I always feel relieved and rinsed after I perform a scene — they loved how I said “abandoned by cowardly men,” to the 12 year old, like can you even believe it? Taking a bite of a bagel. These men who abandoned me were cowards? In the end? Imagine? “Like, are you joking? Oh my God,” this girl’s blank face, “they were Don Giovannis?” I just loved this monologue. How real it was. “Only to end up TRAPPED in a flithy, dirty apartment in the basements of BROOKLYN.” Whoopee cushion, that’s what I pictured. “The pain of a Thursday, trying on clothes that no longer fit.” You have no idea.
I almost didn’t make it through this monologue without laughing. I had negative apparitions, moments when I judged myself, but the response was easy — who cares? Who cares if I suck? Big deal. A Columbia scene? I’ll just get better. That’s the whole point. I thought, now, I might as well take the plunge, in this character’s words, go down some spiral. Really go for it: I suck, I really suck, I suck so bad at acting, it’s like I should just give up, right? I suck so hard. Okay “cool,” I went down that spin…
Now what?
I didn’t understand this strange paranoia, because it doesn’t feel like me, exactly, but it’s attached to someone I am no longer friends with. A strange visceral sensation. I felt that he, in reality, might have not wanted me to succeed at writing a book because it meant I was going to be an actor? Strange. He called himself “your manager…” with a belittling hand when I didn’t DO anything that required a manager. I was writing a book… not understanding his strange regard on me — “you’re really a movie star?” He’s… in a fantasy world, where he’s my manager? Putting me down? And he would maybe want me to SUCK? Strange fears. So I just SUCKED hard. Dispelled this shit. I sucked so hard until I started laughing. Moving on. Dusting myself off as JOS would.
I just want to give myself a chance, I’m not spinning in a fantasy. This friend of mine ended up really freaking me out. Especially with the talk of wanting to kill someone, for real. That’s what a politician is, first. A person. THEN he said, “as your manager.”
It’s like, he projected himself in a movie, before I could even finish a book. “Oh I thought I would play…” this character of mine that doesn’t EXIST. I’m just a CHICK tapping away on her computer. “And a woman can’t play him…?”
I’m sorry? Were you discussing my character in a shitty draft with some chick? Isn’t that amazing? Like you’re going to play them? In what universe? Sure, one day, I have dreams, but getting attached? Hm, not really.
While I was sitting at this piano, I thought, okay, as I got ideas after we finished a take. I’m still getting comfortable basically speaking. I know that. I’m trying to learn as much as from these moments as the past keeps slipping, fading, away… Am I feeling discomfort because that’s the character, so I need to bring it to the surface… project? Or am I not totally in my body and present yet?
Film is stop and go, it’s technical, and they’re also learning, and so am I. I have to learn how to work in this way. Keep the energy up. I watched Leonardo di Caprio working, briefly. He’s in action before they call action, of course, so I used that.
I still don’t quite know how to work with my Lecoq training… my body. It’s like, she put candies on the piano, and it’s the first time she ever did that, so I tried to communicate that physically. I’m still working on these kinks. Like, take a second to really look at these candies… orange, chocolate? These moments. Like, should she? The pants don’t fit, right? It’s evidently not my problem, that’s the other thing. I’m a 00 in most clothes. So, from which year are these clothes? I have spent a Thursday alone, trying on clothes that don’t FIT, anymore. That’s different. It’s fit, as in your too fat, Lisa. Picture it. Imagine? What that must feel like? This is what despair is.
So I wondered if this was a delire of hers, though yes, there are flashes of the personal…I did find myself in here, for sure, as she sort of wants it, you see.
So she might take half, right? The candy. If she’s, thinking about the pants. But I’m not thinking about the pants, really. I might, um? Lisa? She turns, don’t forget the torment, don’t get sweet on me, that’s not this song. But we did the touching ending, where this is personal. The absurd, to me, looking back, has to do with a system of thought.
Right? No no no, Lisa, I see this candy. Don’t forget the torment, I’m a teacher, she just proved my point. Think. About. It. Often. I’m trying to instruct you as to how to play this piece. That’s my thought afterwards. Kids, you know? Yes, I know what despair is, most definitely. I know that the DESPAIR comes from WHO did it, Lisa. WHO betrayed you, who abandoned you. WHO these types end up BEING. She’s 12.
And the person typically gets broken down in the absurd, we see their process. Maybe I don’t know a fucking thing, I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. But since she said ABSURD, I’m reflecting what I learned it was. Ah ha, the candy, once again, Lisa. It’s the first time, sure, nice defense. Looking at these candies, “do not forget the torment.” This isn’t personal, Lisa. I don’t know, I just found it funnier, “look Lisa, when you play something, you must feel something,” anything, really. It’s about pain, though. That’s what music is about. So the candies, why are you giving me candies? I don’t know. I’ll keep working on it. I’m not going to eat these candies. Just a shot of my hand. “Lisa.”
