It is only recently that I have identified the source of so many of my personal obstacles: fear. It had been skulking around the corners of my subconscious a long time, like a roach; but then I turned the lights on and left no cabinet corner for it to scurry under. I was always aware of fear when it came to my friendships and relationships, but I hadn’t realized that it had tainted so much of the rest of my life as well. I recently tackled it head on in the personal field, and that is the main factor in how I realized the degree to which fear was affecting my overall approach to life. So now that I knew how present it was, my next question became: how do I defeat it everywhere else?

There are of course healthy fears; fears that keep us alive, fears that keep us from doing stupid things. In my experience they tend to be more identifiable, and seem like common sense more than Fear. They vary for everyone. The first really problematic fear I knowingly encountered was in the arts. I became aware of it in my acting work; holding back from making bold choices for fear of judgement and not being “good enough”. This was brought to my attention by teachers, and by watching my peers overcome this obstacle, I managed to do so as well (for the most part). Then, slowly, I realized that this was also present in my visual arts, my writing, as well as my social interactions.

One of my favorite books, Dune, talks about fear:

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.     I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone         past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.     Only I will remain.”

I reread it at the start of this summer, and it was only this time that I really paid attention to that passage. I noticed that it describes fear as something both outside and apart of man, that can be overcome, not, as I had been living, as an inescapable part of one’s own psychology, but as a force to be overcome through strength of will. It is likely impossible to live without feeling fear from time to time; “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear” wrote horror/sci-fi genius H.P. Lovecraft. It has kept us alive.  But how we deal with fear is another matter. Fight or flight. So by thinking of fear in the Dune way, as an opponent, I better came to understand how it affects me, and thus, how to act in spite of it.

Over the summer, I began noting every time I felt like I was holding back in some way. And in doing that, I started to notice recurring circumstances where I was acting under the coercion of fear but didn’t know it. And as soon as I began to simply put a name on this phantom feeling, it became easier to feel brave and confident. It was about chopping it down to size. When I simply felt anxious, unable to move forward, and paralyzed in life but did not know why, it was easy to let my fear become this huge horrible monster, waiting to devour me whole and rendering me impotent.
The fear wasn’t always the same; specific to different scenarios. But in specifying what the source of the fear was, I became able to defeat it. It came down to taking the mystery out of it. Making it something I could fight, rather than a feeling to be slave to. I would, and do, still feel it, but now that I can say my particular action is a result of fear, I can choose to do the opposite; make the bolder choice. In The Creative Habit, Twyla Tharpe talks about fear and creativity. Her method is to specifically name each fear, and in doing that, find an explanation to dispel whatever that notion is.
I think perhaps why  it took me so long to acknowledge being afraid is that it is wildly unpopular. No one likes admitting weaknesses, and fear somehow became an incredibly stigma-laced feeling. Why? My current theory is that we often confuse cowardice with fear. Cowards portrayed in film (or the public arena in any form) rarely elicit our pity so much as our disgust. We all watch war films and say “Well, I would be the one charging gate, not that asshole who’s shitting himself in his foxhole, rendered paralyzed by mere fear,” when the truth is, most of us are that asshole. And because deep down we know that, we don’t want to associate ourselves with fear at all, even in admitting silly phobias.
What we need to realize is that fear is not something to be ashamed of, any more than you should be ashamed of feeling aroused(although many religious types would argue that you should, but that’s a different story). It’s okay to acknowledge that you’re attracted to your friend’s partner, it’s wrong to try and sleep with them behind your friend’s back. Because you cannot control your stimuli, all you can do is react. And it is the reaction you have control over. Feeling fear isn’t cowardice, it’s letting your fear keep you from acting in a given situation. And even then, it might not be cowardice, it might be sensible.
It’s actually amusingly circular. We don’t want to admit  that we might be afraid of something, for fear that we will be judged for that feeling or taken advantage of, when in fact the only way to act in spite of that fear is to admit that it’s there in the first place (not publicly, but to ourselves). So, as overused as that quote is, the only thing to fear is…well, you know.

I went hunting in the East Village, but only talked to middle-men, so I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from any of those places. I’m hoping Murphy & Gonzales might take me, if only because I would love to work at an Irish bar and Mexican place in one. That’s just cool.

