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Feb. 9th, 2004 09:49 amFor whatever reason HousePlage has been on my mind frequently lately. There are some decent arguments as to why -- it was this time last year, and I did find a great deal of notes from it when cleaning my room yesterday.
I'm fascinated that the importance I cooked up for it in my own mind is still with me in some strange way. Of course it's the first real anything I did with theater really and I had no sense of scale at the time, and it gave me months of wandering around Soho and rehearsal studios and that was beautiful. I mean, it really was a fine moment, even if it was also a bad boyfriend of a show, which of course assumed that role because I gave it power it didn't deserve.
I've been avoiding sending my resume in for stage management things lately, which is actually probably a good thing, but I'm a little surprised by it, mainly because it comes from a confidence about acting (I'm really really seeing myself improve) and not any sort of grimness (which would be well deserved) about myriad of aspects of stage management.
It's almost warm today, warm enough for me to remember what spring feels like, and it's funny to me, how my locational (and often temperature based) fantasies have gone from Australia (yes, I'm still going in 2005), to L.A. to shopping in Soho. I feel like, I'm ready to come home now, and like I've been away for a very very long time.
No matter how much Soho insists on becoming something I could have never imagined (the development of Soho is litterally as ludicrous to me as the fact that I can talk to anyone anywhere in the world for practically no money on a tiny little phone and then bitch about the quality of the sound), it will still always be a fundamental part of my city, and one I'm possessive over, as I can tell you pretty much what every storefront on West Broadway has been in every incarnation since the mid- to late-seventies. For the love of god, I bought the suit I wore for my college interviews at Yoshi, the shop with the demon lady transformation scene in The Devil's Advocate. I know a million secret places down there, and, although not as many as there use to be, there are still also shop owners who have known me since I was a baby or worse since I was Tina the Troubled Wannabe Klub Kid Teen.
Because I have lived in New York all my life, all my life I have seen people eating on the run rushing about dressed in sweatpants, carrying backpacks and with the carriage of dancers. I've never been the type to wear sweatpants, could never understand how something that made me look like crap looked so fabulous on these people. Of course, I get it now, because even if I still don't wear sweatpants, I'm one of them, at least on the good days. Audition, rehearsal, class, possibility and the necessary conviction that I'm somehow just slightly better than other people because I'm insane enough to want to do this and lucky enough to know that it's a choice.
HousePlague, for better or for worse, was the first time that was true. And as foolish as that was in many ways, I'm glad I made that choice.
I'm fascinated that the importance I cooked up for it in my own mind is still with me in some strange way. Of course it's the first real anything I did with theater really and I had no sense of scale at the time, and it gave me months of wandering around Soho and rehearsal studios and that was beautiful. I mean, it really was a fine moment, even if it was also a bad boyfriend of a show, which of course assumed that role because I gave it power it didn't deserve.
I've been avoiding sending my resume in for stage management things lately, which is actually probably a good thing, but I'm a little surprised by it, mainly because it comes from a confidence about acting (I'm really really seeing myself improve) and not any sort of grimness (which would be well deserved) about myriad of aspects of stage management.
It's almost warm today, warm enough for me to remember what spring feels like, and it's funny to me, how my locational (and often temperature based) fantasies have gone from Australia (yes, I'm still going in 2005), to L.A. to shopping in Soho. I feel like, I'm ready to come home now, and like I've been away for a very very long time.
No matter how much Soho insists on becoming something I could have never imagined (the development of Soho is litterally as ludicrous to me as the fact that I can talk to anyone anywhere in the world for practically no money on a tiny little phone and then bitch about the quality of the sound), it will still always be a fundamental part of my city, and one I'm possessive over, as I can tell you pretty much what every storefront on West Broadway has been in every incarnation since the mid- to late-seventies. For the love of god, I bought the suit I wore for my college interviews at Yoshi, the shop with the demon lady transformation scene in The Devil's Advocate. I know a million secret places down there, and, although not as many as there use to be, there are still also shop owners who have known me since I was a baby or worse since I was Tina the Troubled Wannabe Klub Kid Teen.
Because I have lived in New York all my life, all my life I have seen people eating on the run rushing about dressed in sweatpants, carrying backpacks and with the carriage of dancers. I've never been the type to wear sweatpants, could never understand how something that made me look like crap looked so fabulous on these people. Of course, I get it now, because even if I still don't wear sweatpants, I'm one of them, at least on the good days. Audition, rehearsal, class, possibility and the necessary conviction that I'm somehow just slightly better than other people because I'm insane enough to want to do this and lucky enough to know that it's a choice.
HousePlague, for better or for worse, was the first time that was true. And as foolish as that was in many ways, I'm glad I made that choice.
