This is something I wrote 2-3 years ago. It's one of my favorite things I've ever written. I thought I'd throw it up here.
My mind, my resolve, my future, withering away bit by bit till it is nothing more than a puddle reflecting a mountain of potential it once was.
I take another drag of my cigarette. It is 30 minutes till places and I've had my 3rd cigarette of the day after downing my Red Bull. Daniel is smoking with me. We are talking about Battlestar Galactica. If I were the actor I wished I was, I'd be in the dressing room reviewing my actions, finding my emotional cues to memory to make my moments hit like they should. But I am not the actor I was trained to me. To be honest I frankly don't have the desire any more. It is probably because I simply don't have the talent. If I had the want and the will, talent wouldn't matter as much. But a lack of appreciation for my perception of the art has left me frustratingly stabbing in the dark. No bullseye leaves me aimless and drifting. I don't want fame anymore. The mythological exhilaration of the stage is a joke to me. I once believed whole heartedly that it existed but I really don't anymore. And that is the scary truth. I'd much rather have the money. But since I have left college I no longer have a path drawn for me which will train me to make money. My sister was right. I should have gotten a business degree. I should have minored in theatre or art or what it was I thought I wanted.
Daniel is talking about something he thinks is profound. It is meaningless as I have already thought of it and I already know where he is going with it. He bores me, but his attention is comforting. He makes big hand gestures and widens his eyes as he talks about something that minutes later I will completely forget. I inhale my cigarette smoke as if it were pot and I hold it a little too long. Maybe the nicotine will give me the fix my body wants but it doesn't. I've never really like nicotine. My body likes THC. But I must spare my body of such things. I'm trying to clean myself up.
Daniel seems so hackneyed to me now. Jesus he's silly. And in 27 minutes I have to love him in front of an audience. I must be rejected and stare in to his eyes longing his comfort and love. Even though on stage he will never give me the slighted bit of love or even tempting love. Daniel will play the end of the play through the beginning, middle, and end. It frustrates the fucking hell out of me. But now it is my job to find a part of myself that loves him. I pretend his eye movements are charming. I will take in his half smirk which I know is filled with discontentment and dissatisfaction and pretend it is cute and something to long for even though in actuality I find it pathetic. Any moment I can make any contact with him I will treat as a drop of water in the desert and drink in it. It is all I know how to do and it frustrates me.
We finish our cigarettes and go inside to the dressing room. Daniel goes to his Ipod to listen depressing music so he can reach an emotional state. I go to mine but for different reasons. Well for the same reason but a slightly different approach. I am under the impression he is trying to achieve an emotional state. I on the other hand am trying to establish character. The difference is slight but important. Abigail is talking with Cordialia. Abigale and I have virtually no connection which I guess works because our characters don't either. But I chop that up to me not having done sufficient work on our relationship. It was a fucking 45 page play. Why didn't I do the sufficient homework? This is another sign this line of work isn't for me. I scroll through my Ipod and find Happy Hardcore Vol 7 and listen to the techno song 'follow me.'
In the basement dressing room there are 11 people. Eight from my show, two from the next show and our stage manager Penelope. I don't know why Penelope is down here instead of doing stage manager stuff. Daniel runs out of the room. He seems to do much of the administrative work since he works at the theatre. Work the stage manager should be doing I guess. I pull out a letter from an ex-girlfriend. Not really a girlfriend, since we were never official. But the letter commands an emotional response none the less. It was a break up later, my only window into the logic and mind of someone who didn't feel I was good enough to be with them. I study specific sentences, wording, and syntax looking for clues to a deeper meaning or key to avoiding future unhappiness. I replace her voice with Daniel's. I change subtle phrasing to fit the situation of the play. The effect is a subtle mental state slightly different. I wonder if it makes any difference in the slightest.
Penelope announces 15 minutes to places, but we may hold an extra 5 for the audience. I try to keep in the mindset of my character but it just won't stick. I think about the problems of work, food I want to eat, and what I plan to do when I get home rather than the lovesick longing or the marriage doomed escapistic mentalities of my character. I tell myself once again I'm in the wrong business. The 10 other people in the room continue to chat and joke. I wonder why they don't struggle like I do. Soon I will start to do physical exercise. Partially to get into character as who I am playing cares much about his looks but mostly because before the play starts, six of us have to wait outside in 40 degree weather in beach clothes outside the theatre, endure an 8 minute introduction by our stage manager then enter as if it were a fun sunny day at the beach. This is the trouble with doing Albee's Finding the Sun in Seattle during February.
It is now 8:05. The play should have started five minutes ago, but we are still waiting on people who have purchased tickets but not yet arrived. I've run out of warm up exercises. Each moment that passes feels like atrophy. We are getting antsy, which means the audience is getting antsy. An antsy audience means an uncomfortable audience. The audience makes or breaks the show. I can tell if it will be a good show or not in five minutes of curtain. If they laugh at Henden's “Oh the sun” a senile realization of what everyone else is clear on it will be a good show. If they don't, we are in for a hard time. Finally Penelope comes down and tells us places. Daniel, Edmee, Cordila, Gertrude, Abigail, and Fergus rush to places. Henden goes to the bathroom. If I go to places knowing that Henden might not make it I will be nervous. So I stay behind in the dressing room and do fifty push-ups. JD and Alex remain in the dressing room and tell me to breath as I do the push ups. Their show does not start until our ends. They have to be there early for fight call. As I said before the push ups make me look a little better, but I do them do keep warm. The minute I step outside from the downstairs dressing room I will have to wait outside the doors of the upstairs performance space.
Fifty. My heart is pounding and I am warm. Henden finally makes it out of the rest room. We still have several minutes as Penelope is still making announcements. I take one last good look at Daniel. I drink in what ever it is he is doing and pretend to cherish it as pure love. He opens the door. It is time to start the show. I wish I had gone to the restroom.