“Same piece next week, don’t forget the torment…” like here we go again, in a sense. “Do you see?” Giving me kisses. It exists to communicate PAIN. It’s simple. Turning a page. We did a touching ending, where I “spoke a little too freely,” so… not exactly an absurd logic, I don’t think. I’m not sure. I’m just thinking about it now.
Anyway, I had a blast. I’ll see myself on camera, like I don’t even know what I LOOK like. Am I too pronounced? We’ll see. It’s a good scene.
I’ll see myself on camera, for real, who knows if I look crazy? I tried to distill. At times, I didn’t know why I was crossing a room, so next time, I’ll probably have a fit around this piano, spend a moment getting out of my head, taking strong stances, listen to her play, looking here, there, listen. Act silly even, who gives a shit? I would probably next time, run around the space, just dance, whatever, you know? “Oooh look at me approaching you…” all the ways I could stand there and judge her.
It went well, but I’m AWARE of unconscious behavior. I know what that IS. I know that trap. You don’t GET what you’re doing. It’s fine, we have those sides. It’s annoying to me because not everyone is aware of that, like my friend acting like he doesn’t like that I’m changing, but he wants parts in movies that do not exist. Stop. So there are unconscious behaviors… I can see that, in myself, in looking back. Not a big deal. But I see you. My old self. I believe in myself as an actor, actually. You weren’t AWARE that you didn’t take it AS seriously as you could have. Get in a rehearsal room. I’ve been doing that for MOTH performances, so what happened here? Stuff like that. It’s the hardest to see within the self. “WHY?” I lost my nerve, a little, though I felt more comfortable with this super emotional scene I did as a parent the night before. Not a big deal. I worked this scene. But it had a monologue, and I wish I worked that monologue JUST a touch more. Good idea, different, came from my actual experience — unreal, LISA, the cowards abandoned me. I didn’t know that they were. And they were obviously so. That’s it. I couldn’t DO it, which annoys the fuck out of me now, but now I can. It’s just to say because I’ve been having a hard time with some people around their unconscious behaviors. STOP. Driving me nuts. Don’t ACT like that. ANYWAY, so there’s me, pointing out a bit of that, like who gives a fuck what this man thinks? This ghost of my old friend. Who the fuck is he? This sort of judgmental shit, drives me crazy. And now, I’m a fucking demon, man — I’m Dr. J’s daughter and I SAW Sam Rockwell deliver an enlightened monologue about fucking Asian boys, girls, as a girl, whatever. Enough. I’m on his end of the spectrum.
I’m thrilled. I’m thrilled to be here, I’m thrilled to be able to see — I don’t care so much about the thought form of it — this “am I good, bad” dilemma, I guess, GO away. I’m just going to keep on growing, getting comfortable, and better. Make it masterful. You know what I mean? That’s the unconscious behavior, right there, circling it with a laser beam. The script arrives, LOOK IT OVER RIGHT AWAY. Do you SEE a monologue? Type deal. Don’t wait. But I’m also working a lot, just trying to find my rhythm.
To me, this line of thinking is like a MOTHER, I’m slightly ahead of you. I want you to succeed. I want you to succeed BEYOND my success, rolling my eyes at my stupid mother. I just needed to make this switch. I didn’t need a wiseman.
So like I said, I’m staying REAL present, real present, and I’m taking time after these scene to THINK— what happened here? Why aren’t we leaving this room going, “FUCK YES.” You see the difference? So funny. I did, too, you know, I thought, I filmed something, but that’s how you keep improving, by staying really honest…
I’m proud of myself because I’m doing it. I can’t wait to keep working that monologue. I would totally use that scene. I’m not ready to make a reel quite yet, so I’m still in an exploratory phase. I literally just started.
I’m not in an acting class right now. Columbia keeps inviting me back for the moment. I work on a scene a week, about, and I’m just going to get better. I hope they’ll keep inviting me back. So, now, I’ll go into a rehearsal room ahead of time, as I wish we had a rehearsal ahead of time, even between the two of us. It’s less because it’s a student thing, but I think she’s quite good, I like her. I hope we get to work together again. I hope she was pleased with the result. I wish I went to Lecoq now.
