For a Girl so Scared to go Back to Los Angles, I’m Disassociating at the Local Barry’s with the Best of Em’

Re: social media is fake and I am struggling

Re: terror on the main grid

Re: But what makes you happy, in life?

So I come before you, 22 April, 2026 disassociating at the Barry’s Bootcamp on Euston Road in the middle of bench presses. I am tearing up, thinking about having to leave everyone who stood in Carla’s bedroom rehearsing Hug Piece. My friends who traveled across the UK or Atlantic to perform for me in Resolution. The people who live round the corner. How can I be fighting so hard, and panicking so much, and not know what makes me happy IN LIFE when asked flat out?

I was walking along Regents Canal between Coal Drops and my place, towards where the canal ends before you hit Angel. The sun reflecting off the water, a little too much wind sent choppy ripples along the narrow straight. As I neared my flat, the graffitied tunnel came into view. “You know this area used to be horrific,” Jonny said. Lifelong Kings Cross locals love to brag about the casinos, strip clubs, and prostitutes. One woman I know said she worked at a topless bar near Euston Station to pay for her Graham classes way back when. But Jonny, who I met while arguing over a flower arrangement with 3 other men, had some sobering stories I’d never heard before.

Earlier that day, we sat in the first warm air of spring. “See across the water where my boat is at? That used to be a bunch of half sunk ones. The other side of Euston Road? Those were the classy girls. This side? Girls that could barely walk anymore, what with anything they had caught, they’d hobble along the towpath. Ones that couldn’t walk were on those sinking ships across the way. With hats next to them, that’d get fucked for coins. When they died, they’d get rolled into the canal. There was a big pile of bodies down the way in that tunnel.”

“So it was a mass grave of sex workers?”

“No, there were others in there too. Deals that had gone wrong, people who owed debts, pimps that had gotten into fights. But mostly the girls.”

“Are there photos of this anywhere? Like in an archive?” - No, apparently when you Google Kings Cross body pile there are varied results to little success.

Amanda, who lives in a boat up the way, came by with dogs in tow.

“So what’d you do this weekend?” she asked me.

“Well, I had this cabaret, burlesque gig. My friends did this 2010s cringe themed night in Waterloo. I made a fluffy g-string and bikini top and sewed My Little Ponies to it. I was thinking about frolicking in the grass. The act was part Brony, part Katy Perry, but mostly Snoop Dogg. I opened the night doing a less than funny stand up set about how my friend Ryan ruined Snoop’s son’s football career by teaching him about film. When it was my turn, the act started with a clip about Bronies as I waited behind the curtain. In a little green fuzzy towel that matched what was underneath, I emerged as Katy sings “I know a place, where the grass is really greener.” I reveal that there are carrots in my g string. I finish telling Amanda about the strip act - reenacting with ponies to Kevin Hart and Snoop’s narration of the Equestrian Olympic games, that my music cuts out but the audience belts out the chorus to California Gurls, I take remove the carrots one by one, chew them up, and end up spitting them out on my dear friend Jess.

“You must perform at my 60th birthday party this weekend.”

As what may be my last 5 months in the UK after moving here in 2020, I’m honestly terrified of change. Starting over in a new city (Los Angeles), go, come back, go, come back, go, fly in, fly in, fly in, fly in. Will people still pickup the phone if you’re across the world? For gigs, for friendship? Will anyone give a fuck about me back home? Where even is home anymore? Kings Cross or Orange County? Visa paperwork, make the most of your time, etc etc. It’s been all consuming for about the last month. I sat the other night with my flatmate Lilly until quite late. I had gone into the kitchen to tell her I was moving out.

“You’re moving out to save money then? Just for the visa?”

“Yeah, I don’t know what to do anymore. I need change, I need to make some risky choices. I’m willing to give it all. This morning a friend offered me to sleep in the floor of his boat for free, no electricity no water and I was thinking about it.”

“But what are you giving it all for? What will make you happy? I’m not talking career, I’m not talking about art. What makes you happy IN LIFE?”

Fuck. I honestly don’t know. Never once have I considered happiness.

