Life does not rain, it pours, and in the grand tradition of the energy patterns of the universe, my 365 in 365 challenge happened to coincide with my being put on an audition track for one of those "I'll be damned if this wasn't the part I was born to play" roles, which for me, means the role of a certain below 14th St. lesbian performance art in a certain Alphabet City musical that rocked Broadway at exactly the same time that every hormone, dream, ambition, and quarter note I had to sing in my body rocked me. The audition process has been long and, well, oddly predictable: go sing, freak out, wait, get a call, freak out, find out the call was good news, freak out, prepare, go sing... four rounds of this we've had so far. The end is near, but my nerves are shot.
All of this has brought up the very question that may have been at the hart of this battle from the get go, which is, am I even a comic to begin with?
Stand Up is a bizarrely unique pinkie finger on the hand of the performance world. Comedians all at once have all and none of the power over their own career. So much of being a comedian seems to be just, well, being a comedian: hanging out with, spending your nights with, thinking like, talking like, being just the same as all the other, but better than all the other, comedians. Comedy Central Specials fall like errant bombs rewarding those most deserving and also those most, "what the fuck, you're kidding me" of the crew. We tumble though careers of which we portend to be the masters, but are really as much prey to whim and whimsy as all the other pretty schmucks who spend their days waiting for auditions and their nights being fabulously glamorous working coat check. None of us have any idea what is coming for us next, and wanting something is easily the first step towards a mental breakdown.
I took that first step in showing up for an open call. My amazing manager couldn't secure a private audition, so I was forced to accompany all the other NYU ne'er do wells for 4 hour wait in line for an open call that has, four rounds later, brought me so close to the prize that my heart is sore from trying to pretend things will be ok if I don't book it.
Top it off with the whipped cream of a new love, and it is no shock that today, I fell apart. I left round four with a lucky egg in my hand (a green stone that was given to me by Nasty Canasta at the start of the year. Egg for luck, she said. I took it quite literally) and helped a blind man named Joe cross the street and find his bus terminal at Port Authority. "Can I hold your hand?" he asked. His eyes were foggy with chaticacts. I told my intimate lady partner I would call her back and walked hand in hand with Joe to make our way up two escalators ("I'm not afraid of these things," he said. "They still freak me out sometimes," I replied") to gate 307 where he told me to thank my mom for raising me right, and I secretly felt guilty for clutching my egg closer and praying for the karma to translate to the creative team at my audition just minutes prior.
What I am trying to say is that I have no fucking idea if I want to be a comedian. I know I want to be a performer. I know I want to write and make people laugh. I know that recently I have been smashed in the face with a kind of love that I had previously retired as even a possibility in the life of a performer.
As much as I don't want to care. As much as I hope that I am stronger than... above... will persevere no matter what... I want this part. I want a job where I get to clock in and clock out, even if it is only clocking out to sleep. I want something that is beyond my control of wanting, and it is killing me.
I cried today and took a nap. I had thought I would be able to go home after my audition and write, run errands, prepare for my weekly show this evening. Nope. Tears. I needed to cry and release to the universe the painful, uncomfortable, humbling truth that I want something so badly, I am totally venerable, without defense, open...
And then we pick ourselves up, are thankful for the lady who helps kiss away the tears (don't vomit in your mouth. I was bitter for a long time. It is my turn to be happy) and fucking blog. Will I make it to the early mic tonight? Nope. Has my stomach been stable enough to manage to consume solid foods yet today? Nope. Am I sure of anything in my career except for that I want things, performance things, I want this part, will not die if I do not get this part, but mostly believe why wouldn't they give me this part? want it so badly I require nine hours of sleep a night and sporadic mental breakdowns and spontanious egg-in-hand mid-street prayer sessions... yes.
My girlfriend asked me how it went. Do I need anything? I responded that I wanted a mojito (no idea where that came from.) She met me at the subway with a deli rose and told me it was ok to cry if I needed to. I needed to. Eventually, I fell asleep--at her house, not at the restaurant. I'm a woman of whimsy, not a crazy homeless person. "I should have done work today," I said. "You cried your eyes out today. You needed a nap," she said.
So, I'm behind on my open mics. I have been napping. It could be worse. I could be Mario Lopez. Everything always works out in the end. If it doesn't work out, it isn't the end.
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