When I was in college, I took a performing arts class. I think it was honestly the highlight of my time there. I've never been someone who liked being in the spotlight, I hate being perceived, I hate the way my stomach looks, I hate my soft jaw, and the way I awkwardly traverse through crowds. I dislike the idea of being thought of as absurd, but to be in a space where all of this was celebrated ultimately felt like home.
I read a poem, set to a backdrop of a 1950's diner. My classmate and I pretended that our table and chairs were a red leather booth, and we had a track in the background. I think about it all the time. Here's what it read:
Alan drives a cab at night,
Has cab driver’s elbow
In his left arm,
Sells real estate by day.
Alan dreams of a big deal,
Of opening a classy poolhall.
Has a four million dollar deal
Which will probably fall through,
Has a big land deal with the Post Office
But it will take 20 years to deliver
Because they are so slow.
Alan collects baseball cards and comic books
Hates condos and townhouses
Though he lives in one.
Was a trader for nineteen and one-half years
Then fired when the market melted.
Alan, even if he was rich,
Would not let his stepdaughter
By his second wife
Have her own phone and private line
Like her rich friend Rebecca has
Because after all she is only twelve.
Alan, half Jewish, has three tattoos.
“I got them recently because I wanted them.
My Jewish aunt nearly had a stroke
When she saw them.”
Alan admits he is a pack rat saving
Everything, loves wood, restoration, and antiques.
Alan admires the people who buy old houses
And fix them up.
Hates the development of Staten Island
Blaming it on the people from Brooklyn.
Alan was cooking sausages and onions
(His other half is Italian)
In his back yard
When a woman knocked his parked car
Into the next block,
Totaled it; he got $1,200 more
Than it was worth.
Alan found a turtle and put
It in a safe stream,
Stopped a dog from killing a cock
In historic Richmondtown.
Alan hates the dump—
ninety-four percent of the garbage there
Is dropped by the other boroughs—
Likes the idea of secession,
Staten Island free and independent.
Alan apologetically asks
If he didn’t talk too much
As he brings me to my destination.
He leaves me a great silence
And I wish I had one million American bucks
To tip the exuberant Alan.
Alan, take this million bucks
Strip the paint off the good wood of your dreams
And tattoo the tedious days.
- via Poetry Foundation
Has cab driver’s elbow
In his left arm,
Sells real estate by day.
Alan dreams of a big deal,
Of opening a classy poolhall.
Has a four million dollar deal
Which will probably fall through,
Has a big land deal with the Post Office
But it will take 20 years to deliver
Because they are so slow.
Alan collects baseball cards and comic books
Hates condos and townhouses
Though he lives in one.
Was a trader for nineteen and one-half years
Then fired when the market melted.
Alan, even if he was rich,
Would not let his stepdaughter
By his second wife
Have her own phone and private line
Like her rich friend Rebecca has
Because after all she is only twelve.
Alan, half Jewish, has three tattoos.
“I got them recently because I wanted them.
My Jewish aunt nearly had a stroke
When she saw them.”
Alan admits he is a pack rat saving
Everything, loves wood, restoration, and antiques.
Alan admires the people who buy old houses
And fix them up.
Hates the development of Staten Island
Blaming it on the people from Brooklyn.
Alan was cooking sausages and onions
(His other half is Italian)
In his back yard
When a woman knocked his parked car
Into the next block,
Totaled it; he got $1,200 more
Than it was worth.
Alan found a turtle and put
It in a safe stream,
Stopped a dog from killing a cock
In historic Richmondtown.
Alan hates the dump—
ninety-four percent of the garbage there
Is dropped by the other boroughs—
Likes the idea of secession,
Staten Island free and independent.
Alan apologetically asks
If he didn’t talk too much
As he brings me to my destination.
He leaves me a great silence
And I wish I had one million American bucks
To tip the exuberant Alan.
Alan, take this million bucks
Strip the paint off the good wood of your dreams
And tattoo the tedious days.
- via Poetry Foundation
There is something missing from my life and I can't put my finger on it. I stared at the moon outside the window of my new bedroom and thought about it. Over the last two months, so much has changed. I moved out of my studio, and into a two-bedroom in LA proper. I started a new job, and can finally say I work full-time in entertainment. My salary is higher, I can afford nicer things, and I'm not a loner anymore. So, what gives?
