I stepped off the plane from my two-week trip to Madrid and returned to a Los Angeles in the thick of Summer. Early Summers in LA are literally overshadowed by "June Gloom," that 14-21 day period where the sun fights a futile battle against an unrelenting Marine layer. This Wednesday evening was no different. I stepped off the plane and inhaled the thick air. Somehow, the air maintains its dense consistency without the help of humidity or condensation.
Mere moments after leaving my tiny, uncomfortable prison of a seat on the American Airlines jet, the "Spain Hangover" (as my mother so kindly put it) began. Something was, and is, different about this particular case of wander-lust. It began in Madrid, during a conversation I had with a friend I made while standing on my veranda. We talked for a while across the way, then met up for a walk. This was rather typical of my experience with Madrid - the city survives on social interaction. Meeting people and eating, drinking, smoking together, joining random groups and parties; you're never alone. Even being alone in Madrid means leaning out of your window over the railing and watching the people below you and around you all doing the same; acknowledging each other.
During our walk, my new friend asked why I was in Madrid, how I liked Los Angeles and what it is I was doing with my life. The standard rundown for any new acquaintance, but for some reason, I found difficultly in finding the right words. I knew why I had come to Madrid: Wes had his exhibit in PhotoEspana '09, tickets were cheap, my lifelong best friend Jeff and I needed an excuse to see each other and I just wanted to get away. I know how I like Los Angeles: it's like being in a relationship; you meet it, fall in love, the honeymoon ends, you get in fights, sleep on separate sides of the bed and then make up.
The problematic question, however; the question I couldn't seem to answer: What am I doing with my life. I can say, "Well, I'm currently freelancing in film, music video and commercial production as a PA, coordinator and more recently, independent producer. I'm also working on my acting career and, really, I'm just hustling to survive during this shit-tank of an economy."
That's the simple, rehearsed answer.
But this growing restlessness inside of me prevented any such response to my friend. There was a strange level of trust with this person and I felt the need to overindulge in this answer. So I said, "To be honest, I don't know really what I'm doing with my life. A year after graduating college, I'm feeling a more lost than I ever have." The words left my mouth and took my breath along with it. I hadn't yet verbalized my discontent, and suddenly, I was exactly what I said I was. Lost.
There has been a growing discourse among my peer group the past month, and especially in the last few weeks, about the "quarter-life crisis." Somewhere in your twenties, you're likely to find yourself lost in a whirlpool of professional decisions, responsibility and adult pander. Suddenly, after spending all of the money to graduate college, obtain a degree and move to a new city for work, you wonder if you've really made any progress at all. Did I waste all of this money on a degree whose field I now resent?
Yesterday, I went for a run last night during the twilight hours. After my body warmed up, I hit my stride; that point in your workout where my body feels like it will run forever, ceaselessly, boundlessly. As time ticks away and the ground passes beneath you, slowly you feel the pull of your muscles. You feel the contractions of the strain take hold and suddenly your body is heavy. You push and push until your reach the finish line as if you can only take one my step. You realize that your body cannot, in fact, last forever. That it has its breaking point.
That initial stride, that feeling of infinite energy is similar to how I felt when moving to LA. I graduated a year early, I made the leap of faith and started my run before the shotgun even sounded. The warmup in Los Angeles was difficult, but I eventually hit a stride. Now, after a year my legs are feeling heavy and on my run yesterday, I finally felt the effects of a few too many cigarettes at a few too many dimly lit bars in Madrid.
I'm trying to think this about all of these feelings with respect to my current culture shock. I'm doing my best to not be overly reactionary. I'm trying to move forward with my plans and in the spirit of doing so, I attended a meeting with an acting manager I had set up prior to leaving for vacation. Honoring this appointment left me with some really great advice, an excellent contact and an open door for possible future representation. But, to my dismay, I found myself feigning interest while I spoke with him. Even worse, I walked out of the meeting and my gut delicately whispered: "You don't want this."
As if pushing aside my diaphragm and intestines and stabbing me in the heart, my gut effectively threw yet another wrench in the works. I don't want this right now. Acting has been my passion my entire life and now it's time to step up my game, but I can't even seem to get my shoes tied properly. I realized that I might not be ready to settle down and pursue a career like with all of my being. I'm not ready to commit to the lifestyle. I want to experience more, meet more people, eat more food. I want to see the good and the bad and be a student of experience.
I don't think I can wrap this entry up with a neat little bow. I don't think there is really a way to end this train of thought, because it's constantly moving. I'm still thinking and as more possibilities come into focus, the more I realize why this time of my life is referred to as my "quarter-life crisis." Luckily, I know that with the exhaustion that accompanies every run, also comes more strength to run again. So tomorrow morning, I'll wake up, my body rested, and run again.
