I think Jim likes me.

He was the same casting director that I auditioned for last month, and eventhough I thought I sucked donkeys, he called me yesterday, leaving a message on my cellphone. I'm auditioning for the roles of Gaby, the teacher, the dispatcher, AND a paramedic: FOUR ROLES! It's called, Special Agent FBI: The Candace DeLong Story. Gaby, coincidentally, was raped, and I'm to dig into places I'm trying to throw away. I'm suppose to use my life experience for the roles tossed at me, and they give me this. Last year, I did a scene where I played a rape survivor, but I skimmed the surface of that one and I was afraid of the emotional wound opening, and even worse, telling my instructor so he could wrench that memory out of me, re-traumatising me all over again. Can somebody please stop playing this cosmic joke on me? I have to get pages and pages of lines down by tomorrow, and my brain is feeling the strain. I'm usually better with them after awhile, but my acting muscle is still flabby, so I must strengthen it. I'm too focussed on impressing Jim, like he's my acting teacher or something. I keep flashing back to our last meeting, and seeing this as a worse fate. If I believed in God, I'd blame him if I messed up.

My Hair Is Like Clay, And I Am Merely Its Scuplptress

I gradually made my way to the office building via the #77 Polo Park bus, to pick up the sides, at 599 Empress and wandered into the mall. Sheri, another actress who attends the actor's group, A.H.A.A., saw that I had a button saying, "Hi, I'm an Actress......may I take your order?" at last weeks meeting, so I bought her one at Frenzee. Next monday is a holiday, so I'll have to wait until the following monday to give it to her.

I caught the #77 Kildonan, and sat in the back to go over the sides, when this shaved youth came on, hypnotised by my locs. I felt his eyeballs on my hair, then finally, "Excuse me, how long did it take to do your hair?", which is the most popular question I get asked. White kids dig my hair, well, black people's hair anyway, and this one went on about how he had a patch of hair on top that was tyed in a ponytail, growing down to the small of his back. One night, some girl cut it off while he was asleep, so he avenged his mane by getting her drunk, waiting for her to fall asleep, then shaved her long blonde hair, completely! If I were him, I'd only dream of such a thing, but she had it coming; I'd have been so choked over the loss, after feeling so much pride and joy over my "project". My mom alway says, "Your hair is your beauty", and it's the one feature people notice, no matter when it was in cornrows when I was 12, straightened for most of my life, shaved off when I was 26, then twisted into the medusa-style locs I've tended to, like my folicle garden. There was an automated female voice over the intercom on the bus, and I couldn't make it out, what with the shaved youth next to me going on about a red-headed friend of his, and his gigantic 'fro, palest skin this side of transparent.

The Somewhat Short Walk Home

"Sorry folks" the bus driver said, "but we've got engine trouble, and another bus won't be by for another half hour". Luckily, I was 2 blocks from my stop, and walked, as the rest did, so I shook the guy's hand and went my way home.

Someday, my parents will get me an alarm button, but until then, I phone the house on my cell, checking to see if dad is home. He was home and every response was a tired grunt, like a pet gorilla.