I had all this material, for a buffoon, a melodrama, a clown piece but more like a Joker piece, I have, now, my whole self. It didn’t even OCCUR to me to WORK on anything, idiot. Me, idiot. But I can’t help who I was. I’m not the same person. So I sometimes get stuck about writing a book, or writing a story, which is fine, but I also feel like — I’m this 12 year old. I WAS HER. Like I shed some skin that wasn’t mine, exactly, and I’m back to myself after quite a ride… that almost killed me, practically.
So why am I writing to begin with? WHY? I’m confused. You know? But I can’t quite let it go, because I spent so much time on it, stupidly, because this screenwriter was suggesting I DOWNLOAD the book from the future, just to make my life MORE ridiculous, and I don’t know what to do now.
I didn’t want to go through revelations of this magnitude. But, I have a chance, actually, to live — my life. I’ll keep working on the story of it, I just find WRITING really challenging, like this. I’m going to spend some time reading this week, and problem solving, because writing, right now, makes me feel mediocre. And it’s not I have a real job, you know? I have two dinky writing jobs. If I could figure out a way to make this aspect of my life WORK, for real, it could enable me to make my own schedule, tour, whatever. But I don’t know how to do this yet.
I’m going to probably force myself to go back to open mics, and try to find the comedy in the sex scandal, because it’s there, for sure, especially if I can nail Angelica Leibowitz. Especially how she moves to Me Va Me Va — and she’s moving the set, it’s an extravaganza, this sex scandal. I’m back at OPERA starting next week, so I’ll be back in the rehearsal room. I tried telling my story as a British person… imagine?
“I was in a sex scandal.”
I had a fun time, laughing, at a British person getting OUTRAGED at what happened to me. “Absolutely not.” It was an automatic shut down. They did not stand for it. So, I’m going to keep going IN THAT DIRECTION. I practiced my British accent in reciting my article about the film Field of Dreams. A British person is telling you about this movie. “Let me try,” I’m needing to work on the accent. Anyway, that’s what I’m doing this week. I’m getting back in the rehearsal room. I need to find Brazilian women to hang out with so I can ABSORB the accent. I just don’t remember WHERE she was from, exactly, but it was particularly nasal, I think. Doesn’t matter that much, at least, for where I’m at, right now. I need to take a lambada class, go to a lambada party, just so I can work that character — because she’s a singing, dancing machine… a bull, a STORK, specifically, cartoon, and a mother hen. She’s got a nice assemblage of animals, I can work on that…
Keep going. “Take us away…” I have to be able to dance really sexy… because she was amazing… she really was. I watched her, I was impressed. I could picture the back up dancers.
I just need to figure out money.
So, this week, I have to work on this story, as I won’t give up, but I can’t get too sucked in. I don’t care that much. I wish I approached it more like a hobby.
I need to get back onstage, these open mics, it’s just, not the easiest topic to break the ice over. I’m not sure if I should talk about other things… so I’m still figuring that out, but I’ll go back. I have to get social, meet people, as I have a personal goal — to have a big birthday celebration next year… and I’ll keep that going, every year, as I never, in my adult life, practically, truly, threw a birthday party for myself. I’m a bit embarassed about it. When I see a large table of friends— I think, that’s what I want. I’m going to get very social. I need to see shows. I need to, I guess, keep letting writing go, take a step back, which is what I wish I did ten years ago…to assess how to make this work, what I would enjoy writing about, what I might be good at. It’s a mediocre existence.
I mean I got involved with crazy people, ten years ago, so there’s that, so I’m trying to envision making it work. And looking at this stupid story, I couldn’t care less. I’m on a better track, so I’ll take it as it comes…I just wish I hadn’t put all my energy into this because NOW I’m in a BIND, because of it. I didn’t have a beat, like, maybe I could write about family? I don’t know what that means. I don’t have a family. WHO is going to relate to my problems? With a family?
It’s like, “write for the New Yorker,” this guy said, “okay, don’t lots of people want to?” WHAT about MY WRITING, literally speaking, is telling you that? It was ALL FEELING and INVENTION. But I sort of feel that there IS something I can do, that I would enjoy, and that could work, NOW I just need to figure out WHAT that is.
I saw this job pop up, it pays well, and I could probably get it, teaching little kids French… it’s more so the feeling that I’m just GRABBING at whatever job, and it’s ridiculous. So I thought, “no,” actually. I’m in the place I’m in, which bothers me sometimes, and I don’t want to work at a restaurant. I want to move fast. But I might chill, stay still, a second, and assess how I can make a decisive step forward… I’ll figure it out.
That’s my week coming up. I only work three nights. SOCIAL SOCIAL SOCIAL, meet people, make friends, join running groups, who gives a shit? I’m going to every art opening there is this week… just passing by… and, um, I’m going to spend my time reading, mostly, and assessing what I can do, job wise.