Saturday 8th December 2012, 1am.

I tried to write, thinking it would flow, like it usually does. A flow of meaningful nothingness, a heap of emotion amounting to nothing but a temporary distraction from this, our crazy world of unexplained eventualities. I tried to write and yet, I stopped. How do you write? How do you accumulate or summarise when you, yourself have no more accepted the truth than the person closest to the cause? 

How can you sum up a life, an ending, a choice, without the knowledge of the when and how? 

I type many sentences and delete again because of their insensitivity, their complete inadequacy at the situation. 

I want to hypothesise, to theorise about the inner workings of the human disposition. About mental disorders, imbalance, hidden emotions of the depressed. I find all the words and yet...nothing. They don't fulfil my feeling if complete warmth and loss at yet another beautiful mind that we let go. 

Behind closed doors lies a world of mystery. I, for one, know that I have a lot of family and friends that care deeply for my well being. But the thought has (more than once) crossed my mind of: no one knows where I am right now. No one in the world. No one knows what I'm doing, who I'm with, whether I'm laughing or crying. 

It suddenly becomes easy to imagine how someone who is sad can get lost in feelings of loneliness. And before we've woken for a sip of our morning coffee they have gone. Never to be heard again. 

Why can't we remember the stakes? Why can't we all just pick up that phone? In today's technology it seems mad to me that we don't use it for the greater good. Of course, everyone has their own 'shit' going on and no one can ever really know how anyone else is feeling; but I think we do know, really. I think we are blessed with a sensor for others' well being and strength. Maybe not. 

All I'm saying is, next time you think about picking up that phone, sending that text; or next time the mere thought of an old friend grazes your mind. Do it. Just do it. Because tomorrow is a day with no itinerary. 

Hi. How are you? X 

Saturday 24th November 2012, 1.21am

They say you should write what you know, but so often I don't know what to write. I know that I need to write. That somehow as I exhale my words onto an empty page things start to make sense, life becomes less confusing. Clarity.
Right now, inside me I have this bubbling energy, this nervous pot bubbling below the surface of my chest, I want to cry. It's not sadness, it's not anything, it's this overwhelming feeling I get sometimes when I feel like there is so much to contain and not enough to do.
I'm tired. I'm over thinking.
I just wrote several different lines and deleted them.
Right now I am so happy and yet so incomplete. I know that we should never rely on others to pull us through and ultimately we are alone but I'm beginning to really miss that feeling of connection, of understanding, of unity. I'm struggling with the concept of having everything I want and/or desire and yet no one to share it with. I adore being alone. I adore sitting under my duvet right now and typing away. But a double bed is made for two.
How do you ever know if you are ready again? And if you are ready, whose to say it will ever come?
Writing is not coming easily tonight. I should have trusted my gut and gone to sleep. At least then maybe I would dream. I dream such wonderful things. At the moment my dreams are all focused around touch. Affection. It's divine. But then you wake up.
I've been through so many emotions in the past year. And it has been a year. Since we ended. I'd have to say the main emotion has been unexpected: Anger. I've never felt so angry at the injustice of a situation before. That there was nothing to be done. That we couldn't work it out. That I ran away. That I had to meet someone so important only to have hell thrust in my face after one too many drinks.
I still can't make sense of it. I think it is good for me to be honest for once.
I tried to picture our society without alcohol, without drugs. I used to wish they didn't exist. I still occasionally kick myself for not being strong enough to give up everything for you. You said you would give up everything for me. But there lay the problem. I didn't want you to do it for me. I wanted you to do it for you. And now I sit here a year later and wonder if anything has changed at all. Maybe you've met some incredible new woman who has saved you from yourself. Maybe I was a coward.
You can only make decisions based on your knowledge and feelings at the time. So I can't ever say that I made the wrong decision. But if it was the right decision then why does it still hurt?
Every time I think I'm home free another tear will form.
I keep telling myself that time will heal all. And it will, eventually. It has to. But time is taking it's time...

Tuesday 20th November 2012, 23.53

Coming home alone is a tricky thing when you do what we do.
We spend all day in close contact with one another, expressing emotions, cathartic artistry, touching, feeling, holding, all splattered across the blank canvas of our stage.
'Take it and enjoy! Learn!' we cry internally to our audience. You pray for connection, for them to receive. Relief, or so it should be to leave work having achieved your target.
But wait. once you've wiped away the make-up, peeled away this make-believe reality and find yourself on the dark, wet streets of London, you are alone. Your single footsteps penetrate the heavy night air.
The door shuts, the room is dark, the sheets are bare. You know it's ok. But still, still, so still.