Today, my roomie Mel accompanied me as I went about our neighborhood, and I think I might find more success here. I’ll be blunt when I say that my attractiveness will help, especially because most hot young things (hah) would want to work in Manhattan over Brooklyn; possibility of more high-end clients and thus better tips. Or I so I imagine. Point being, that’ll help me here. The bar on the corner of my block was my first stop, and the guy I talked to asked if I could bartend. I can’t, at the moment, but I told him I was training and would be by the end of August, so I think he’s definitely considering me. Working there would be sweet, I could literally leave my place 5 minutes before work. The other places I went all seemed fairly receptive to me, especially one cafe with a cute little Asian girl manager, who introduced herself and said they were hiring, and that she would email me tomorrow. Score. Not that I want to count my chickens or anything.

On a similar note, I finally got my hair cut, thank Odin. My hairstylist, Rita, is an amazing woman who I simply adore, and she loves me. So much so, that she told me about a job opening at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen at the end of August, that was going to try and set me up with. So if my place fails, I have a possible back-up. On top of that, she’s inviting me to a semi-corporate party thing she’s hosting so I can hand out my resume. Double score.

That’s all, but I want to leave you with a gift. If you want a beautiful haircut (guys and girls), go to Astor Place Hair and ask for Rita. Tell her Bean sent you. It’s well worth the visit, and it’s affordable. I won’t let anyone else touch my hair. She also happens to run her own beauty service (make-up/hair) for celebrities, and she works on people like Harry Conick Jr. Her friend cuts Chris Noth’s hair. I know. She’s a badass.

Catch you on the flip-side,

Bean

It all really started when my roommate Sarah Jean’s friend Zara left. It was the first time I’d hung out with Zara, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself; we seemed to hit it off. She had an audition the next morning, so late night drinking was out of the question. Prior to her exit, a mutual guy friend of SJ (she dislikes the nickname, but it’s faster to type) and I showed up, and bought us a pitcher. Another classmate from our school (everyone mentioned by name is in school with me), Matt C, had coincidentally been drinking there too, so he joined us. He bought a second pitcher, and we were having fun. Matt C and I went out for a smoke when we met the utterer of the afore-mentioned phrase, which he approached us with. Nothing particularly interesting happened, except that I learned that McManus used to be called “Bob & Bruce’s.” Who knew. Our new bum friend, apparently.

So after everyone had been at the bar for a while, myself, SJ, one of our other roomies (Dannie) and her guy from work, as well as two Matt’s and Taylor. I went outside to look for SJ, who I saw from afar was talking to Matt C (the other being Matt G, who bought the first round) and a rather slovenly, unattractive, drunk-looking girl. Not that I judge. That didn’t happen until later. As I approached, Matt C walked away, past me back to the bar. The Drunk Girl appeared rather confused and asked what his problem was, and if he was gay. SJ laughingly apologized, as she’d been jokingly giving Matt C a hard time, and that we were classmates. Drunk Girl didn’t seem to process anything we said, and stormed off after telling us she lived in Long Island (then why the hell are you here by yourself? One wonders). We head back to the bar, and I sit down with Dannie and her guy. Matt C tells us to stay away from Drunk Girl; she’s crazy. Fair enough.

So it’s just me, Dannie and her guy, and I see Drunk Girl coming back. I whisper that I don’t think she’ll recognize me. No sooner do I say that, than she stops at my table, right next to my chair, leans in and says “come here,” whilst grabbing my face.

As though electrocuted, I jump back, raise my finger in a “bad doggy!” kind of way and say, very loudly, “FUCK. OFF.”

She looked stunned, and hoping to avoid her becoming violent or even-more unreasonable, I quickly followed with “I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, but I’m not interested, please go.” She turned away without a word, walks around my table to Dannie, and tries to pull the same thing. Dannie immediately leaned into her guy, told Drunk Girl she was with him, see? Kissy kissy. So Drunk Girl decides the best thing to do is go to the AC unit and take her shirt off. Not a pleasant sight, even with a bra. So the younger bartender steps in, and drags her out by the arm. She didn’t really protest, but then, this broad didn’t know left from right. I seriously doubt that she only under the influence of booze. On top of that, she couldn’t have been older than 19. Probably 18. I went out for a smoke, saw her around a potted plant, did a 180 and asked the bartender for a light, shaking my head. We briefly commiserated, and he returned to work.

