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what am i waiting for...

19/10/2014

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September (Sorry!) October (yes I know!) 2014

Procrastination got me again.

Smack, crack, whomp, whack. And bang! I am down on the floor.

“Hey, excuse me. Can you please keep the noise (and bleeding) down please? The show is about to start.”

It’s an almost autumnal October evening, Dimples and I are in the big concrete and pleather belly of Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank. We have just spotted a grey-headed Jeremy Paxman, who adds to the puzzlement of, “who actually comes to see a Kate Tempest poetry reading”?

“Shush.”

Quiet.


Darkness.

A bouncy, shuffling, golden maiden in trainers moves in centre-stage; head cocked, looking up cheekily and begins. A human onomatopoeia;
Kate Tempest IS a tempest. As she begins, deliberately side-stepping “bantaah”, straight into a torrential pouring of poetry, I know I am in the presence of a legend. My head goes into overload with the assault of her personal, lyrical, sharp-witted, sensitive and intense presence and poetic gifts. Enjoying every word she launched and dropped into the audience. Mid-poem, my modern ADHD brain (overexposed and undernourished) mentally wanders off to think about something witty to put post-show on Twitter.

I knew this already from listening to her album and her work online, but Tempest really does know a lot of things:


“Do not love the idea of life more than life itself.”
“It’s good to care about things so much that you feel exhausted.”
“If you say something on Twitter, it doesn’t matter.” 

(My social media accounts mentally deleted)
“Better to have been a dickhead and seen it, than be a c**t all your life and not know it.”
“If you have shit job and you don’t love your girlfriend and your life is killing you, then take a fucking risk for once. – I took that risk but where am I now?”
“If you are not fighting for it, you don’t want it enough.”

(Kate Tempest – pg70 These Things I know, ‘Hold Your Own’, Picador 2014)

She was fire, earthquake, storm, warm summer pools, rainbows and sandstorms lashing against your face, she grabbed you by the hand and dragged you into the thicket of the worlds’ she created. And it took all of 2 minutes into her own story, and passion for poetry and the lyrical word; when I began to feel that guilt again of a true professional procrastinator. I watched her in awe, I felt that familiar ivy-like creep up my spine of jealousy, and I sat, and watched, and hoped, and prayed, and wished that I was as talented as her; that I had her luck!

Yes I talked about the Arts and luck! (Ha ha ha)

You idiot! I sigh at my own utter stupidity. You know damn well the world of luck and the world of creativity do not even share the same universe. Tempest is explicit in how hard she worked to get heard, because she believed in her truth and desperately needed to get out and communicate with the world. The compulsion for her art has driven her to this point in her career. I watched with green-tinged inspiration with the sting of Procrastination’s pop-shots still hot on my cheeks. I took a side-ways glance at Dimples, and the guilt burned red in them as I recalled that it had been weeks since I wrote anything for Theatre Mix. I hoped Clare wouldn’t notice, no don’t worry she can’t hear my thoughts. When we leave the auditorium, the words burst out, “You need to write something for me, Barwood!” Damn it. Busted!

Ok!

So look, right, I worked hard this year. Damn hard. The acting "school year" ended better than I could have imagined. More decisively than the grades, was finally feeling that I WAS on the right path. This was more than some airy dream; it was something alive and kicking inside me that I was capable of achieving. The old fears I had clung to were being gloriously uprooted. I cherished it. This year, I loved what I found in me, thanks to all these people that came into my life and taught me that I am capable of more than I ever imagined I could be.

I had done well. I rested on my laurels (I bought them from Topshop Vintage).

I was exhausted. I needed a rest.

However, I didn’t need to take my foot off the pedal quite so completely and grind to a stuttering halt. And once I stopped completely, I’ll admit, it began to feel impossible to start again. I had no school to pull me into gear, I was on my own now with no game plan for what happened after training, other than:“let’s see what the acting world throws at me?”… Nothing. Why would it? You total douche! To quote The Street’s... “everyone’s busy climbing their own ladders”.

But where had my motivation to climb my own ladder gone?

Oh yes, that crafty, conniving, weaseling, head-f**k, Procrastination. He plans all the tricks to catch you unawares, distract you from your work and then before you realize (too late); leaves you with your skirt pulled high and your knickers on show. Procrastination bashed through my momentum, knocking me off my shiny new BMX (actually she is an Old Dutch bike called Lela, but for metaphors sake…) and smashing and pulverizing me into the curb.

Then he pretty much spent his summer holidays having a sleepover at my house.

