I’ve not had the best run of it lately. It’s started to wear on me.
I had a positive meeting with an agent that led to me shaving my beard. Then I had to go clean shaven into a casting where they wanted beard the day after the agent u-turned on me. Then I went in for Fagin, again beardless, and was told I was too young. Then I went in for Henry Higgins, who speaks in my voice, is my age and whose mother lives, essentially, in my flat. Again I was told I was too young. Meanwhile I opened my heart and discovered how much that can hurt.
This evening I’m going for a casting to play “Middle aged man 1.” Sexy. I’ll probably be told I’m too young. I don’t feel too young right now. I feel like I’ve been banging my head against this wall for a millionty five years and I’m older than Satan. It’s going to be the wall that explodes, not my head. But it’ll be a close run thing.
Not that I don’t have loads to be thankful for. I’m safe and have a roof over my head and tons of brilliant friends. And I get to do thousands of bizarre random things with zillions of gorgeous interesting people. I’m just still “seeking the bubble reputation e’en in the cannon’s mouth.” Along with so many others. It’s constantly about hope, and staying positive in the face of knockbacks. And dear God I’m still an optimist. I’ve been doing this madness for long enough that absorbing and converting energy is almost second nature by now. But it still sends me spinning when I let myself hope. I wanted to go to Frankfurt and work on the words of Bernard Shaw. I’d have been bloody marvelous too. But someone is really happy about getting that call. Let it rest there.
I’m off to The Factory now for a few hours to throw some Macbeth around in a beautiful positive challenging room full of similarly robust similarly geeky actors and theatre makers. Some of us will be going to a theatre grown out of a living willow tree in the heart of Wales in July. We go every year, and use the period before as a chance to deepen our own craft and availability on stage. I’m in the mix for Banquo, but in keeping with the company values nobody is guaranteed anything so I might not go to Wales at all. Somehow that doesn’t bother me. So why am I upset about not getting three months in Germany? I suppose the lure of a new city, the interest of the part, and the rare guarantee of three months worth of digging out of the debt hole. Shaw is great dense fun text to mine. Poo.
Too young to play my own age is better than too old. I’ve clearly been doing something right all these years. I’ll just use my youthful vigour to keep slugging. There’s something round the corner. The wall is cracking. My young head is harder than granite by now, and somehow my insides are still squishy. Bang. Ow. Bang. Ow. Bang. Ow. Crack.