I Love Swimming. I Don’t Love March

Quick note in addition to my Wednesday blog: this week has been… a bit not good. Tough, even. I expected myself to Do Stuff to do with my permanent residency – something that I am beginning to accept might not happen, because as I do the research, it turns out that the way I worked, earned and survived might not be good enough for the British taxman. I am still looking into it, but also trying to let it go slowly. I wanted this. Settled status will still be a option, later. We will see.

It is a very strange thing to think of the years I’ve spent in this country – growing up, learning about myself, trying, failing, designing my artistic career – as a retroactive audition for citizenship. I certainly didn’t “perform” my life to earn a passport, I haven’t come over with that in mind. I’m not the most business-minded person, although I am working to change that: that means that when I registered as self-employed, it was to find out whether I could hack it as a performer and get legally paid. It doesn’t mean I had what is considered a “viable business idea” or knew how to realise such an idea. Or earned enough to prove that in retrospect I was The Correct Kind Of Potential Resident.

So many of us. Doing cash-in-hand jobs, floating, trying to be free, trying to survive, trying to be artists, performers, to add beauty to life. In this new world order, we are so vunerable, so unpractical, considered unnecessary and extraneous, of low value. Kafka-esque paperology. Good thing I know that my value doesn’t rest on it.

And today is Friday. So I went swimming. I love swimming. For now it’s enough.

Girlfag Is Back (She Never Left)

I’m writing. I’m confused. Nothing new here.

Don’t know if I’m not doing a good enough job, representing myself, representing people – or should I let go of Things That Happened and get on with Characters I Have?

I keep thinking that I’d not evolved enough to write this play. That the character – played, after all, by me – has a more interesting potential life that my own has ever been. So, er, I’m displeased with my own life, which hinders me writing? Certain things are ridiculous (ungrateful – unappreciative) when you write them down. Probably why I’m here.

Maybe I should give up on acting. I’m so busy being not-good-enough-me that it’s hard to represent anyone else. Even myself from the past/alternative future. There’s a fallacy in this not-good-enough-ism – I know it, even if I can’t cross over it just now.

My gender swirls around. I don’t want to be a woman. I don’t want to be a man. As a woman I’m wounded; as a man I’m erased. I’m more than that, but also other. Also the freak, yearning to be normal. Also burlesque, also a sexual self that is buried somewhere so deep down I can’t find it. I don’t want to find it, lately. I’m running in opposite direction. Almost thirty and still scared of myself.

Don’t know what to do. Read a lot to get away from myself. Exist in this slightly spaced out disconnected realm. Not a body, a floating brain. I look down at myself, high on loneliness.

I want this play to be warm. Connected. Imperfect. Real. The shame I feel is tainting all, cutting me off.

I could (have) write a play per day, if I let myself feel. I could, technically, finish this play in a week. If I let myself go that deep. If I dared to go that deep. It’s a prayer, at this point. I want to connect, want to love, be vulnerable, be not-alone, be understood. Be out of that shameful place. My self, listening, because I don’t believe in a higher power other than myself, trapped in mundanity, trapped in shame – o self, listening, watching, please breathe out. Please let me write my play. Even if I don’t want to be what I am, please let me move past the revulsion. Please let me write my play. And for the third time, please let me touch my own strength, determination, love – because what good am I, if I can’t do this? Please let me write my play.

 

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