August with Procrastination by my side went, in a blur of sunshine, too much alcohol, too much food, too many work-hangovers, too many Facebook updates and likes and shares with no-one that cares. And no work lined up.

 Just as I watched in awe of Kate Tempest, I watched friends building their workshops, profiles, agents, writing portfolios, play-writing, preparing for drama school, websites. I felt like the dorkish, hormonally retarded mate; standing low, looking up impossibly high, among giants.

 I was miffed. And I felt crap about myself and my work.How was everyone achieving so much, when I couldn't create shit in a turd factory?
Procrastination was like Tyler Durden's long-lost half-brother; undermining me, ridiculing me, telling me I was incapable, unimaginative, uncreative, lazy, daft for having these dreams, that I had been a shit friend, so I may as well relax, rest for a bit till you feel better.


Then like a neon light out of the desert. I found one of Rikki Beadle-Blair's Career Kick-start workshops. Perfect. I will get help and see if I could find the inspiration and "kick-start" I needed there. So I went, and I was scared and shy. But I asked:

“Rikki, how do I fight procrastination?”

“Smokers.”

 “Smokers?  What?...”

 Everyone has watched a smoker perform feats of magic, danger, and blind stupidity; and all in the want of a fag. As a non-smoker this is something that I have never been able to fathom. Actually, not strictly true, as I will own up to fishing old cake out of a bin (!). Rikki's blazingly obvious answer to my question was this: 


If you truly want something you will do anything. Nothing will stop you. No tiredness, no hunger, lack of money, no leftover potato skins stuck to the cake; and certainly no fear of lacking and not being good enough. Because when you want something, you have to believe that you deserve that in the first place.

 Rikki knows a lot too:

“Be lucky.  You are your own luck.”
“Wallow for an hour. Then that's it. Never feel sorry for yourself for more than hour.”

“What is wrong with you?... well,  that is the very thing that makes you special.”
“I was put on this earth to give my gift. So I can't let anything or myself get into the way”
“Once you know who you are. Take that out there and give it to the world.”

“Ask for nothing. Offer everything.”
“How do you find the "offer" in all the things that happen to you?”
“If there is a problem. It's you. Your thinking.” 
“What is procrastination? Procrastination is giving you the gift of time. Time and opportunity to question the self.”


And like the twisted reality shift in Edward Norton’s character, I realised that Procrastination was me: a distorted ego-driven, ego-crazed, ego-scared part of my own psyche. Me beating myself up and taking the punches and the wounds that I inflicted on myself. Why? Because it/I feared failing. Because it/I feared ridicule at living one’s own dreams. But do you know what I feared more?

I sat one night, attempting to write, yet still procrastinating. Finally (and suddenly) as I watched the clock tick and smash through yet another minute of my life, I burst into tears and realised:
I will never get that second back.  The tick-tock sound dropped deep within my gut and scared me right to my soul, I felt the shake and fear in every single cell of my body that: this is it, there is no going back, no re-runs, no second takes, or re-shoots or previews. This is fucking it. No,that was fucking it. My stomach clenched at the realization of such deep sense of loss. And I remembered this feeling from before. 2 years ago; when I started this journey. There and then I fully understood what I risked at the very core of being by not acting and living my creative life. That my ego, despite all its faults and foibles, had been trying to offer me this gift. To stop, reset and remember; I needed this time to work out why I was doing what I was doing and what exactly was the driving force, my Kate Tempest compulsion create my artistic space.

This week, I sat in Soho with my friend Athene and as I told her that it has taken me three whole months to write piece on procrastination, we both howled with laughter at the irony of this. We howled and cackled all the way to the moon.

It has taken me three month to write.

But I am writing. And as both Kate and Rikki (and countless other mentors) have taught me so well; you can’t create with nothing.


You have to know why you are doing it

And then you have to do it.

And keep on doing it!


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in the mix...

29/8/2014

1 Comment

 
"You need to write something for me!"
"Erm, ok."
"Yeah! You need to write something for me. Something acting related."
"Ok."

Her enthusiastic cheek dimple is now in full force, as Clare's excitement at her own idea starts to build. And I am struggling to resist her wide, excited green eyes and say: "no, I have no time to write." "I have no ideas worth writing about." "I can't write." "What will I have to say?" "No one will read or listen to me?"... 
"I'm scared!"
I'm scared.
I am scared to write and put my thoughts out there into the world.