But that’s not all.

SJ is uncommonly pretty. Actually, all of my roommates are. A well-off fellow in his thirties took notice, and started buying us rounds. And when I say us, I mean pretty much all of us. He walked over with 5 Bud-Lites, and we thanked him enthusiastically. Who am I to say no to free beer? At any rate, it got late, Dannie was exhausted from work and wanted to leave, as did I. She wouldn’t leave without both me and SJ. SJ didn’t want to leave. Neither did Matt G, and we still had a lot of beer. So we finished the second round (mostly) that our benefactor bestowed upon us, when, out of nowhere, he comes back with another 5 beers, totaling 15. I ended up picking up a few, and imposing them upon a young guy named Zed we’d met earlier, and his chick friends. There is a time and a place for that much beer, and a Tuesday night at 3 o’clock in the morning is not it. This was on top of the other pitcher Matt G bought, as well as the tequila shots. I was drunk, and if I’m drunk, usually everyone else is. Sometimes not, but that’s another story. Dannie and I managed to get almost everyone outside, so I went back for the stragglers. Namely SJ and Matt G. SJ comes willingly. Matt G proclaims that we need to rally the troops and pound the remaining 5 or so beers as well as the pitcher. I literally dragged him by the arm out of the bar, apologizing and thanking the bartenders as we went. We got a cab and got home. I offered to make pasta with alfredo for Matt G and SJ, who, by the time I was done cooking, had passed out on the couch. So I ate two bowls myself, and saved the rest for later.

So, to sum up, I discovered that the first person to really sexually harass me in NYC would not be a drunken older man or fresh over-grabby party boy, as I thought, but an 18 year old Drunk Girl. And, sometimes there is too much beer.

Good-night all, I’m going back to watching Nip/Tuck with Sarah Jean.

We had our housewarming two weeks after I moved in, and it was a blast. So much so, in fact, that a friend of ours offered to pay us in exchange for hosting a birthday party for him. We happily obliged. I put up some pictures; sadly none of them really show off the whole place, but c’est la vie.

In short, the first of many shindigs, hootenanies, gatherings, festivals and celebrations to come.

Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

-Bean

peace,

-Bean

Fire-escape? She’s at work and I’m staying with her til I can go back to DC and move my shit into my brand-spankin’ new apartment.

Smoking? To deal with the ridiculous stress that was today.

Ice? No, not because of the two black guys I flipped off (more on that later), but to de-swell the rest of my face, which is almost back to normal. Joy!

Last night I took an inordinately long bus ride to NYC, and due to a layover in PA, it took about six hours. Not fun. This morning, Dannie and I went to sign the lease and make the deposit on our loft. Mel, one of our other two roomies, was supposed to meet us there with she and Sarah Jean’s half of the payment. But, as we learned while we were waiting for her, their was a problem with getting all of her money because her bank account is foreign (English) and she could only withdrew a certain amount. After about five hours of much stressing and phone call-making, we learned that Dannie and I would have to come up with about $850 of the deposit. We were supposed to have it all in by 3:30, which is when our landlord, Alex, was supposed to leave and deliver the deposit for Sunday, when our lease starts. Well, at about 3:30, we realize the only way we can get the last of it was for me to go to a Commerce, my bank, and withdraw what my dad transferred. Mel managed to get part of it, so I needed about $700. Thus started the Great Trek Across Brooklyn.

I set off, already sweating in the glaring afternoon sun, and after about three blocks, finally manage to get a cab. Upon asking the driver, I discover the Commerce was farther than I thought, but I figure, fuck it, I have to get there. So we make our way through Atlantic Ave traffic, all the while Dannie calling me every couple minutes to see where I’m at. We finally make it to the bank, I tell the driver to wait, and I bolt in, a hot mess of sweat and anxiety. I have to wait in line for a teller, and when I finally do get up there, the transaction takes a couple of minutes. People must have thought someone was chasing me.

“I need to withdraw a large sum of cash.”

“Ok, please wait in line.”

