tales of a girl in the city

février 21, 2004


In college my roommate Tera fell into a K-hole.

For those of you who are not (as I was not) in the "know" regarding K-holes, a K-hole is something you metaphorically "fall into" when you have done too much of the drug K. Never having done any--let alone too much--K, I had no idea what a K-hole might be like. I imagined it was probably very windy. I imagined that Tera's eyes had probably suddenly turned into black and white spirals, like cartoon people's eyes do when they get hypnotized. Her blue dress and white petticoats had no doubt billowed out around her as she floated by strange images of white rabbits carrying time pieces.

I thought falling into a K-hole sounded pretty great.

But then this week, I remembered Tera and her metaphorical fall. How dark she said everything felt that night. And how long--how totally endless every moment seemed. How slow. How boring.

And I realized that falling into a K-hole is probably exactly like being a receptionist.

Sorry. Guest Relations Associate.

Never fear. Never fear. I have not turned to drugs and debauchery in my absence. Though I needed both this week.

This is what happened. Ready? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No auditions, no adventures. No sex, no lies, no videotape. Everything is just holding patterns. Endless. Boring.

My manager called. She's used up all of my photos, and not managed to get me one appointment for Pilot Season. Which is probably both her fault and mine. Her company doesn't have enough clout to get me in the door....because casting directors aren't interested in meeting people my age who don't have any tv on their resumes....but I don't have any tv on my resume because, until now, I haven't had an agent or manager to GET me into any television auditions...and so on. End result? Nothing happening.

I went to a bar Thursday and met a red-headed version of The Guy I Always Meet. The conversation was a variation on The Conversation I Always Have At Bars. It starts out with, "What do you do?" or "Where do you live?" or "How long have you been in New York?" And it's like trudging through a swamp. I have no energy for these talks anymore. The idea of sharing any part of myself with someone is terrifically unappealing. Especially when so few people respond well to the parts I do share. I don't want to listen to them tell me how noble it is that I'm following my dreams. "Aim for the moon and, even if you fail, you'll still end up among the stars," they'll say and then tell me that they majored in business/law/economics because they didn't know what else to study and now they hate their job as a banker/lawyer/accountant. And even as they're fessing up to the safety of their choices, I will see the knowing look that crosses their face at some point in the conversation: Oh. How cute. An actress. As if "actress" is a euphemism for "stupid," "misguided" and "poor."

Then I will turn the conversation to Other Things, and will listen to the tale of the trip this guy took to Turkey ten years ago, or the great lengths he went to to find the t-shirt he's wearing. Because he collects clothes by this designer. Which are only sold in certain stores, apparently. And would I like to go to dinner sometime? (And, yes, these people do exist; I'm not imaginative enough to make them up.) And do you think he'll even notice when my head explodes?

Next, M's friend Idiot called again. The fact that he called may seem to contradict my original statement that nothing happened this week. But, it doesn't.

Idiot called again even though--you'll remember--I told him in January that I couldn't talk to him or be his friend. And, though I never returned his jaw-droppingly stupid "You look like Darryl Hannah" Phone Call, he still somehow thinks I'm just dying to talk to him. Just suffering without him in my life to confide in. Which should make me mad again, but doesn't.

Instead it just highlights another holding pattern. The M Holding Pattern. The fact that I am waiting--still--like a fish in a bowl, for a phone call from M. An email from M. An apology from M. A reason. An offering. An effort. From M, who I dated and loved. AN EFFORT. From M. Not from his stupid fucking friend.

an effort.

At saying (I don't need him to want me back--wouldn't that be stupid for both of us. I've no need to move backwards, just want to move ON) that he's sorry. And he wants me to know it. He's calling, in fact, to say that now. To tell me how, in some small way, as he walks down his street...when he looks out his office window at the Brooklyn Bridge, maybe, or sits down to eat breakfast...he remembers--I don't know. What. What would I want it to be? Something. Some small thing. And whenever he remembers it, he wishes good things for me. Because I mattered to him. And, anyway, he just wants to tell me that.

That I mattered.


Holding Pattern. I don't know what I'm doing or when I should decide that what I want to do and what I can do may be two different things. Walls are up--don't talk to me because I have no room for you or need for you and your issues and idiosyncrasies and your miles and miles of questions. No room, most of all, for the pain you might cause. Because, what would be the point? I don't want to tell you my stories. This day is long, long, long already and it's only 2:30, but that's what happens when you have a job you don't care about because it gives you the flexibility to aim for the moon and follow your dreams and live on a prayer, and don't talk to me in bumper stickers, you fucking condescending piece of shit. You don't know about my talent or my intelligence. I have not been in anything you might have seen recently. I haven't been on a soap, or on a billboard. Nor have I, apparently, been on your mind. Though you are always on mine. Circling here. Like a large, black bird over the city.

Holding pattern.