Stepping into my smaller picture, I am feeling desperately cramped. Figuring out future living conditions, the need for a regular job, trying to keep my credit straight and my paperwork in order ... all the real-life things that complicate themselves. I am very ready for a patron and manager, I can pay in poems and interpretive dances. Holiday bonuses are vegan desserts and a used book from the Strand. Any takers?
So, it looks like Williamsburg, it looks like I will be part of the great migration to Brooklyn. East Williamsburg, don't worry I haven't abandoned all of my grassroots, against the grain values. It's a little bit of a weird situation now, I'm all up in the air about it, for lotsa reasons. However, I do want to be a Brooklyn resident, and I need to move for so many reasons. But anytime I cross Third Ave and look up, I think, I will miss this. Regardless, I need a new space, and I need to go through my material posessions, re-evaluate what I need and don't, what I want still and why etc etc etc
I had dinner with my family last week before one of my kids rehearsal. As everyone was dispersing, my dad gave me some money for food, and I said, "Thanks, but what's this for?" and he replied by saying "Well, you're not employed right now ..." My artistic endeavors don't count as employment in the land of picket fences. It's a hard call in my heart, my parents have been supportive, which I am grateful for, but it's something that bothers me. It all bothers me. Why isn't what I do considered enough? I'm aware I need consistent money, but I'm also aware that I'm a professional artist, that I'm successful by many standards, and that I do make money doing this thing. I just hate money. I'm all for a trade system again.
Realizing my need for consistent pay, I have a list of places I can bop around to these upcoming mornings. Hosting, waitressing, cocktailing, retailing. Sure, there's a fancy twist to the SoHo boutiques, there's a tragic glamour to being a dancer waitressing in a 3-floor bar/lounge called Tonic - black eyeliner and heels. The New York dream.
it doesn't always sit well inside of me, I can't figure it out. Maybe it's my inner idealist, always wanting to be part of something better.
Another possibility has occured,
and that is part time work in the museums. Customer service, membership work stuff. I like the idea of working where Frank O'Hara did; of walking through an Andy Warhol or Monet or juarassic dinosaur exhibit on my lunch break.
Knowing me, I'll probably end up doing both.
Dorky museum worker by day ... Sexy cocktail waitress by night.
These mental adventures have caused the following to happen:
spruced up and updated my resumes.
not started packing.
not cleaned my bathroom.
not done laundry.
gotten decent poetry submission/publication leads.
In other news, I'm officially a performance-artist, complete with mention on Hamptons.com
The great things about this article are
a. I'm mentioned in the same article as the Ralph Lauren benefit
b. I'm mentioned in the same sentance as wine sorbet, my new favourite dessert
c. My photo is there.
d. My photo is in the same place that Susan Sarandon's is in this week's article.
Crazy days, I'm telling you.
I sing the body electric
I celebrate the me yet to come