The Imaculate Misconception

     When do you tap out of the New York City fight I wonder? And when do you stop pounding the fruitless pavement and celebrating the occasional bread crumb mercifully dropped from a midtown casting agency? The thick 33 year old denial clouding my pursuit of genuine happiness reminds me of that Lunesta commercial where the cartoon character walks around all day with a dark little rain cloud tightly tailing her every move. That can’t be 34. I need to sit into my decision to relocate for two years, uprooting myself from everyone and everything I’ve known for the last 14 years I rode the one train uptown to Harlem. You don’t shake the city angst that easily. To this day I still get the shakes whenever I think about going to an Equity Principle Audition at six am and waiting outside in the biting New York cold hoping to get the chance to belt out at least 32 bars of some obnoxious musical theatre song I’m not entirely comfortable with anyway. 

      I always hang on way too long to all things broken if I know it or not, relationships, jobs, apartments, grudges, ideas. The urban adrenaline that used to pulse through my veins like lightning has hardened into a thick glue making it impossible for me to move or give a shit anymore. I want my ashes spread over the hard wood floors of Pearl Studios where daddy’s been getting cut from the dream countless times leaving all dignity in the room should the word “Improv” be dropped! Not to mention the ol’ hamster wheel of required six month Wicked calls...my dream. Little fish? Even a good Sex and the City marathon couldn’t blow a little life into my broke city soul and wallet these days. I like privacy and walking little Harley off leash without threat of getting run over, being ticketed by a bored New York City bike cop, or harassed by another homeschool fellow dog owner! For the moment I’d rather be stuck traffic hopelessly gridlocked than being smashed like sardines on the dirty train if it comes at all.  Among the long list of things that tip the scales, Im cool with saying adieu to the amputee legless guy that drags his torso across the filthy train floor begging for loose change with hands stained solid black with unspeakable grime. I'll never forget the pathetic crackle in his voice that took the saddness of it all to a whole new level. Or the homeless woman rubbing her invisible bed bugs all over my jacket as she forces her way through a tight rush hour crowd like a bull. No thank you. Other than barely coming up with my epically unattainable rent due by the first of the month and the eight AM Spanish mariachi band splitting my head wide open, inspiring an emergency run to the local pharmacy to grab a fistful of Excedrin Migraine, I think my list is almost done. SSSSSShhhhhhhhh New York. It’s quiet time.

       Now I’ve traded in my ghetto mansion on 156th street for the bottom floor of a house that sits in the clouds atop one of the highest points in Pigeon Forge. Scenic loop circle is private and picturesque and as far as I’m concerned it’s Cinderella’s slipper. The deafening silence makes me wonder if my hearing is going sometimes. No hospital ambulances racing past my bedroom window blaring sirens at all hours of the night or firecrackers being popped by little punks in the courtyard, startling the hell out of me because they sound like gun shots. I clearly watch way too much Law and Order. How about another rainy marathon Tankersley? I can still hear the clicking subway turnstiles and people screaming "TAXI!" penetrating my dreams the way I can hear Paula Dean's horrible accent even if the television is muted. That woman is a terrorist of the English language. No wonder my anxiety level floats at around the boiling point. Anger management alone was enough reason to run for the literal hills. It’s crucial for me to sit with this quiet and suck down the crystal clear Tennessee air that’s so pure my brain is actually thanking me.
      Friends and VIPs keep asking me when I’m coming back to the dirty thankless grind of screaming high G’s at ten am that get harder and harder to reach, much like my leg to my face! My answerer to these doubting Thomases is “Whenever my therapist gives me a hall pass.” All I know is that simplicity suits my 33 year old bones at the moment and having some semblance of quiet stability has been paramount in me finding any peace at all. My writer’s inspiration comes and goes like the tide and my fingers miss the fiery tap tapping away of all my sarcastic rants in the dry periods. The occasional threads of juicy thought all too often get caught in my widely cast nets of personal judgment and never see the light of this laptop monitor. Even if this blog contains waaaaay too much information it’s better
in the end to let it rip because it would be a crime if some of this shit was forever encased in my IPhone notebook App. The tomb of doom. So...........POST.