A time machine, a soap box, and a support group, served over ice with a twist of lemming....
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
When I was thirteen, I did my first play.
It was something by a woman named Mary Chase; a children's story called MRS.
MCTHING. The original cast was like a who's who of Broadway
regulars. It had everything; High Society, Gangsters, and Witches.
I recently re-read it.
Wow. I didn't care for it. But I played it like Gangbusters when
I was thirteen.
My Father knew, upon walking me home from the school after a performance,
that I was destined to waste his money at an institution of Higher Learning in
order to become one of the working poor.
And I didn't disappoint.
There have been a lot of roads; a lot of roles, and stages, and actors both
good and excellent. I have told a thousand stories, and have held in
my heart several thousand more. I have loved and hated and sweated and
starved and felt the agony of sprained ankles and broken digits and chipped
I've had my heart broken by women, and distance, and from being "not
what we're looking for."
And I've flown with.....well, not eagles, but definitely hawks. Small
hawks. Small, acrophobic hawks.
And the meat that I loved in my youth I find I cannot tolerate in my age.
I no longer have the drive, the zeal, to throw in and let loose.
My patience is thin; my memory for lines and blocking a little faded; my
tolerance for other people's egotistical nonsense at an all time low; my
patience for my own egotistical nonsense, my tolerance for my own impossible
standards......well. You get the idea.
I will never be Mozart.
I am fated to be Salieri. Able to see the greatness in others, but
never see it in myself.
Forever in the higher part of average.
But I have a few memories.
Brief moments of near greatness.
And I sleep well.
I will choose where I work, and what I work on and to whom I give my talent