Sugar in the Raw

Tokyo


17 Weeks.

That is how long I have left in Japan. I know, I just slapped and shat myself. I shlapted myself. I was paralyzed by fear upon doing this math, so much so that I hid under my covers and pouted (bottom lip out and everything) for about a week. I have since emerged from the covers. Glory be! The fear has turned into resolve. I am resolved to do something, several things, a many number of things in fact.

What am I going to do?

I'm not quite certain, but I have a few ideas percolating. I'll tell you one thing though, it feels good to be on the other side of those covers, that much I know. After several 911 calls from the dark side to my amazingly generous, wise and loving parents, I have surfaced and begun taking baby steps: researching and applying for jobs, and subsequently updating ye olde resume. Not that I needed them to tell me to do those things, I just needed them, you know?

Where am I looking to move?

Well my mother says she doesn't care where I move, as long as I live in a city that she can spell and say. I love her. I had been toying pretty hard with the idea of going to London, and even stopping over into Paris before heading there to work on an adorable cheese farm for the summer. Dreamy right? (Random House, if your listening and willing to pay for it I'd happily write a book on it. Call me.) But after doing some pretty cliched soul searching, self reflecting, meditating and good old fashioned praying, I came to the conclusion that London, and Paris are fantastic ideas, but they wouldn't get me closer to what it is I want to do: perform, write, direct and teach. (Did somebody say SNL? I heard somebody say it, I swear.)

So with Amsterdam, London and Chicago out of the running, the Big Ringo started to feel, well, right. I decided to try on the idea again to see if it still fit and it did, like a glove. Then, as if I needed anymore convincing, I got an undeniable sign.

My father, without knowing that I had started flirting with New York again, showed me some framed keepsake-posters I'd made when I was 15. He found them and subsequently hung them in the newly renovated basement (he's retired and renovating is what retired people do). Three posters, a triptych of sorts, served as my unapologetic homage to NYC. I had gone there for the first time as a sophomore in high school and fell madly in love with the city.

I brought home five rolls of film, t-shirts from the South Street Seaport gift shop, sugar packets from the Hard Rock Cafe (it was the first time I'd seen sugar in the raw), and playbills from Jekyll & Hyde and Miss Saigon. I took my booty and made three massive collages of my journey to New York. I had completely forgotten about them until my father tossed out their existence as a non sequitur when giving me a tour of the new basement. After seeing them I couldn't help but smile so hard I sprained my face. I knew then that my decision was made.

That's right folks, I'm moving to New York City in the Spring.


New York

There, I've said it. I've put it out in the universe and it feels effing fantastic. For me choice can either be my captor or my knight. Having made this decision, knowing full well that my immediate circumstances haven't changed, I still can't help but feel freed.

Now I just need a job.
Preferably in the arts.
During a recession.
In New York.

Easy.