This week I was confused. Writing for TV or film is in a universe of its own, my redefined second home. Pop up, be funny, riff on a child actor. While I’m flattered, I’m also frustrated. In most interviews, I just want to say that I really enjoyed Monfils-esque ensemble pieces. I want to say that I really like holding conversation with people and that I’m grateful for being able to do so. I want to say that I don’t have any natural theatrical talent and that’s fine, so long as people are also paying attention. However, in interviews I’ve been asked to compare my Mercado salad to a Tom Boon, so I guess I’ve been handed a gift, or maybe a curse, either way it feels less like an ally than a nightmare.
I couldn’t say that I thought my monologue, which took place in a dingy single room, was a great moment for me because this honestly is my worst monologue. It was written as a joke to focus the conversation on the existential. I’m still not sure if I believed I was an agent or not or whether I should check my wall calendar that has read “future” ever since a power outage. If my mother was reading this, I guess she would’ve sighed and let out a sigh. Maybe that’s another thing that makes me a person with two minds, but then so does a monologue about various little mishaps and I wonder if I’m obsessed with picking out the worst moments in her entire life. I don’t know, but that’s my voice.
That said, Encanto was fulfilling. It was beautiful, it was energetic, and it was funny. And I learned about one of my favorite poets and found some new hermaphrodites in the process. For anyone, anywhere, who wants to hear me curse or catch up on my political views, then this is your podcast, it’s a masterpiece. Whatever hopes I may have had of being a top-notch pop up journalist have now been completely shattered.