I used to spend so much time in my old studio, right in my little kitchen nook. I left dozens of coffee rings on my pine table and cried over how much I hated my job, and how alienated I felt. I cried over the hundreds of job applications and rejections, over fractures in my mental health, over my body, over the lack of growth and change...literally everything.
My contract was ending and I contemplated taking a year off of everything. My car is a piece of shit, and I could theoretically sell it for petty cash and be on my way for a bit. I didn't have any close friends in LA, and as much as I love being here, I dabble in escapist tendencies too much to ignore considering leaving. My mom flew me back home to see my dying grandmother and I saw my other friends. I drove around in the dark a bit, and remembered why I left home, as I always do.
I grabbed breakfast with my mom whenever I could, and she listened to be ramble over bad lattes and overcooked eggs. We split a cranberry muffin with my grandmother and I asked her about her time in Berlin. She started to cry and panic, repeating "I don't remember, I don't remember." It still upsets me. I thought we could at least leave this shitshow with memories of loved ones but, as it turns out, the world will find a way to rob us of even that.
One day, I got two calls. I climbed into my brother's car (my Mexican family doesn't understand "quiet") and was offered two jobs. Of course. After a year and a half of interviewing for new gigs, I'd of course have two offers ONE week ahead of my contract ending. A week before deciding to throw in the rag. My mom couldn't stop laughing, and my brother shook his head with a smile when I told him. It's some weird unspoken thing. "You're always doubting yourself but it always works out." And somehow, it does. It's always so, so much closer than I think.
I came back to California and thought long and hard about my options. One paid less, was an assistant gig, and was in Beverly Hills. The other, with a studio, and higher pay. I always have this thing in my head that I'm forever fucking up, and I felt like making a decision was life or death. The morning I called the assistant gig to turn down the offer, I actually called back and asked if I could come into the office. As kind as they seemed, it felt sterile, quiet, and rigid. All things I am incredibly not.
So, I work at a studio now; I like it a lot. Though, in true Elena fashion, I am of course looking at the possibility of being laid off and, I don't think I care as much as I should. Maybe it's my inability to ever feel fully happy out of fear of it ending, or maybe I've just learned to not kill myself mentally over things I can't control.
Between starting my new job and leaving my old one, I had two to three weeks to just...exist. I started to search for a roommate and scoured Los Angeles for a decent bedroom. I found one in a popular area, and crossed my fingers, hoping it was mine. I'd miss my high ceilings, bright white walls, and sanctuary I built for myself, but at some point, it had become more of a method of confining myself. I couldn't get past how it felt to walk into my bathroom one night after a terrible bender and see dried blood smeared on the porcelain surfaces. Part of the reason I can't (or shouldn't) be alone is due to my inability to be kind or normal to myself.
It's like some cloud had lifted and I could see things for what they really were. The tub was always getting backed up, and it wasn't because of my hair. There were way too many spiders to be comfortable. The wood near the sink had become blotchy and stained, probably on account of it being untreated. I couldn't remember the last time I had parked in front of the brick building either, since the parking was greedily attained by a nearby development. I hardly ever ran into anybody my age, and walking in my neighborhood felt like trying to cross the street in Mario Kart. Most of all, that loneliness itself didn't feel good, but that, like performance art, it offered a space for me to be absurd and unjudged.
The day I left, I flicked the switch off in the closet and noticed how loud it sounded once it was all empty. I moved everything into my new unit in a single day. The next morning, I noticed a dead spider on the floor. Like a little reminder that I can't outrun my craziness and fear. Love that.
I've only been here for a little over two weeks, and I feel like I should be so much happier. I have the job, the money, the opportunities, the lovely new apartment, the friends...and there's still that missing something. I still can't sleep well, I still dislike alcohol, and casual intimacy is beginning to lose its spark as well. TV is boring me, I hate looking at my phone, and nighttime doesn't seem to last long enough. Weed only makes me tired and lazy. I had a dream I went to law school and hated it. I can't seem to commit to anything creative.
I'm still unhappy and I feel like a brat. I wish I could tattoo the tedious days.