There’s been a beer in the fridge the last few days. I got an email this evening from my agent. I asked Maddy to please drink it. She obliged. I am working on better coping strategies. Oblivion isn’t the answer.
I washed my altar cloth, dusted down my butsudan, organised my incense. Things are drying now so I can’t reassemble it properly but I’m gonna put everything back mindfully once it’s dry. I had a bit of a chant. Between January and March this year I’m gonna need a job that is really career affirming and life affirming, cos I’ve just been slapped in the face again with another fucking wet fish. I’m trying to run the whole “I didn’t want it anyway,” routine on myself, but it’s not really sticking. I’ve been LOW since things blew up in my face. I’m glad I’ve taken booze off the table – and thank you Maddy for helping with the kneejerk as it is only a few days old at the moment.
My self esteem needed a hoik. And honestly I thought I’d done a blinder there listening and offering and playing in the recall. What an absolute fucker of a thing, again, the old rejection email. Didn’t even make the fucking shortlist. “Thanks for making it hard for us”. What the hell are we all doing, hoping after these things like this? How many fucking people did they see? Twenty two years since I stumbled out of Guildhall. And I’m still headbutting spikes and this one was self tape back in the first round so they could have literally seen thousands of people. When I recalled I kinda thought it was mine to lose. Makes it even harder that I still didn’t get it, when I know I showed up in that room.
Thankfully I’m secure in my craft and in my confidence. I play nicely in groups, and I turn in consistently strong work when I get the chance. Just at the moment the doors just keep going thunk in my face and it is so fucking wearing and I’m allowed to be angry about it cos it’s fucked it’s fucked it’s fucked for everyone doing this. Ok, someone somewhere will get the call soon for that part: “Good news!!” I am gonna have to be very careful not to look up the casting and see if they look and sound like me. I’m happy for them. We have to celebrate each other’s wins because God almighty this constant hope is wearing. When Pandora opened the box and all the bad things in the world came out, the last thing that came out was “hope”. Because it fucking hurts to hope. My chest is tight. I feel like I’m scrunched up into a little ball now. I’m trying to breathe it out.
Diary looks very very empty. I let myself hope I would just have to fill a gap until January and then meet new people see new towns, work on a lovely thing. But now I’m just falling back into a familiar hole. Shortlist, pencil, pencil, availability check, longlist, silence, silence silence… I tore up the sides Lou put on my altar for a telly I honestly felt would go my way hoped would go my way hope hope hope. I kept the sides there months to charge them up but I reckon its been shot by now.
It’s a full house again here in Chelsea. My pal is on the sofa. He gets on well with the cats. It’s nice having him here. I need my friends, I’m trying to pull myself back up out of a hole I fell into.
It’s certainly not all bad. I went to a table read for a feature film this morning. I nailed it for the writer and was good casting for it. Maybe I’ve done myself a favour there, it was just R&D, but maybe. It’ll definitely be produced. It’s hard to see beyond bad news sometimes. It has been a good day.
Maybe this part I didn’t get that is smaller than I’m used to playing in a play that will be hard to persuade industry people to watch… Maybe it’s okay that someone else will get to enjoy it. Maybe it isn’t the right career move for me at the moment. But … maybe I would like to have been able to make that decision… I might have taken it and regretted it had they offered… Let’s see. “The grapes were sour anyway.”
AlBarclay 