West End Debut.

I sit on my bed. Unmade, of course (some things never change).
There is mess around me in my tiny room. A few items of clothing, expensive, should be hung up, lie on the floor from my trying-on session for the party.
Faded pictures of Marilyn on the wardrobe, frames stuffed with photos of friends, of family, of home, of theatre tickets, newspaper cuttings on the wall.
On the back of my door, a detailed toning work-out, hand written, above a list of dance classes.
A french-style dressing table, filled with hair-pins, perfumes, trinkets, business cards on the mirror.
A shelf of hats, a fan, a feather boa.
Today is the day. The day I waited for. The day I worked for and never lost faith in. As I've watched people gallop ahead of me or fall behind, have families, fall in love; as I've seen my relationships fall apart, my friends move away, this, this is the one thing I have always believed in.
It may sound "stagey", self-indulgent, or just dramatic, but every moment in my life has led up to this moment. Every school solo, every single one of the 600 agent letters, every audition. The 20 drama school applications that I kissed and wished upon as I posted them back in sleepy Somerset.
I almost feel numb. I don't feel surprised, I didn't feel overwhelmed as I stood out for first preview, because it felt so right. Finally, thank you world. For how long? Who knows. I'll be back waitressing in a Walthamstow restaurant in the blink of an eye. And that's ok.
Lost for words, I blankly sit staring at the screen. Tears come and go.
Breathe deep. Today will all be over tomorrow. But for now, bring it on.

My Week with Marilyn Review

My thoughts on 'MY WEEK WITH MARILYN':

Before I start I should probably state that I am someone who nears on obsession with Marilyn Monroe. I have read her autobiography countless times and before watching the film I had read Colin's diary....well, I read the DIARY part. The diary is a very honest account of a young lad's time working on a film. After the diary has finished, he sees a gap, a few days where he didn't write entries, and low and behold then tells us of an intimate week with the most famous and sought after woman on the planet. I ask, was she dead by the time he slipped this section in? It upsets me that since her death, people seem to want to capitalize on her fame in any way possible.

The story was fabricated and cut. Colin, in his diary states that he didn't even find Marilyn attractive. And why, I ask, was Colin's gay rendezvous with an actor cut out completely?
The book suggests that Marilyn didn't even know Colin's name. I just question how likely it is that a closeness with the 3rd Assistant Director could even be possible.

Performance-wise, I felt it varied. Dame Judi Dench was fabulous (but Dame Sibul is just so Goddamn likable in the book that you cannot help but fall in love with her). Kenneth Branagh has a very tricky task. Olivier was famed for behaving disgustingly towards Marilyn on set (I guess, not un-provoked giving the stress he was under with Marilyn's lateness and the presence of Paula Strasberg on set) and yet in the film you were almost totally on Olivier's side. Not because of Williams being frustrating, simply because of Kenneth's likability.

Michelle Williams had moments of sheer perfection as Marilyn Monroe but the opening and closing song and dance sequences were TERRIBLE. Her diction and vocal choices as Marilyn when speaking were near perfect but I felt in general she totally lacked that magic and sparkle and her eyes were almost dead (and not in good way). I always imagined Marilyn's eyes to tell a Million stories not just self pity or drugged up sleepiness. I realize I am incredibly protective of Marilyn (and totally jealous of Williams' opportunity) so I imagine my views may be somewhat biased.

Eddie Redmayne as Colin was pretty flawless and totally fitted my image and imagination of the young boy (despite storylines being twisted and changed). The jealousy of Vivien Leigh was almost entirely made up. An OBVIOUS and TYPICAL choice to pin women agaisnt each other. I don't understand why they made Marilyn out to be constantly beautiful when the reality is that with no make up and a lot of drugs and a sour attitude, none of the men on set found her attractive (until the rushes were viewed) ESPECIALLY Sir Laurence.

Emma Watson was believable if a little self-centered. (Another fabricated story line - in reality, Colin went off her because she wasn't easy and ended up with a blow job off an older man). I was upset that Plod didn't have more humour, he's such a joyous man in the book and as for Dominic Cooper, well if he felt the need to give up acting, I can't say I'd lose a tear....