I sat right here, five years ago this month. The chairs in here have changed. Actually, all the decor has gradually shifted toward some sort of faux-art-deco. The street outside has new, bigger, brighter stores. Coffee costs more than it did then. Just a little bit more. But more.
I sat in this exact spot practicing my monologue from Picasso at the Lapin Agile, hours before my audition for NYU. I arrived way too early, just wanting to be in the same neighborhood as this place that had become my dream. I ran the words over and over in my head, making sure I knew them perfectly. And at one point amidst the nervousness, the fear, the tension, and the giddiness all rolled into one uber-emotion, I looked up at the world around me and knew with all certainty: I'm going to live here. Soon.
It was so clear that I didn't question it. I just knew it was true.
A girl-- almost certainly a freshman student-- just stopped me on the sidewalk outside and asked me which way uptown was. And I remembered when I wasn't so sure, either. I remembered when I walked halfway across town in the wrong direction, and I remembered the first time someone asked me for directions and I knew how to tell them. I remembered how I used to need a subway map, and how I never went above 14th St. unless it was absolutely necessary.
It's five years later and I'm back here again. The certainty of that epiphany I experienced replaced with uncertainty about nearly everything. I think that my outward calm belies a deeper turmoil that I never quite allow myself to get at. Five years and $200,000 later and I'm done with school and clueless. Terrified. Unmotivated. Likely unemployable. I have a piece of paper that I worked for so hard, proving that I spent that much time and money to study drama. And I have a special gold tassel proving that I did it better than some other people. And looming over the inner turgid rapids within, the future of our world hangs in the balance tomorrow, and I am trembling with anticipation.
I sit right here, now, contemplating new applications to yet another tour of duty in school. There are good reasons why I should return to the classroom and learn more. But I really shouldn't kid myself about the biggest reason: I'm terrified of doing anything else.
I sat here the first time filled with certainty and joy at the knowledge of what was to come. Less than a month before I had gone on a tour of colleges with my father, visiting this one first, and thinking that we should just cancel the rest of the trip. Less than a year later and less than two blocks from here I watched my mother and father, both crying, get into a taxi and leave me here for good.
Five years and so much has changed. My worry is what worries me most. My dad pretended like he was calling the leaves blowing around in Washington Square Park, and we laughed together, and I knew. I pointed uptown for her and smiled to myself as she thanked me.
The outright joy I felt is dimming, replaced with a certain longing for what was and a certain trepidation of what is to come. I never expected to grow up. It's caught me a little by surprise, is all.
(written Monday, Nov. 1st)
I sat in this exact spot practicing my monologue from Picasso at the Lapin Agile, hours before my audition for NYU. I arrived way too early, just wanting to be in the same neighborhood as this place that had become my dream. I ran the words over and over in my head, making sure I knew them perfectly. And at one point amidst the nervousness, the fear, the tension, and the giddiness all rolled into one uber-emotion, I looked up at the world around me and knew with all certainty: I'm going to live here. Soon.
It was so clear that I didn't question it. I just knew it was true.
A girl-- almost certainly a freshman student-- just stopped me on the sidewalk outside and asked me which way uptown was. And I remembered when I wasn't so sure, either. I remembered when I walked halfway across town in the wrong direction, and I remembered the first time someone asked me for directions and I knew how to tell them. I remembered how I used to need a subway map, and how I never went above 14th St. unless it was absolutely necessary.
It's five years later and I'm back here again. The certainty of that epiphany I experienced replaced with uncertainty about nearly everything. I think that my outward calm belies a deeper turmoil that I never quite allow myself to get at. Five years and $200,000 later and I'm done with school and clueless. Terrified. Unmotivated. Likely unemployable. I have a piece of paper that I worked for so hard, proving that I spent that much time and money to study drama. And I have a special gold tassel proving that I did it better than some other people. And looming over the inner turgid rapids within, the future of our world hangs in the balance tomorrow, and I am trembling with anticipation.
I sit right here, now, contemplating new applications to yet another tour of duty in school. There are good reasons why I should return to the classroom and learn more. But I really shouldn't kid myself about the biggest reason: I'm terrified of doing anything else.
I sat here the first time filled with certainty and joy at the knowledge of what was to come. Less than a month before I had gone on a tour of colleges with my father, visiting this one first, and thinking that we should just cancel the rest of the trip. Less than a year later and less than two blocks from here I watched my mother and father, both crying, get into a taxi and leave me here for good.
Five years and so much has changed. My worry is what worries me most. My dad pretended like he was calling the leaves blowing around in Washington Square Park, and we laughed together, and I knew. I pointed uptown for her and smiled to myself as she thanked me.
The outright joy I felt is dimming, replaced with a certain longing for what was and a certain trepidation of what is to come. I never expected to grow up. It's caught me a little by surprise, is all.
(written Monday, Nov. 1st)
posted by Dave @ 11/09/2004 01:25:00 PM
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