I take another drag of my cigarette. It is 30 minutes till places and I've had my 3rd cigarette of the day after downing my Red Bull. Daniel is smoking with me. We are talking about Battlestar Galactica. If I were the actor I wished I was, I'd be in the dressing room reviewing my actions, finding my emotional cues to memory to make my moments hit like they should. But I am not the actor I was trained to me. To be honest I frankly don't have the desire any more. It is probably because I simply don't have the talent. If I had the want and the will, talent wouldn't matter as much. But a lack of appreciation for my perception of the art has left me frustratingly stabbing in the dark. No bullseye leaves me aimless and drifting. I don't want fame anymore. The mythological exhilaration of the stage is a joke to me. I once believed whole heartedly that it existed but I really don't anymore. And that is the scary truth. I'd much rather have the money. But since I have left college I no longer have a path drawn for me which will train me to make money. My sister was right. I should have gotten a business degree. I should have minored in theatre or art or what it was I thought I wanted.
Daniel is talking about something he thinks is profound. It is meaningless as I have already thought of it and I already know where he is going with it. He bores me, but his attention is comforting. He makes big hand gestures and widens his eyes as he talks about something that minutes later I will completely forget. I inhale my cigarette smoke as if it were pot and I hold it a little too long. Maybe the nicotine will give me the fix my body wants but it doesn't. I've never really like nicotine. My body likes THC. But I must spare my body of such things. I'm trying to clean myself up.
Daniel seems so hackneyed to me now. Jesus he's silly. And in 27 minutes I have to love him in front of an audience. I must be rejected and stare in to his eyes longing his comfort and love. Even though on stage he will never give me the slighted bit of love or even tempting love. Daniel will play the end of the play through the beginning, middle, and end. It frustrates the fucking hell out of me. But now it is my job to find a part of myself that loves him. I pretend his eye movements are charming. I will take in his half smirk which I know is filled with discontentment and dissatisfaction and pretend it is cute and something to long for even though in actuality I find it pathetic. Any moment I can make any contact with him I will treat as a drop of water in the desert and drink in it. It is all I know how to do and it frustrates me.
We finish our cigarettes and go inside to the dressing room. Daniel goes to his Ipod to listen depressing music so he can reach an emotional state. I go to mine but for different reasons. Well for the same reason but a slightly different approach. I am under the impression he is trying to achieve an emotional state. I on the other hand am trying to establish character. The difference is slight but important. Abigail is talking with Cordialia. Abigale and I have virtually no connection which I guess works because our characters don't either. But I chop that up to me not having done sufficient work on our relationship. It was a fucking 45 page play. Why didn't I do the sufficient homework? This is another sign this line of work isn't for me. I scroll through my Ipod and find Happy Hardcore Vol 7 and listen to the techno song 'follow me.'
In the basement dressing room there are 11 people. Eight from my show, two from the next show and our stage manager Penelope. I don't know why Penelope is down here instead of doing stage manager stuff. Daniel runs out of the room. He seems to do much of the administrative work since he works at the theatre. Work the stage manager should be doing I guess. I pull out a letter from an ex-girlfriend. Not really a girlfriend, since we were never official. But the letter commands an emotional response none the less. It was a break up later, my only window into the logic and mind of someone who didn't feel I was good enough to be with them. I study specific sentences, wording, and syntax looking for clues to a deeper meaning or key to avoiding future unhappiness. I replace her voice with Daniel's. I change subtle phrasing to fit the situation of the play. The effect is a subtle mental state slightly different. I wonder if it makes any difference in the slightest.
Penelope announces 15 minutes to places, but we may hold an extra 5 for the audience. I try to keep in the mindset of my character but it just won't stick. I think about the problems of work, food I want to eat, and what I plan to do when I get home rather than the lovesick longing or the marriage doomed escapistic mentalities of my character. I tell myself once again I'm in the wrong business. The 10 other people in the room continue to chat and joke. I wonder why they don't struggle like I do. Soon I will start to do physical exercise. Partially to get into character as who I am playing cares much about his looks but mostly because before the play starts, six of us have to wait outside in 40 degree weather in beach clothes outside the theatre, endure an 8 minute introduction by our stage manager then enter as if it were a fun sunny day at the beach. This is the trouble with doing Albee's Finding the Sun in Seattle during February.
It is now 8:05. The play should have started five minutes ago, but we are still waiting on people who have purchased tickets but not yet arrived. I've run out of warm up exercises. Each moment that passes feels like atrophy. We are getting antsy, which means the audience is getting antsy. An antsy audience means an uncomfortable audience. The audience makes or breaks the show. I can tell if it will be a good show or not in five minutes of curtain. If they laugh at Henden's “Oh the sun” a senile realization of what everyone else is clear on it will be a good show. If they don't, we are in for a hard time. Finally Penelope comes down and tells us places. Daniel, Edmee, Cordila, Gertrude, Abigail, and Fergus rush to places. Henden goes to the bathroom. If I go to places knowing that Henden might not make it I will be nervous. So I stay behind in the dressing room and do fifty push-ups. JD and Alex remain in the dressing room and tell me to breath as I do the push ups. Their show does not start until our ends. They have to be there early for fight call. As I said before the push ups make me look a little better, but I do them do keep warm. The minute I step outside from the downstairs dressing room I will have to wait outside the doors of the upstairs performance space.
Fifty. My heart is pounding and I am warm. Henden finally makes it out of the rest room. We still have several minutes as Penelope is still making announcements. I take one last good look at Daniel. I drink in what ever it is he is doing and pretend to cherish it as pure love. He opens the door. It is time to start the show. I wish I had gone to the restroom.
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