an imperfect introduction x
Originally published 13th October 2023
This. Will not be perfect.
It will never be as beautiful as I desire it to be… filled with prose and musings to provoke resonance and wonder.
There will always be a better word to use than “beautiful.” In fact, “beautiful” seems ironically dull in this context. Perhaps a better word to describe my desired effect might be Ethereal. Quintessential. Moving. Provoking. Curious.
This will be a grammatical mess. One big ethereal grammatical mess.
I’ll start too many new lines when it could have been the perfect companion to the sentence previous. And I’ll grammatically juxtapose thoughts unintentionally together. But sometimes I like that.
So what is this? What is all of this? Well. I suppose it’s a life jacket. An anchor. The attempt to save my life and hold myself accountable for becoming that woman I once dreamt of becoming. I wonder if I’ll forever be chasing her. If she’s forever evolving into a new Aladdin Sane or Ziggy Stardust. I wonder if I am already her, at least the Her I dreamt of becoming 15 years ago when I was a film student at Uni and thought I would write screenplays like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and gift all of humanity with new insights of meaning and understanding.
I chased that girl out of the deep south towards the glittering metropolis of New York City. And then onto Paris. And Los Angeles. And now London.
It all sounds exciting, doesn’t it? All of those glamorous places. It has been/is… depending on the day… or the coloured glasses I’ve decided to either show off to the world or hide away from.
This journey I’m on was my dream. It was that vision of the woman I wanted to be who left town and traveled the world and read classic novels and kissed foreign men and bought little trinkets in souks and shed a tear whilst absorbing herself into the jewel coloured sunset over the ancient city ruins.
So why do I feel this way?
Why do I feel… disconnected.
Compromised.
Obligated. Drowned. Drugged and Distracted and Hypnotized by inboxes and instagrams… Too many shows to watch. More clothes to wash. More pilates classes to attend to tick the boxes.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
And I’m waiting for the Boom. Or I wonder if I’m living a continuous time loop and perhaps already in the Boom. Over and over again. And sort of like a new relationship, you see the haze and convince yourself it’s love or infatuation or fate, when in fact it’s a bomb. And suddenly everything around you starts to disintegrate. And you start to fumble your speech when interacting with strangers. And you always wish you were home in the comfort of your bed which suddenly feels like confinement come morning.
I know. This maybe isn’t what you signed up for. It certainly wasn’t what I signed up for.
But here we are. So what are we going to do about it? Well, you can leave if you want. It’s okay. I would understand.
But I would like you to stay.
It’s hard for me to ask that. It’s hard for me to ask for anything from anyone.
I think somehow muddled from a childhood experience of divorce and separation mixed with the alluring prospect of becoming an independent woman, I became… this.
The One Woman Show.
And I learned to do it all myself. To be everyone and everything I would ever need. And I jumped at the opportunity to entertain others. To show them all my tricks and marvels, hoping to hear their Ooh’s and Aah’s. And I’ve learned to play all the roles. And I’ve learned to handle all the props. And I’m even the stage manager and the ticket seller and the valet. By God. I am all the things. ALL THE THINGS. The Gemini poster child.
I even bleed when there’s no blood left to become the audience when need be. And a lot of times I feel like I’m playing to an empty crowd.
But I know that’s not true. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. I have to tell myself that.
Survival tactics.
I’m telling myself the lights are just too bright and beyond the stage’s edge it only looks like a hollow, empty abyss of darkness. And I’m trying my hardest to convince myself that there’s a few seats filled. Some by friends. Some by acquaintances.
And now, I hope, by you.
Because, whether you are there or not, I need to believe you are. That someone is. I need to believe that even though this feels like I’m on a sound stage, and often all a fake facade with nothing real behind the walls, I need to believe that someone real is out there.
And if it’s going to be anyone, it’s at least going to be me.
Perhaps different versions of me.
I’m out there.
I need to believe that.
And I need to be okay if I’m all there is.
I think for a long time I desired to have supportive family members in the audience, or life-long girlfriends. Perhaps an agent who can’t wait to share what I’m selling to the world.
But none of that really mattered.
I’m 35 and I’m single. And I’ve been on the dating scene for years, convincing myself that if I can only get “the boy” in the seats, nothing else would matter. “I don’t need anyone else,” I thought. “I just need him. And I’ll happily perform for him and him alone.”
And I have. Believe me… I have.
My dating career has been one performance after the other of my One Woman Show for anyone I’ve swiped right on and who has been kind enough to me for several hours.
You. You seem nice…
You will do.
Right then… CAN I GET SOME LIGHTS OVER HERE PLEASE?
They didn’t realize they bought a ticket. Some left in the first scene. A curious few stuck around, amused at first.
But it’s like that one Shakespearian play, you know, The Taming of the Shrew, when the first act is so immensely enjoyable and you’re laughing and charmed. Then once the second act unfolds, it unexpectedly becomes dark and ominous and you’re thinking “Where the hell did this come from? I didn’t sign up for this.”
Maybe that’s a little harsh on myself. Maybe it “was them.” Just not their thing. And that’s okay. That. Is. Okay (she tells herself… )
But the point I’m trying to get at is that I’ve been playing for the wrong audience.
And maybe I’m finally ready for new scenes. New Material. New people. REAL people. And maybe this blog is a casting call. Or a re-write. Or a new production all together.
Maybe it will be all of those things. Or none of those things.
So if you’ve made it this far… well, I think I’m touched.
Truly.
Because in the end, this blog and it’s imperfections and it’s way-too-long posts will be for me. But like any artist with an opportunity to share their work, if this resonates with you in any way, then I think my 20-year-old self would be very pleased to know that. That’s what she wanted. She wanted to resonate with people.
She still does…
…desperately
But for now, this is an attempt to resonate with myself. To challenge myself. To offer and handover and give this Show to myself. To not feel guilty for performing and asking you to watch. To accept it. Even if it’s imperfect.
Because I need to. I want to.
I want to save my life.
I want to feel anything other than numb or isolated. Or distracted (and often by choice.) Or obligated (and for whom?) Or exhausted. Or failure. Or fear.
I want to become that woman who designs film sets and writes novels and isn’t scared if AI is going to write better novels than humans in the end. Fuck it. I’m going to write it anyway. I’m going to try all of this without the perfect template. Without the proper training. Without the start-up capitol or the knowledge of who is trending out there in the societal apparatus.
This will be imperfect. I will be imperfect. There will always be someone or something out there who could say this better than me.
But I’m here. And I am trying.
To Become That Woman. To Be That Woman.
To Achieve Those Dreams. To Save This Life.
My Life.
My Brilliantly Beautiful One Woman Show.
x Lindsay