It's one thing feeling creative and quite another thing to put the work out there for the scrutiny of others. Personally speaking, I could laugh all day long at what goes on in my head. Sometimes I do; out loud. You have probably caught me once or twice. In my opinion, I am hilarious. But I'm also not immune to those blank faces, that look at me bewildered (I can see the tumbleweed roll over their eyeballs) as I put into words some of the lunatic creations I have in my head.
I have started at least 4 blogs in the last 7 years and to my shame, despite everyone's support, I have completely bottled every one of them. They have all slowly, but surely, dwindled into the blogspace in the sky. Strange thing is; I like writing. No! I love writing. I love words and building and shaping something. I can imagine, much like how an architect designs and creates their edifices, with meaning and care and craftsmanship. I think that the problem maybe (ok, definitely) is that I am concentrating too much on what others think of my work, the fear of criticism drives me back into my hermit shell. And by god, I should know by now that is a lousy and soul-wrecking road to go down. 

And the truth is: "what I write" and having "no time to write" are not really an issue. Not when I think way, way, way, (one more, way...) back to my childhood collection of Care Bear, My Little Pony, Transformers, Rainbow Brite, Roland Rat, and Danger Mouse notebooks. In fact still have. All of them filled, not with the usual doodlings of a child, but with my BIG handwriting and the little worlds I created. THIS IS MICHELLE BARWOOD'S NOTEBOOK, AGED 8. I created worlds, stories, adventures, thoughts and musings about the world I lived in and worlds that I didn't but wished to. And then I drew out and fashioned these worlds in real life. I brought my writing into existence with the costumes: party dresses from the 70's & 80's, flares, ties, belts, platform shoes, dad's jade wedding suit, mum's sparkling silver jumpsuit. Then onto the scenes: overturned sofas, chairs as stages, blankets as tents or baths as boats. The cast: an enthusiastic or (most times) reluctant sister or brother as a crew mate, a band member, a Kim for my Mel, or a Musketeer. Then off to battle.

I wrote then.
And I acted then.
All without fear.
Excuse me, who let the fear in?

"Oh yes that would be me."

"Sorry 8yr old me. My fault!"

I was busy growing up and trying to be part of the world and please the adults, and listen to the adults, and do what the adults tell me: and do adult things.

Turns out adult things are pretty bloody dull (With the exception of one thing!)

The last two years of my life have been about coming back to that 8yr old Michelle; professionally and personally. Shovelling and shucking off all the adult crap and shit to reveal the real and truthful me. As I finally take the leap and train to do what I have always longed to do; act. Finally, aged 33yrs & 11months. And personally, as I learnt to extricate myself from a life path that was at odds with this road that I have always longed to travel down. And one thing I have noticed in both the acting and personal journey (thanks Xfactor for eternally ruining that phrase), is that the people I meet on similar journeys: whether it be acting, singing, running, cliff-diving, yoga, or meditation and enlightenment. It all comes back to learning to be in that childlike state. Learning to shake off those adult fears of scrutiny and judgment and fear of failure, ridicule, or shame. And do the thing you love, just because you love it.

At this point, whenever I think of doing something just for the sheer hell and joy of it, I think of Rik Mayall, as my Drop Dead Fred, hero. "Dog poo, dog poo, lovely lovely dog poo. Dog poo on the sofa, dog poo on the carpet. Dog poo, lovely lovely dog poo!"

Don't you sometimes just want to have that moment? And isn't it wonderful when you start to feel those moments of pure joy?

Addictive, aren't they?

(This is why we all envy children)

So based on dimple enthusiasm alone, in an attempt to keep Clare in a permanent state of blissful dimpledom, I am going to start up my Roland Rat notebook again. Hopefully with less fear and more of 8yr old me. Ready to write worlds and stories, and to finally not really care what anyone thinks about me or my writing!.... Yeah!

But I do.

I am new (relatively and in terms of consistency) to all of this. So I have no idea what my "slant" or "angle" is going to be here. So on that front, your help and feedback would be much appreciated. I want to write something honest and truthful, and not because I feel like I have to write something. Or even, dare I say it Clare, I know it's called Theatre Mix, but it might not even be related to acting.

Like I say, my travels (see not "journey" - ha ha, screw you Cowell) and my new life experiences are all bound up in a red polka-dot knotted sack together. The struggles (c'mon positive spin Barwood) I mean, adventures, I have as an actor and writer are all inextricably linked to how I have also started down a new personal path. And I am sure that those of you more experienced than moi, know about this already. But that is the truth and I want to write the truth. And hopefully not bore you. Hopefully create more worlds and stories once day. But always from a foundation of truth; the concrete of the creative world.


Thanks

Michelle 



1 Comment

    Author

    Michelle Barwood
    Actress and 

    Aspiring Writer
    @veryberrycherry

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