Blogging is for poor people...

...or for people with more time than I've had lately. Or more time to actually do things like, you know, write about what's going on in my life.

Truth is, I've been a bit under most peoples' radar. On purpose. I mean, I deleted my Myspace in order to get away from, well, everyone.

Why? Well, essentially the past couple of months have been, in a word, dark. I've done a relatively good job of putting up appearances for everyone, even those nearest and dearest to me. But eventually, the walls come crashing down, something has to give, and you end up at the bottom of a well looking towards what you hope is a shaft of light.

I attribute a lot of it to the second year of training here at grad school. The training has been intense, and the emotional "well" has been stirred up quite a bit lately. Every single thing I've been hiding, ignoring, or regretting in my life has been bubbling up--therefore every single thing that may remind me of anything that I have been hiding, ignoring, or regretting in my life has been taking its toll.

Yep. I have some shit. I suppose that's why I'm an actor. Hooray for cliches.

I won't go into the things that have been weighing me down. We'll talk about them freely if I see any of you in person in the future. What I will go into is that I am at least aware of my flaws, my problems, and my burgeoning neurosis...and that will only help me be healthier and happier in the long run. And I'm also pretty sure that it'll help my acting and writing to deepen...it's all a matter of letting the time go by at its own rate to let that maturity happen.

There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. And an even grander providence in that sparrow rising again.

At least, I hope so.

Blessings,

J

29

Is four years longer than I planned on living.

Aint that a bitch?

Really. 25. A blaze of glory. That's when/how I was gonna go.

Instead, I'm now in my second year of grad school drunk on French Pinot Noir, looking through my friends' various photo albums posted online, thinking "gee, that looks great...I wish I was there", or "gee, I feel like I've been replaced", or "gee, I miss that beach", or "gee, I seem like a distant memory to these people."

I have, in a sense, become displaced from my old life. California? Yeah. I used to live there. New York? It still feels equally homey and fracturally distant. My friends' lives seem to accelerate. Marriages. Engagements. New loves.

And I'm just looking for the next job and someone I can tolerate that can tolerate me to go along for the ride.

At 29.

I have become translucent to those I miss most.

I have become a victim of identity theft, not of the credit variety but of the soul.

I have become overtly critical of the very art form I intend to become great at and wealthy from.

I have become bored with my work to the point of death.

But I can't give up on the next job.

I preach hope in my classes yet can find little in the mirror.

I'm good, yet fear I won't get better.

I fear I'm better but won't get good.

I'm lonely.

I'm repulsed.

I listen to the blues. They cheer me up...to scream along with someone else's pain.

To be or not to be: that is the question.

Or is it?

What is the question?

Does the question have to appear now?

It's not appearing.

Apparently.

Good night sweet prince.

There's always the bar.

At 29.

You can try to save some one's life, as long as it isn't your own.

Thanks, Central Park.

NYC in winter.

Alone.

Thanks, East Village.

I'm not myself.

Because I'm trying to help you.

I'd help myself...

...but that's not the point.

This could be a poem...

...too bad it's not.

And if it was a poem...

...it would suck.

Hell(o) cornfields...

...18 months to go.

Then back to New York.

This time in Fall.

Where it will be different.

But the feelings won't be.

The chill of hope.

The smell of the leaves.

The flame of optimism.

May it not blow out.

Out, out brief candle,

Life's but a walking shadow.

It is within the shadows that we regret to trespass.

Don't tread on me.

At 29.

The drugs are not working.

But something else is.

What it is, I know not.

At 29.

The play's the thing.

At 29.

Transatlanticsm.

I learned it from loving you.

At 27.

At 25.

When I should have stopped.

But I keep on.

And will do so.

Because I must.

At 29.

All I have left.

Is what lies before me.

Someday I'll break my staff.

But before that I'll avenge my father's death.

And then I'll conquer France.

And then I'll contemplate in solitude.

And then I'll be on screen.

And then you'll tell me you loved me.

Yet it will be too late.

For I'll be past 29.

In Central Park.

In the autumn.

When the air is chilled.

Yet I'll still stay warm.

There it is.

At 29.