Finding Fluffy Inspiration.

I’m desperately trying to think of something funny or amusing to relate here, but I’m fresh out. So, just make up your own amusing anecdote and laugh, and then I’ll feel as if I did my job.Things are settled down now, after an extremely long, extremely fun, extremely tiring weekend. But, you know, tiring in a good way. I’m not going to say much else, because I enjoy being coy and withholding information. Besides, I am a gigantic tease. Have a problem with that? Good. I like it that way.

I had a callback this evening for a show I auditioned for recently. I had about an hour to kill after work before I went there though, so a friend/co-worker and I decided to drop in on another person we used to work with who is, you know, a bartender. We ordered up our fluffy drinks (it was happy hour at a gay bar — what do you expect?) and because the guy we know is the one who made our drinks, they were very, very strong. Which means that by the time I got to my audition, I was really feeling that alcohol. I wasn’t drunk, per say, and I wasn’t even really tipsy, but I was definitely not unaffected.

The thing is, it’s so easy to get caught up in nerves when you’re reading unfamiliar material with a total stranger, especially when you know that you’re getting closer and closer to your coveted role. Anything you can do to ease that anxiety is considered a good thing, and as it turns out, going to that audition in a state of slight inhibition was actually helpful. I wasn’t focusing on the words as much as I usually do; I felt like I was finally getting through to the emotion of the scene. And that’s the point of being an artist — being able to let go of yourself and whatever outside factors get in the way of letting you focus on the beauty of whatever it is you have to work with.

I feel good about this audition. I gave them the best reading I could have possibly given them, and now it’s up to the directors to decide if they liked what they saw.

I just realised about five minutes ago that today, for the next hour at least, is my “half-birthday.” I used to look forward to being able to say that I was “almost” at my next age, but now I’m surprised to find that I just don’t care anymore. There are really no more meaningful ages left until I start turning thirty or forty or sixty-five or one-hundred-eleven. As it is, the only thing left that my age prevents me from doing is renting a car (and buying spray-paint in Philadelphia, but, whatever,) and besides, I kind of like being twenty-two. It’s a fun number, and an even number. In six-months’ time, I’ll be an odd numbered age for a whole year, and that’s just a miserable thought. Stupid odd numbers.