Got up far too early in order to drive to Haggerston, to just outside Playhouse East and help with the get-in for Sarah’s play – the one I blogged a few weeks ago when it was on at the Hen and Chickens.
They just needed to know they had access to humans with arms if needed. I was happy to help. I like them. And as I said last time, it is hard enough getting purchase in this industry if you’re from an acting dynasty. Thirty fucking years and you really would think it would stop hurting. But I’m always happy to carry stuff or do whatever to help people starting out because without our friends, our communities, we would be totally screwed.
Driving home I spoke to another mate of mine the same age as Sarah. He’s booked a film which he totally deserves, and he’s thinking of getting out of London for good. “Perhaps you just haven’t found the right place to live,” he says. He might be onto something. If I kept chickens in a wood I’d have less time to question my life choices.
Talking to these friends I inevitably remembered myself at that age. Just hatched into the industry. Booked a big job. Mum dying. Life vs Art. Family vs Momentum. I fell into a hole, which I have no regrets about now but only because I know what I learnt down there. That learning can help carry me through this patch I’m having at the moment where nothing seems to be going right.
I turned down an audition for an excruciatingly low paid Shakespeare job in Kent playing a smaller part than I’m used to. That would be my life now if I’d auditioned (and got it ha). I don’t miss it, I don’t need the experience anymore, the one thing you can carve on my forehead is that I’m good at this shit now. “Don’t come moaning to me if you aren’t working this summer then,” said Esta. Fair. And I can make more money dayjobbing but I was believing I’d book some filming. Manifesting the fuck out of it. It’ll come. It’ll come.
Another rejection this morning and this one they kept me on the hook for months. “This date or this date? This whole month? This date? What if it’s this date?” I just told Angus the associate: “Whatever they say tell them I can do it and I will”. And apparently I did a great audition, I very nearly got it. Very nearly. Very nearly got it. Very nearly. Very nearly. Very nearly got it. Very nearly. Very nearly.
But I didn’t get it.
If my sperm had very nearly got to mum’s egg it would be a very different thing. There’s no consolation prize. “They went with a different vibe.” I’ll put that on the shelf with all the others then. Can’t do much about the vibe. I read the brief and did the vibe on the brief. Does this mean it has gone to someone who couldn’t do the vibe on the brief? Shh brain. Shhh now. Hush there.
Bad week for it when I’m newly sober.
I know it gets easier but all this “feeling stuff” nonsense, I used to have a handy way of avoiding it. How have I deliberately chosen to take the wheels off at a time when people are queuing up to throw piss into my eyes? But, rationally speaking, it is infinitely better that I had the meetings. There are friends of mine who haven’t auditioned for ages.
Crying is a good thing, I tell myself, cus it is. I’ve been largely expressing myself through that medium today. Good for the blepharitis to have an existential crisis about your life choices at 50. And it is a purge. ‘Tis the season. I should get a motorbike and start saying “man” all the time. I already wear socks with sandals.
—
Home made bangers and mash with glorious onion gravy. Apple crumble with custard. And a lovely phone call with a very dear friend. There are always solutions if you look for them. I’ve got loads on this summer and should be proud of myself for that. Need to get better at looking at what I’ve got. This hunger though, this endless endless hunger to work…
And off to bed.
