Listening to Let's Have A Kiki by Scissor Sisters

Sophia said I should name this 'thinking about releasing the log' but it felt too graphic when I thought about it sober. Although, spiritually, she was on the money.

We’re in a heatwave here. It’s currently 39 degrees outside. Tensions are high. I’m spitballing here. Your honour I have 33 subscribers. This is exciting to me. I feel guilty I didn’t share anything last Monday. Please forgive me and my irregular practise. Especially my 7 paid angels, for whom I’m indebted to. I owe you big time. I’m sharing more tea today to make up for it. I’m feeling nervited about it. I hope you all will love me anyway. Let me know if not in the comment section. But actually don’t. Positive affirmations only. Focus on the good and I promise you the good will get better.

It was Labour Day last Monday here in America. According to my good friend Google, it’s “a federal holiday that honors the American labor movement and the contributions of workers to the country's development”. I took the holiday personally (classic me) and felt guilty that I should have been labouring instead. Alas, I was in the Sequoia National Forest all weekend. Guilty! I went for a 3 hour hike though so I still laboured. I didn’t feel like I deserved to rest without it. Bella said she understood how I was feeling but she also wished I didn’t feel that way. That was a kind thing to say. I love her. She sure makes a fabulous camp Mother.

We had zero reception from Friday through to Monday and it was heaven. We all got dirtier than I can ever remember in the entirety of my camping history, which began when I was 3 months old. My fondest memories camping are from later on in my childhood in New Zealand, when we used to spend two weeks every summer holiday in Waimarama Beach. When I was 15 I came third in the Miss Waimarama competition. My friends from the campsite signed me up, no matter how much I protested against the idea. I had to stand on the back of a truck in a bikini in the scorching hot sun and ended up doing the running man to break the ice with the crowd. Then I stepped off stage and stood on a wasp. Not sure what the lesson was there. That night the owner of the campsite gifted me a handmade trophy and told me I would always be number 1 in her eyes. Love her.

Last weekend the forest floor was so sooty, we were absolutely covered in grime, there was no beach in sight and the wild fires meant the air was thicker than the tension I felt for giving myself time off from working. Fortunately, we bathed in fresh river rock pools and came out feeling smooth as butter. We were christened. We shared silence. We napped. I feel new again. In the psychedelic community they would call this a rebirth. Now I’m home, I’m capitalising on it (there I go again) and trying something new.

I’m writing when I’m down, instead of when I’m up. Or should I say, I’m choosing to share a different side. You see, optimism is my super power. It’s my coping mechanism. It’s how I survive. My mum even noticed when I was hungover on Saturday, I said" “oh no I’m not hungover at all”, and she said that my little sister does the same thing when she’s hungover. We both like to downplay our feelings it seems.

Reminds me of this story my Mum shares, about the time I cracked my head open as a 2 year old, after falling head first into a concrete flight of stairs at full speed. Turbo as. We’re sat in the hospital, blood running down my face as the nurse comes closer and closer with her injection of anaesthetic so she can stich me up, to which I say “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m so fine everyone, I can go home now, truly”. Just a 2 year old legend. Moral of the story is A) I’m brave. Or B) I need to slow down more so I don’t get hurt.

On the subject of slowing down and being brave, as it’s my third post, and 3 is my lucky number, I’d like to share that I’ve just spent an hour on a Sunday afternoon, sitting and crying on my bed. Sigh. Breaking news. I’m not perfect. Did I fool anyone? I feel like I’m trying to protect the part of myself that feels weak for admitting that “it aint easy being Weazy”, as my friends in Berlin once said. Today I’m coming as I am. I’m going to let you have it. Let’s have a kiki. I wanna have a kiki! A korero! A d&m.

The truth is I’ve been gainfully (un)employed for 14 months now. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so demoralised. Sunday’s are always the hardest because I give myself a day of rest. Usually when the feelings catch up on me. I’ve never not worked for this long. I can hear Sam in my head right now “but Elise you’ve been working constantly.” Well okay then, let’s asses things. Since I got laid off in June 2023, I’ve written a short film, I starred in another, I got paid from various old commercials and auditioned for many roles. Completed 16 weeks of improv, 52 months of acting technique classes, and retrained in ballet from scratch. Not to mention the endless networking, accepting any odd job that’s come my way, assisting in the costume and art department on set. The latter of which I was teased for showing up in my cream Saks Potts leather fur coat, to which my boss said “you dress for the job you want, not the job you have”. Honestly it reminds me of Emily in Paris except it was Elise in the Valley. Sigh.

I’ve assisted celebrity clients on music videos and been a runner on pilot episode productions, for which I’ve made late night trips to the weed store on my road and picked up joints for rappers. Very casual. Very La. Almost as La as the fact that Lauren reads my Substack while she’s sitting in traffic. Always be optimising ladies. For real, I’ve cleaned peoples kitchens and been there to let the mould guy in to other peoples closets when they were on holiday. I’ve worked cover shifts in pop up retail stores, baby sat & dog sat. I’ve been knocked down. But I got up again. And you’re never going to get me down. Except I do feel down sometimes. That’s the truth. But I’m still going. I’m still working my ass off in every direction. But, in societies eyes, in my eyes, I‘ve been unemployed for 14 months straight. I feel ashamed. There you have it.

