The Animatress Pipeline

Filmmaking Adventures

The Search for the Apartment with the Stone Floor.

Two artists who I know I can draw rings around beat me out of a job creating symbols for slot machines, just because they had previous gaming experience here in Vegas. That’s it!
I give up on this town, free rent or no. Free rent is a poor substitute for autonomy. Therefore I’m gong home to my city by that bay. LA s no option either because the animation industry has become double vicious.
In the year 2000 I stumbled upon an affordable apartment with a stone floor on Russian Hill. I was luck enough chosen for a screening, however. my silly mentor I was staying with at the time was the one to answer the phone call. Marsha confused the landlord so much with her charm the conversation ended in frustration. A cheap place on Russian Hill in the midst of the .com era woulda been a dream. 4 years late I finally acquired an studio in the city nearby. Sometimes I would walk around the neighborhood of that lost space hoping to see it again. I never found it. I know it’s somewhere on Pacific, but I can’t find it.
I’m excited at the prospect of going home, but I don’t like the idea of starting all over again. Finding an apartment in San Francisco is not fun, neither is forking over first and last month’s rent. Furthermore, I have no idea how I’m going to generate $2500 for an apartment again , but it must be done and this time I shall not leave! By living in San Francisco, I have no idea how I’m going to be able to buy my own home with its paltry salaries. Perhaps I can find a friend-landlord who loves me so well that I won’t have to buy a condo for security. My former drawing teacher, Bill Sanchez, has a living situation like that and he’s in like Flint. So is my old roommate Meg.
Since I have left the City, more and more of my out of town friends have migrated there. I feel like I am missing out on the big party. They write blogs on city events that are mere blocks from my old apartment building. What a place I’ve left! It seems that fate will not allow me be rich and happy at the same time, so therefore I must live at risk of homelessness to be happy.
Another solution is to lose weight and marry. However, I don’t reckon faking it would pan out over 40 years of marriage or 2 years to get alimony. Don’t scoff. Women in wealthy areas survive this way all the time. They just have a coy way of gong about it. Men may complain but they fall for the same old lure again..AND again and AGAIN! The trick is to keep quiet about it until you get the ring on your finger and half the estate. So tell all the tornado allegories you wish. That’s what men get for herding women like sheep in order to satiate their lust.
Marriage is pretty tough to do for Black women though. We are at the bottom of the social ladder no matter how educated and pretty we are. A bad stereotype called Saphire precedes us. Thank you for re-enforcing that Monster’s Ball. Grrrr. My barbed quip about using marriage as a tool for survival does help much. I would apologize if I didn’t see the phenomenon practice by White and Asian women so much. As my mother politically incorrectly said: They can smell a provider a mile away.

I’ll have to do some soul searching about this. I don’t feel right about turning potentially good friends into provider drones. Then again, I do not need a rich guy. I just need someone to survive with. A nice guy who won’t make me feel like a whore after I has sex with him. I had one relationship to prove that the notion is possible, but I’m not confident that I could be so fortunate again. Why can’t ballet romance be real? Why can’t a couple be passionate about just being with each other? Why must a woman walk the fine line of Madonna/Whore to live with a man? It’s just a damn shame that I have to pay for such a union with my cervix. Lesbianism seems so much simpler. Women say evil things about one another, but I have yet to hear of Lesbians calling each other whores and hoochie mamas. How nice and guilt free marriage would’ve been for me if only Prop 8 ha not passed.
Hopefully, once I move back into the city and spin around my social circles I will have learned to overlook such indignities of hetero intercourse and learn to appreciate to privileges of marriage: San Francisco, the artist community, and that apartment with the stone floor. All for the price of 8 minutes of humiliation every night. It can be done and must be done if I am to keep a roof over my head in the city that is so close to my heart.


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