Wear and Tear

Rehearsals are going well, by my knees are all bruised from falling and crawling so often. By the time the show rolls around, this coming Saturday, my legs will be two flesh-colored roundish things connected by black-and-blue knobs in the middle. Hopefully the fishnets will cover the worst of the marks, though.
The people who played my role during the last three years were phenomenal. I’m not as good as them, and I feel inadequate. I can feel the other cast members’ eyes glancing at me derisively when I mess up. It’s times like this when I actually do mind how minuscule my ego is.
Ach, vell. The show must go on.
Forgive me for the short, nothing-full post; it’s Sunday evening and I’m tired.

Being Other

A toss of the hair, a gesture with the chin, a purse of the lips – these will suffice to change a person utterly from one thing to the other. From a shy, timid, slightly awkward person will emerge an attitude, a style, a replica of the actor onscreen. Confidence has nothing to do with it at that point – once someone changes, they’re in the moment and no matter what happens, the attitude will remain, the stance will stay upright and the chin raised.

Such small things, such subtle mind-shifts and twists – on such things hangs the balance of a show. But once a person is out of self, succumbing to that infamous of Greek gods, Dionysus, and loses the identity of the self, then there is no pause, no doubt, no fear. Nonexistent wine gives the head its buzz and the body its confidence; nonexistent masks take over the face and expression; nonexistent muses come and spark drama or comedy at the needed times.

Being other is liberating. The fear before succumbing to that loss of self is overwhelming, almost paralyzing. The moment the threshold is crossed, however, the fear evaporates like a magician’s rabbit – instantly, utterly, although still biding its time somewhere hidden where the audience can’t see it.

Being other is mastering fear. Being other is being free.