My excel spread sheet tells me my job lead count is at #539 and I still have the audacity to believe that I’m not doing enough. I’m actually getting paranoid that people think the same of me as well. Remember when I said the problem was me last week. I have identified with the problem. Horrid. Not proud of it. Must be kinder to myself. Must defend myself more. But I know I’m not the only person to feel this way.

Last week I was handing out physical cv’s to restaurants. Desperate territory for a woman with over 10 years of corporate experience on her resume. I’m not even sure how to work in service if I’m honest, but after 100’s and 100’s and 100’s and 100’s of “career” applications online for a year straight, I need to try something new. It’s an emergency. Einstein’s definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. I’ve felt insane the last year. This will not cannot continue.

So cut to, last week at a local wine bar in my neighbourhood, camera pans to a close up of me bursting into tears, when the head sommelier looks into my eyes and asks me what wine certifications I have. “None I say. I didn’t realise you need to be a sommelier to work at a wine bar. I’m sorry.” Chloe (my new hero) looks me in the eye and takes a breath. I instantly crumble. She does the kindest thing anyone can do, in my opinion, when someone starts crying. She hugs me, even though we’ve only met 2 minutes prior. She tells me to sit on the couch, and pours me a glass of champagne. She says “we’re all having a human experience. We’re woman. We look after one another” then puts music on before throwing her head back, arms to the side, eyes closed as she utters, “god what a day. It’s so sad in here”. I love her. She saw me.

The whole situation has been cutting me deep this week because my Mum is here staying with us. For the first time since 2016, when I was living in New York, my Mum has come to see where and how I live. At first I felt sad because I felt like such a failure without a job. But when I told her this over dinner that night, she told me a story of when I was little. We had just moved from Canada to NZ, I was about 3 years old and she was raising me as a single mother. She would pick me up at 12pm from daycare, after using her precious morning alone to hunt for work. When she came to collect me one day, my teachers told her they had asked me, “if your Mum had found a job yet” and I had said “yes of course my Mum has a job, she does applications every day.“ That made my Mum burst in tears. I love her. Feels like a role reversal.

That story made me laugh and cry at the same time. I was and am so proud of my Mum and saw all the hard work that went into raising me. She looked after me and now I want to look after her too. I want to make her proud, but the truth is, we don’t need accomplishments to validate our worthiness or to be loved. We are always deserving of love. Even when we’ve been laid off from our job and we haven’t been able to get back in the door yet. Even if it’s taking longer than it ever has in our lives. It is not our fault. We are alive and breathing and safe and that is the most important thing.

I’ve been told I‘m ditzy. I’ve been told that the way I write defies the idea of how a writer should write. I know people underestimate me. I have a generous spirit and I like to focus on the bright side always. I prefer to be silly with my girlfriends and I often compartmentalise how I feel to be there for others. That’s just how I operate. So I try not to take it personally when people think I’ve had it easy in life. In reality I’ve sacrificed a lot. Now I share my Mum’s stories, not to prove that to you all, because trust me when I say, we are sparing you the details. But I share these stories to underline the strength she had to keep going for the both of us, to remind myself that it’s not that bad. In fact. Shit could be a lot worse. I am lucky. I wont give up. And I didn’t come this far to come this far, my friend Brisa likes to say. Amen.

I would be nothing without the human beings on this planet who inspire me to stay alive. I’m so thankful we are all here at the same time having this human experience. And I’m thankful for writing because I can just send it. Like fully send it. Send love. Energetically and literally. I’m showing up in your inbox. And maybe one day I’ll show up on your doorstep too. Like Mr Valentine, Julia’s family Valentines Day tradition. I’ve seen videos of her nephews bursting into tears when they hear him knocking on the door, I was dubious, but she asked Marino to be Mr Valentine for her kids in the future. And of course he said yes. So maybe there’s something to be said for that person who shows up unannounced on your door step, simply for the love of it, to keep up a family tradition for your children. Maybe the moral of the story is that we eventually learn to love Mr Valentine and look forward to his visit. What do you think?

I love you xoxoxox now put this in your pipe and smoke it.

PS. Thank you readers for making me feel more alive and less alone than ever. The last few weeks of writing and launching this have felt invigorating beyond measure. It’s cleared my mind. It’s illuminated what’s important. My thoughts have been racing and I’m no longer self diagnosing because now my racing thoughts have an outlet called essays which are considered fresh and groovy. The relief is palpable. Log released.

PS. We should all aspire to be more like Emily in Paris. She is the definition of cringe and free. She has an incredibly smooth brain. Her optimism never wavers. She shares her spotlight with her friends. She dresses for the job she wants. She is one of us.