You can imagine the thrill. So I bolt out of there with a fat envelope, hop in the cab, and race back to the loft. I tipped the guy well; this older Asian man who managed to get me there rather quickly, through rush hour. I felt a bit like I was in some kind of gangster movie; a wad of cash, repeatedly on the phone saying “I’ll be there in ten, I’ll be there in five, et.c” Over-active imagination, you see.

I literally run the next block, until I come into view, where Dannie, Mel, Alex and our super are outside. I hear Dannie yell “stop running!” and they all seemed very amused by my dehydrated and exhausted state. I imagine I did look rather funny, the red bandana around my neck flapping against my face as my heavy work boots clobbered the sidewalk, my arms pumping, red-face and breathing hard. I do what I can.

So it all worked out, and Alex wasn’t pissed. I think we managed to avoid having our reputation with our landlord completely tarnished. Let’s just say we’ll be amazingly on-time with rent from here on out.

And ah yes, the black guys. In the middle of our financial crisis, Dannie and I are sitting on the side walk, both trying to stay calm. These two guys, both fairly short, walk by saying shit like “Oh, that’s nice, baby, yeah.” You know, the usual Sidewalk Caveman communication. I just look up, pissed and stressed beyond belief, and just give them a very definitive bird. They pause, and say something to the effect of “Oh, that’s bad, she’s bad” while Dannie just kind of cordially implored them to fuck off, we were having a rough day. They did. BUT wait, there’s more. A little while later, I’m on the phone with my dad and they walk by again (apparently they don’t have anything better to do than harass young women). One of them, as they walk by, start telling Dannie over and over again that her friend had an attitude, and she should change it. Dannie just kind of “Okay’d” them until they were out of earshot. This resulted in Dannie, as we were heading home, uttering the title quote. And she’s right of course, but mighty zeus, what I’d have given to beat someone up right then, and they were spared only because A) I was too exhausted, B)I have a bit of temper when I want to, but I’m not an IDIOT, and C)I didn’t want to have to explain to the police why two grown men were on the ground screaming in pain from the mace-pepperspray I just used on them. Take too much time. Just kidding.

Sort of.

And now, food.

Peace,

Bean

Below, an image from the housing’s website of what half my loft looks like:

Spacious, were it not that I was sharing it with a couple other girls. Oh well! We’ll manage. Or hate each other. Or both.
See you in the city,

-Bean

P.S. This totally makes up for my face.

I was recently the victim of some kind of allergic reaction/insect bite(I’ll find out what precisely at my impatiently-awaited trip to the doctor), and as a result, my cheeks have swollen to at least twice their normal size, making me resemble a disgruntled, overweight middle-schooler. You can imagine my displeasure. Aside from the fact that my face is in many ways my “money-maker” (being an actor and all) it also made me take a second to think about appearance in general. I don’t even want to go out in public like this. I am truly frightened of not being treated like an attractive person. Catcalls aside, I have noticed in the last year that being pretty has its definite perks, and I really really enjoy them. And now that that has been, albeit temporarily, taken away, I feel utterly vulnerable.

Which brings me to my point(s), I guess. The first, not taking for granted certain blessings (or any for that matter). There’s that old saying, you never know what you have until its gone. Well I can attest to that. And, maybe, if I wasn’t so humanly weak with my vanity, I wouldn’t realize what a gift I have now. So I guess what I mean is that vices have their benefits? But enough self-centered yammering.

My second point was just that I realize I, and other people, need to think about how they treat others based on looks. It’s an old tale, I’m not telling you anything new, but it bears repeating. I know I’ve done my fair share of gaping and gawking at people with deformities or scarring(or who are just plain fugly) and I’m not proud. That sucks. So I’d best thank my lucky stars I don’t have to go through that every day. Plus, working and living in a place like New York City, where good looks and material goods are idolized, one should take a breather every now and then remember that, hey, looks aren’t everything.

But damn, I hope my face gets better soon.

And on that note, while this blog will most likely NOT be a place for me to reflect on morality and sin, I figure once or twice can’t hurt. Shit, it is my blog.

Peace,

-Bean

As well as aspiring actor/bar-tender/waitress, etc, etc, I’m also a freelance artist. I do portraiture of people and pets as commissions, so check out my deviantart: RefriedBean. I also dabble in graphic novel art, but that’s a bowl I haven’t really gotten rolling yet. Stay tuned!