An Actor Prepares

The theatre company I am affiliated with here in NYC, Mind The Gap Theatre, my British lifeline, was potentially handed the fattest, juiciest, most mouth-watering bone today. I say potentially, as nothing is definite yet. But there is a chance that we may have found a home. For those who don't have any frame of reference, that's nothing short of huge! We're still processing the info and the possibility. More as things (hopefully) become concrete.


I wrote this in January 2007 on the R train to Brooklyn after responding to an ad on Craigslist about a sitcom pilot. I got the part - one scene, a few lines, a modest beginning. Big names were attached the the project. I was thrilled. But after months and months of meetings and re-writes and pre-production, my role was cut. I never even stepped foot on set.


Anyway, this seemed relevant, given today's possibilities, and reminds me of where my journey has taken me since I've been an actress in New york.

An Actor Prepares

I am at my most alluring now

Standing in the kitchen in socks and lace.

Hair dripping

Skin prickling

I am bent in concentration,

Surrounded by an army of utensils

Filled to overflowing

Boiling furtively

Hissing frantically

Slopping water around the room.

This is a covert operation

A clock-ticking, skin-scalding, towel-missing operation

It requires diligence and ingenuity and timing.

I spit icy curses at timing and broken boilers

As I improvise on this pivotal day

When the success of this particular battle depends largely on good grooming

And Estee Lauder Idealist Skin Refinisher.

I do not cut myself with a brand new razor,

In spite of the fact that I have a curious audience purring at me in one hand

And my left foot in the sink.

I navigate the tricky part around the ankle

And the stubborn curve of the knee

With the grace of a prima ballerina.

The grande-dame,

An old pro,

Undefeated.

My foundation smooth and strong.

For a moment I consider hot chocolate and a movie

As an alternative to the endless war waging outside of my kitchen.

When I am done

Louis rubs his furry face against my silky skin

He seems pleased.

I feel validated.

He traces my path to the closet with interest,

Lapping at the soapy footprints that will not be attended to,

Dancing around invisible mice and dangling things

And snagging my favourite sweater.

I throw it onto the bonfire of knits and wovens building on the bed,

Languishing lazily,

Accepting of their fate.

They are not part of my armour today.

I fight with the hairdryer

And do not understand the attraction of natural bristle brushes.

I primp and preen and tweak and tease.

I apply smoky eye,

But not too smoky.

I intend to imply only the slightest hint of spice.

I am in stealth mode.

I study myself from every angle

And decide less cleavage is required for today's attack.

I layer.

It's a necessary modesty

Of a similar tone to my No. 7 Nude lip gloss

That suggests an easy grace befitting of a non-recurring sitcom character.

On the train I count stations

And enter the unfamiliar world of

An Other Borough.

I watch sleeping people

And crazy people.

I stay alert.

I idly wonder if there may be four or five other

Blond-haired, blue-eyed

Non-Union Receptionists

Stacked neatly in garbage bags in this guy's bathroom.

But I get off at 68^th Street,

Check for smudges,

Slip into my most charming smile

And ring the bell.

- January 13^th, 2007 ('R' Train to Brooklyn)

Let the re-posting begin!

This is the first poem I wrote after we moved to NYC in the summer of 2006. Where is the sticky, nasty, fabulous, city summer now?

The city is shiny and grey today, joyously shedding the heat of the past few weeks like a sticky second skin. I am green and reckless. I am a dog. I am Lola. My mouth open, my tongue dragging along the floor, my fur speckled with cool water, shaking myself awake and rolling in puddles. My fingers itch to touch the ground, to displace the steam escaping from the sidewalk and leave a shadow finger footprint on the day. My belly longs to stretch itself out on the sidewalk, inching it's way to relief from the heat, breathing in the pulse and purpose of the concrete and earth beneath my skin.

I will find the tallest building and climb up to the roof and happily chase my tail in the rain, reveling in the memory of fireworks and friendships on a perfectly lovely yesterday, eagerly anticipating the unraveling of stories tomorrow. Renewed, restored, rewired, reminded. There is power in metaphor.

Do you remember the first time?

A few years ago I attempted to begin a regular blog about nothing in particular through the one avenue I knew existed at the time: MySpace. Four years and countless social nteworking sites later, I am positively awash with a very basic knowledge of HTML and ready to cut ties with my initial blog, and instead reinvent it here.

Of course, as the blog title suggests, this may not become a daily blog. It may not even turn into a weekly blog. And it doesn't really have a theme. It may transpire to be nothing more than the musings of a would-be writer and part-time thespian on those days when she feels the need to say something about why she bothers. And so be it.

Much of my old blog comprised of bits and pieces of poetry and prose. For the sake of archiving (and nostalgia on my part), I'm going to move some of that stuff over here so that I have a place to store it all, somewhere other than my hard drive. My reasoning being that as long as the world wide web doesn't disappear my random thoughts and words will henceforth be safe.

So those of you reading this may have read a lot of this stuff before. Apologies for the repetition. Eventually I might even write something new. It happens. Occasionally...