Thursday, April 23, 2015

fickle and fey


Earlier this month, I was sitting in our cold parish hall (the parish hall/cafeteria/rehearsal stage is always cold, and I have come to accept it as such: a blessing in the summer, a curse in the winter), rehearsing a monologue with one of the lovely student actors, and she began to cry. Instantly, I thought of the countless acting classes I attended in high school which included so many tears. An inordinate number of tears, honestly. 

Quite a wasteful amount. But the teachers always seem to push us to where we would cry, and then would step back and let us, tears streaming down our faces, recite whatever Chekhov monologue or Shakespeare sonnet we had been assigned. Perhaps this is why theatre people are mocked severely, as they ought to be.
As soon as our dear student began to cry, I felt a twinge of remorse grab my heart. Oh dear. Oh no.

We asked her why she was crying: "I don't know!" she laughed through her tears, "I'm just so frustrated!" You are fine, I told  her. You are fine. You are doing good work. You are doing great work. So. Now. From right where you are: say the monologue
And she did. 
And it was not perfect, but it was real. 

Perhaps what the tears mean is that you have gotten past a certain barrier, where emotion has kicked in and your brain, which regulates your thoughts and feelings has subsided.


--

I was riding the train with Sarah, and we saw a man who had a mane and beard like Jesus, and this strange, large ring: a heavy sterling ring shaped like a wolf on his finger. He was so mysterious, this Jesus man with the wolf ring. I was fascinated by him.

--

I miss college, because I miss the luxury of time devoted to thinking. In school, you have great clarity, because you have the luxury of time dedicated to clarifying your vision, of learning how to calibrate your vision to see goodness and evil starkly contrasted. I miss education, and the thoughtfulness it is attempting to cultivate.

--

One thing I also love seeing on the trains are elderly folk who have their iPhone texting font set to a larger font size. It gives me great joy, and I don't know why. Perhaps it is a reminder to be grateful for your eyes. Or perhaps it is just a little bit of human individuality in the bleak homogeneity of the ultra-blah human cyborgs we are becoming under the cold, well-designed, iron thumb of Apple Nation. Not trying to throw shade, I love the Apple Store Genius Bar [and the fit, bearded geeks who man it] just as much as the next MacBook Pro owner. Just calling it like I see it here.

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