel like my experience. I promised co-workers that I would keep them updated, and send pictures. I had also fixed on the story of me becoming a tour guide, because that felt less crazy to people than theatre. So, to that end, I have an Instagram that I keep updated with... a version of my New York experience.
More and more it feels like someone else's experience of the city. The other day I found myself outside Bryant Park, staring at a building I'd seen back in March and thinking, "Oh, that's the Empire State Building." Then I turned the corner and saw the Chrysler building. I have walked down these streets. I've been all around the park and the library multiple times; I *have* to have seen it without noticing it. So this time, I took the photo and posted it, pretending that I hadn't seen it before.
Beyond that, though, the New York in my photos is shiny. It looks bright, clean, coloured in purple, green, blue and yellow, and friendly. It looks like a tourist would want New York to look. There's one image of Prospect Park, in Brooklyn, that I find particularly funny because it looks beautiful, because you can't really see all the trash on the ground and you definitely can't smell the fact that the entire area smells like pee.
I think if I were to actually photograph the New York I see, it would mostly be concrete and chrome, railings and garbage bags. The dirty once-white of the inside of subway stations and pavement so covered in gum it looks like a Dalmatian are more what my days look like.
I moved, and was worrying about explaining the new place, because it's in a neighbourhood that historically would have made my mother panic to even know existed. I currently live a block from gentrification. The food stamp centre and the job assistance place are juxtaposed with expensive cafes with brunch menus. If I walk two blocks west, places try to identify themselves "not quite the thoroughly gentrified neighbourhood next door." If I walk two blocks east, I can go to a Family Dollar that reminds you every 60 seconds that the premises are being monitored.
I'm not sure how I'd photograph that if I could, but I know I don't really want to share it, yet. They can wait for the hopelessness of winter in the city to set in.
More and more it feels like someone else's experience of the city. The other day I found myself outside Bryant Park, staring at a building I'd seen back in March and thinking, "Oh, that's the Empire State Building." Then I turned the corner and saw the Chrysler building. I have walked down these streets. I've been all around the park and the library multiple times; I *have* to have seen it without noticing it. So this time, I took the photo and posted it, pretending that I hadn't seen it before.
Beyond that, though, the New York in my photos is shiny. It looks bright, clean, coloured in purple, green, blue and yellow, and friendly. It looks like a tourist would want New York to look. There's one image of Prospect Park, in Brooklyn, that I find particularly funny because it looks beautiful, because you can't really see all the trash on the ground and you definitely can't smell the fact that the entire area smells like pee.
I think if I were to actually photograph the New York I see, it would mostly be concrete and chrome, railings and garbage bags. The dirty once-white of the inside of subway stations and pavement so covered in gum it looks like a Dalmatian are more what my days look like.
I moved, and was worrying about explaining the new place, because it's in a neighbourhood that historically would have made my mother panic to even know existed. I currently live a block from gentrification. The food stamp centre and the job assistance place are juxtaposed with expensive cafes with brunch menus. If I walk two blocks west, places try to identify themselves "not quite the thoroughly gentrified neighbourhood next door." If I walk two blocks east, I can go to a Family Dollar that reminds you every 60 seconds that the premises are being monitored.
I'm not sure how I'd photograph that if I could, but I know I don't really want to share it, yet. They can wait for the hopelessness of winter in the city to set in.
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