I can't lie... the past couple weeks have been rougher than Willie Nelson's scraggly beard-face. The pressure of a dissertation, a dwindling bank account, and a fiance back home (not any fault of his, I must clarify), as well as a whole lot of uncertainty for what the post-London future holds is starting to get to me. I'm the kind of person that likes to say I work well under pressure, and to some degree it's true. I like deadlines, for example. I set them for myself for most long-term tasks, and, even though they're self-imposed, they become law, and I follow them. I also work well in intense situations. When I was in high school (and on the forensics team), I was entered into the Extemporaneous Speech competition at National qualifiers as a sophomore,as what is lovingly referred to as a "sacrificial lamb." I'd never done the event before, but our team wanted a few more people to fill out the event. I wound up in the finals, and was one point away from advancing to Nationals. So, sometimes, pressure can be great.
This though, I don't think, is that kind of pressure. This is the kind made up not of intense nerves and adrenaline, but worry. Lots and lots of worry. Can I make it through the next two months? Will I finish my dissertation? Can I afford to go to the festivals and conferences I'm invited to in September? Am I good enough to be a "real" artist? What do I do when I go home? Will I always have to feel this way because of the life I've chosen? I know this is all a bit whiny, but, nonetheless, it's keeping me up at night, and keeping in my bed for far too long in the morning. This isn't the good stress, but the sneaky kind that has a way of getting under my skin. As I type this, I'm on my flatmate's computer, as my laptop is inconveniently on the fritz... it seems I'm not the only thing in this room that is feeling overworked!
I'm starting to wonder if the build-up of these feelings doesn't have something to do with going home soon. Don't get me wrong. I'm looking forward to it. I miss New York City, my cat, my family, my Donald, and, most importantly, a breakfast that doesn't involve beans of any variety. But, I'll be very sad when this year is over. For the first time, I've been able to spend the majority of my time doing the thing that I am passionate about. I make art, full-time. It's really been a tremendous opportunity. I've taken so many risks in myself and in my art practice. I've become much more informed and, simultaneously, curious about the options I have in the 'art world.' I've gotten to travel to incredible places, gaining some killer experiences that have also informed my practice. I'm studying in a community that values the experimental, the risk-taking, the forward-thinking. And I guess I'm not ready for that to be over.
In some ways, I have a sense that, when I go home, that will be very very different. I'll be back to the 'make ends meet hussle.' I'll still be producing and performing my own work, but on a far more protracted schedule, to accommodate savings and day job schedules. I certainly won't be travelling... unless it's my daily commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan, that it. I'll go back to being yet another underpaid actor in New York City. And that's getting me down a bit. I don't want fame and fortune. I don't need a Broadway gig. I just want life to be more like this year has been. I suppose that, in and of itself, is a good goal to set, no matter how daunting it may feel.
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