Figuring out if I am cut out for this show business a year after everything in my minutiae existence changed for something else much surreal than I imagined it to be

What a rush. It's been a year now. Times have changed dramatically since then. Too much to ponder and the memories are slowing fading. Green grass, Victoria station, my bags were topsy-turvy and barely made a modicum of sense, having chips in a middle of nowhere, thinking my death was inevitable, and finally Edinburgh.

It's another month for the Edinburgh Fringe. It was where it all began last year. I just finished my studies in LISPA, this and that, prior to leaving the flat. It was heartbreaking. My father was telling me how everything was monumentally fucked up and he couldn't save it for the both of us. I clenched my fist, the Olympics was coming, Chiara and Gianmaria gave me enough money to leave, and that was that. I left without any intention to come back. Fuck the visa, I said. Fuck it all.

I got to the coach station in Victoria and had zero idea what was in store. I had with me very few supplies to last a month. I had booked a flat a couple of days ago in advance for £100 a week, and I initially opted to stay for only a week. The trip was one of those quiet moments of peace and release. That was the first time I had left London on my own, and with little money, surviving was the biggest worry. There were only a handful of people inside the coach, including me. For eight long hours we rode, and I barely slept the night before. I probably even didn't. It was daunting before, during, and after I arrived in Edinburgh. Spending what little of money I have was difficult. Even finding the flat where I booked from Gumtree was educational. Observing the streets and architecture of the town made me feel new and alive. It felt like a wave crashing down on me and all that cliché. Heads were rolling with all kinds of stories to tell. The Fringe was in full gear and my journalist persona was there. I had with me the lomo camera that I hesitated to buy from Liverpool Street. It was a rainbow mini fisheye, and it cost me £50 for a camera that size. Not to mention the 110 films are expensive as fuck, and developing it was next to impossible anywhere in Scotland. I didn't have any laptop, only my about-to-give-up iPhone and a spare Blackberry, my very important journal, and 24 shots of film. Perfect. That leaves me so dramatically incomplete.

I had to put on face to watch my former colleagues perform their gig. Those same wide-eyed people with their fake smiles and troubling politeness. I was there for my integrity as a faux-journalist, so I find to make some action and make every second count. What I discovered was less than stellar, ultimately rubbish and nonsensical.

I've been meaning to put a show myself since graduating, but there were not many interests in my skill, particularly because I gave everyone a hard time at the final moments of our glorious camaraderie. Figured I could probably pull out some characters, and some invites, and then a wee bit of stand-up comedy perhaps. Not long, just enough that I will entertain myself. I forgot which night it was but I saw one free act in front of Hunter Square. I loved free acts. It was the only time I could actually enjoy something without feeling guilty of expenses afterwards. But it's not necessarily free, per sé. Nothing was free. Everything wanted donations afterwards, so it's not technically free.  A terrible misconception. It was very hot indeed down there, and my pimples were boiling, and everyone's pimples were boiling, too. I went sitting on the back and beside me was someone, a man, I'm guessing Spanish, who barely speaks a word of English, listening to the stand-up, laughing to the jokes every now and then, and being laughed at as well for being lost in translation. The madness was killing me. There I was, in this new foreign land, friendless, solitary, and no care in the world. It was sad and fun at the same time. I never liked the feeling of being alone, but helplessly being alone for so long made it slightly bearable, looking back now. I've never had that sense of companionship then, and after having one now, for almost a year, the appreciation of the smallest details were excruciatingly liberating, and I ache for that same feeling as I did just because I could communicate with my soul with much pride and tenderness. I just needed a friend on that first week, 'tis all, but I didn't want to be locked on to that person, whoever it was. I didn't even know they were coming. They all came after me in droves. My life was seemingly complete. But now, a year has passed since then, and it was all for naught.

Popular posts from this blog

And then...

Strange Fruit

Question the necessity of sobriety