Kevin Bacon opened an art school in Nova Scotia. It was the only “Atelier” style school in the area and had quite a reputation because Kevin Bacon was the founder. I sat down for lunch and a chat with Mr. Bacon, believing he would be thrilled to chat with me, as I wanted to teach at his school. When I told him that I’d like to work for him he laughed at me and said, “You’re not nearly good enough to work at my school.” Perplexed and hurt by his reaction, I stuttered and proceeded to list all of the courses I’d designed and describe the in-depth education my students would receive from what I’d created. To which Kevin Bacon sincerely and condescendingly replied, “But my dear Gaetanne, you have no idea how to create the “Leoni” method and it’s the foundation of what our school is built on.” Embarrassed that I didn’t even know who “Leoni” was and deflated, I fumbled my words, attempting to convince him that I AM good enough. Kevin Bacon, unmoved, remained resolute in his belief that I wasn’t good enough – and I woke up.
A nightmare. A verifiable nightmare. But why Kevin Bacon? Does Kevin Bacon make art? Does Kevin Bacon even like art?
I woke up to my dog giving me morning snuggles. He’s my alarm clock. He wakes me up every morning at exactly the same time, 5:55am, by burrowing his face in my armpit and pawing at my shoulder for morning snuggles, belly rubs, and kisses. At least something wants to kiss this mug. He must have felt the pain in my heart this particular morning. He often does.
Does 6 degrees count if it’s a dream?
I grew up in Ryan Gosling’s hometown. He might have hated it here as much as I did. I remember sitting at an adjacent table to him once at the 5th Wheel, a local truck stop coffee shop, open 24 hours. We used to hang out there before we were legal. I was allowed to stay out later if my mom knew I was only getting high on coffee.
Has Ryan Gosling met Kevin Bacon? He must know someone who knows someone who knows Kevin Bacon that’ll make the 6 degrees.
Moving back to Canada three years ago has been the most challenging thing I’ve ever done. More challenging than quitting smoking. More challenging than deciding to be an artist. More challenging than healing from my father’s death. Who would have thought that moving back to my hometown, close to my family, in my native country, would have felt so foreign? I certainly didn’t. I knew it was going to be a change after living in big cities for the last 20 years. Moving here after living in New York city was bound to be an adjustment. Regardless of my Kevin Bacon dream, I’m no dummy, I knew it was going to be tuff; but I thought that I, at least, knew what I was coming home to. I mean…I grew up here. I wasn’t completely ignorant. I knew that not much had changed in 20 years. Small marks of progress, small signs of evolution, minor aesthetic adjustments and efforts to “improve” the town and culture are here; but overall, in general, on the whole, it’s the same place.
The struggle lies in me, I’m not the same young, shy, insecure girl I was when I lived here all those years ago. Throughout my life’s experiences over the last 20 years or so, I’ve evolved into an educated, strong, independent woman. The three years here, in this place – this place over the last three years has brought down forces of the Universe that have torn me apart, forces of nature having me question everything that I’ve accomplished, down to my own identity. Who knew that at forty-two I would feel so lost? Imposter Syndrome, you ain’t got nothin’ on this. Every turn. A brick wall. Every other step, a pile of shit. Every success met with 3 failures. All hopes for my future, possibilities and dreams, shattering with every failed attempt. I’ve been living my worst nightmare and greatest fear. To be trapped without option or opportunity. Even something as flip as a date with a man who recognizes that women are his equal and can maintain eye contact whilst holding a conversation with the opposite sex. How about going to a social event where men and women intermingle, rather than hang out on the opposite sides of the room, like an awkward middle school dance in a John Hughes movie? Too much to ask?
I never had a phobia of spiders, I’m not afraid of heights, I love high speeds and can honestly say that I’m not even afraid of death…pain perhaps, but not death. Some days…many days over these last three years I’ve longed for it. My one fear, imprinted in me since infancy, has been not being free. To be shackled – shackled by poverty, shackled by circumstance, shackled by addiction, a job I hate, depression, a relationship I’m unhappy in, children. Worst of all, shackled by indifference…and here I am. The last three years I’ve spent wriggling out of my straight jacket. The irony is priceless. A dark comedy indeed.
Regardless of my struggles and pain and how strong my desire has been to run away from all of this trash, I wholeheartedly believe that it was necessary for me to suffer through all of it, to heal from the trauma I buried in my cells growing up here. I could have run, but I chose to stay, I chose to suffer and I’m choosing to heal, once and for all.
I still have hopes and dreams of getting out. I still have hopes and dreams of living the life I want to live in a place I want to be in, surrounded by the people I’d like to be surrounded by. Afterall, I am in the second half of my life and I don’t have time to entertain jerks and bullshit. Covid and all – I haven’t given up yet – although admittedly thought I might several times and might actually still. But for today, I’m here, I’m sane-ish and I’m planning for a future that I desire with people that I love.
Mr. Kevin Bacon, no offense, I’m sure you’re a great guy, or maybe you’re an asshole; either way, you are not the dictator of my talent or my future, simply the mirror to my Imposter. 6 degrees or not, you better believe I’m good enough.