The seed of discontent, planted in the ground of indifference, never sprouts into a plant of discontent. In other words, being dissatisfied with the world in itself doesn't make the world easier to deal with, nor does it make the big picture more attractive. All it does is confirm what you're unhappy with, a vicious cycle of upturning soil and being unsatisfied with the results.
Not that this year has been a waste. No, not at all. It's just been difficult.
Yes, both of my parents have had medical issues, some that are still waiting to be defined. Yes, another friend of mine has come forth to let me know she has breast cancer. All this puts my problems in perspective...but at the same time it does not excuse me to repeat patterns, especially those that eat my time, which in turn devour everything else in me. Such is theater and the entertainment industry. The warning signs were apparently posted at the entrance, but most of us ignored them and auditioned for the devil anyway.
Normally, I would be able to deal with the life issues and pump them back into theater. I would have been too busy to sink in and see the reflection. It's different now.
The seed of discontent (the beginning of the end?) was planted with Rachel, a friend who made an accusation that should never have been repeated to me. That said to me that I wasn't appreciated. The numbing blow came from Ali, another friend who publicly criticized me and in one breath changed a season of love into a labor of chaos. These two bookended a body of unpredictability where the organization, I fear, is not on my side. (Why pick sides anyway?) That is where theater has disappeared in my heart, so I took a break. Yes, they still need me to do the things nobody else wants to do. My artistic side still does not want to compete, and egos now prevail on the landscape. By keeping my distance, I render the competition powerless.
I also have time to reinvent.
It's time, though, to start responding to emails and phone calls, to retool the efforts in measured ways and reconnect to friends and supporters. If I wait any longer, hibernation might turn into a comatose state, so with April comes my spring.
Just when I thought I was up here on the moon as a means of defining myself in contrast to everyone else, I find that I've been staring at the earth all along. What's most beautiful about it is its random imperfection, right down to the very last atom. And imperfection, after all, is exactly the place where art is born, isn't it?
Cura nihil aliud nisi ut valeas.
No comments:
Post a Comment