Lone Ranger

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

(Part 3)

ninety-five turned out to be my annus horribilis. what clothes my grandmother told me to pack are still in the two suitcases I stole from the loft. I sense there's something she wants to confess. hesitant but forthcoming, my grandmother looks at me: um . . . you were adopted. OKAAAY. fathers in the seventies, I was told, often upped and left to procreate with other females. WOW. I wasn't aiming for a hat trick, but felt one was on the way. I was twenty-two (just). and this version of me thought the gods were gonna to cut me some slack. so I took a leap of faith and filled out an application. a fortnight later I received a letter from the Academy of Live and Recorded Arts. on the date mentioned, I was to attend an audition - a number of drama workshops. I HAD NO ACTING EXPERIENCE but believed I could do it. anger and pain - plenty of that in the tank. this would be my motivation. all my repression was ready to explode. technically speaking . . . I WOULD DO NOTHIG. James Dean just sat there and what little he said - he mumbled. he hadn't read the script - his body had.

I arrived at Waterloo Station and had ages before my audition. six ayem. London is a maze. taxi. driver takes me to where I need to be. at least I can see the academy. I'm in the Wandsworth area, just off Trinity Rd. it's January. the col'air is hurting my nose. so tired. everything has a surreal fluffiness in the morning light. oops. second thoughts. c'mon - YOU CAN DO THIS. look around you, they're all still in bed. you're up before the world. finish then let's go home. I completed the whole day of workshops. met some REALLY precocious students. one girl took a shine to me, banged on about how she was gonna 'walk the boards' at the Swan Theatre (Stratford-Upon-Avon). all this hew-briss was just puppy fat talking. we all had to meet Sorrel Carson - Irish actress and founder of ALRA. I entered her office. PLEASE SIT DOWN. her posture was regal. she wasn't aloof. her eyes, I noticed, had a depth and understanding. we talked. she liked my influences, most of whom were method actors of the silver screen. my confidence had been dashed. she reached out and touched my hand - I was jabbering. DARLING. she said that softly a few times. she saw something - in me. THIS IS ME. I'm not acting. maybe it showed and she sensed it.

the gods met me half way. ALRA offered me a place (my hands shook holding the letter). BUT BUT BUT. always a BUT. now the 'bureaucracy' of funding got in the way. only nine bursary grants available each year and Cornwall County Council awarded them to medical students. I sunk into a long depression. signed on and left the safety net of my grandmother's free meals. her unreserved support and compassion couldn't go on forever. I joined the rest of the malajusted - a whole generation of estranged sons and daughters living in BEDSIT LAND. all you had was a box room courtesy of the dee-essess. you shared a kitchen and bathroom. I fell into this drab way of EXISTING for most of my young life. y'ain't got NOTHING. but neither does the guy in the adjacent room. you borrow money. share food, booze, cigarettes. you're stony-broke. on the dole and you're prescribed heavy medication. I met some of the kindest people in rented accommodation and some demons beyond redemption. what I had was TIME. I bought a Biro and a writing pad. this is when I started to play with ideas. nothing of any merit . . . BUT I KNEW I HAD THE BUG!


Submitted: June 20, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Jobe Rubens. All rights reserved.

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hullabaloo22

Some more slight similarities... drama school... didn't go. As always, uniquely told, Jobe.

Sat, June 20th, 2020 6:56pm

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