I sighed. “Maybe I should be spending an extra cash I have on a therapist rather than my career.”

“Hey that’s what I said to you a month ago during the most recent breakdown. If your heath isn’t together then you have nothing.” Lilly said standing over a bowl of pasta.

I’m trapped somewhere between these two sentiments: Pavlova said ‘ In my opinion, a true artist must devote herself wholly to her art. She has no right to lead the life that most women long for.’ (Magriel, 1948, p. 15). DeMille echoing the lack of path I currently feel, ‘I cannot have a tour. No manager will touch an American. There are no ballet companies. I cannot get on Broadway. I have auditioned for every single person in the business. You yourself have seen what’s happened in Hollywood. I’ll never become a dancer performing only twice a year. I’m going through Mother’s entire savings. I cannot bare it.’ ( De Mille, 1951, pp. 129).

Julia and I sat in the canteen of Central Saint Martin’s. She’d just gotten back from New York. “America is fucking expensive! Had I not been staying with friends, there’s no way I’d be able to go.”

“I know! Why do you think I am not keen to go back. There’s no venues, no money, and the cost of living is insane.” I gave her the burlesque updates, the show premieres I have this month. The career breaks are starting to happen, the path is starting to emerge - it’s just how can I make enough money and stay in the country long enough to see them through?

“But what exactly do you want?”

Open Sky - what you want?

What you want I

want for you, want

whatever you want

when you say you want everything under the sky

is that what everyone wants?

(M. McLane 2023).

“It’s time for you to focus, gain new allies. Go for it. Go for the big institutions. You’re a choreographer for God’s sake. And a fucking good one. You’re smart, charming, you’ve got a good face. Cut the shit and go get your face in front of the right people. YOU ARE ENOUGH, right now, in this moment, as you are.”

The possible final stretch of hard livin’ in the UK. Somehow I’m both already sprinting at top speeds and just at the starting block. These past two years have been the hardest years of my life. For perspective - I’ve had around 12 jaw surgeries and watched bones fall out into my hands. I’ve been in the hospital multiple times since October, for physical and mental lapses. Last month on the phone with my cousin, the complete breakdown that usually hits people at forty-five or fifty came for me at twenty-seven. The lyrics of Mary Jane Dunphe come to mind, I need love, not hope. A rest, not sleep. I’m exhausted from a short lifetime of impermanence and off the rails happenings, a nerve damaged body and clefted face that keeps shifting, threatening my quality of life (ie. speaking breathing eating) as I age. I’m sending emails titled ‘I’m scared shitless.’ We’re somewhat in a time crunch to make decisions that involve massive amounts of time and money - I have 3£. I’m staying awake days on end chasing what seems to be the path - hypocritical declarations if I’m “so scared of change” and yet I’m burning down my whole life and mindset.

I touch the silver chain Julia gave me on my birthday this year, silver as inheritance and a totem of success.

I look at the vision board I made in January. 2026 - a collage of volcanoes that eclipse everything but leave fertile soil in their wake, images of embracing figures encountering true tenderness, and The Redhead. Most of it has already happened four months into the year.

Image *Vision Board Fire Horse* S. Sullivan 2026

“So darlin’ tell me about Steve, kiwis, and the monkey eating the snake. Because I really want to know, we just keep getting interrupted.’ Sitting on the back of the boat with Jonny. The water passes as the deck nods up and down in the filthy city water. I tell him my favorite story about the pink skies and Bugs Bunny. Sun and rain are intermittent throughout the afternoon. We talk for five hours. Amanda picks me up, with cash in hand from her party over the weekend. And, a book. The Domestic Burlesque. Signed.

“Now don’t be spending this on rent. This is nipple tassel money - glamour money for your career.”

“It’s gonna have to be lawyer fee money because I owe them one more fifty. Two days ago I went out and took her advice to have something darker ready. I’ve got a latex g-string and new leather nipple tassels. Gun to my head, could have a goth act ready to go by tomorrow.”

‘It’s all well and good that you got your tits out the other night, but if you wanna do that type of shit you’re gonna have to do more than twirling around to The Beach Boys.’

An argument ensues. But I think… these moments are happiness.