2001-12-11 - 12:55 p.m.

Life is wierd, my friends, especially when you hang out with wierd people. I went to rehearsal last night, it was awful. The lead has real difficulty with his lines, a problem both stemming from and indicative of his terrible performance. I'm not saying this to be mean, although I'm more than a little angry about it. He just has no talent, if such a thing is even possible. What I mean by that is that he seems incapable of thinking of the script as something other than the words printed on it. His mind doesn't seem to make the leap from acting as 'saying lines' to acting as re-enactment. I don't think he really is talentless, I think he's too defensive, to invested in his ego and sense of self, to relax and attain that fundamental humility you need to be in this line of work.

It has GOT to sound absurd, hearing that sentence come out of an actor's mouth (or keyboard). Most actors are horrendously pretentious and convinced of their own genius and importance, and the very concept of humility seems alien to them. But it is true that to be good, or even competant, you need humility in massive amounts. An actor needs to put aside his own feelings about the script and bring the director's vision to life, but more importantly, she needs to constantly question herself and try to improve and keep herself fresh. You can't do that if you think that your performance has been perfected, that you don't need to work on it any more.

I have the sneaking suspicion that if we got him drunk, and just ran the lines at him, without giving him a chance to think about it, he'd do it instinctively, he'd see what we mean. In many ways, I feel like a pigeon describing flight to a kiwi, expecting him to know exactly what I mean, when he's never once been off the ground. I can't imagine acting without the hope of that rush, the rush of instinct that all jaguars know on the hunt. He's never had that.

But anyway, I went to rehearsal, and afterwards smoked out with Cheryl, the neice to my nephew, and Mary Jo, Mrs. Cratchitt. Then we met the director at a bar, and talked for a couple hours. I was very silent, mostly because that's what happens when I'm high. The beginning was difficult, keeping up with the conversation and all, but as I sobered up I got the chance to keep my detachment while being able to think clearly about it. I realized 1) that actors, especially the ones I work with, are insane, petty and all posessed of a secret belief in their own genius (big shock there, but to be confronted directly by it was a little unnerving) and 2) that people really do say things and mean something entirely different, sometimes without even realizing it.

Cheryl kept talking the whole night about this community theater she was a part of in Palm Beach. To be fair, it sounds like a well-supported theater, with a deal to show their christmas shows on local PBS, and original material. High end community theater, if you can imagine that. But it was pretty clear to me, and to the director, that she was bringing it up as a way of letting us know how disappointed she was in this show. Passive aggressiveness in about it's clearest,a nd most unconcious, form. She characterized that theater as the small pond where she was a big fish, but she seems mostly upset that she's not in that small pond anymore.

There was a point where I was attracted to her, despite my better judgement, but that's over with now. What a rat-bastard thing to say, 'despite my better judgement', but it's true. She's emotionally young, engaging in a long-lost-love play with a 39 year old married man whom she never had anything other than a mental affair with. That, for the record, being the reason why she's not in her small pond anymore. She's investing herself in a safe, and non-existant, relationship in a way that seems awfully familiar (there are times when we run screaming from our reflection in the mirror). She's hopelessly self-obsessed, too. At least she's not manic-depressive, like most other women I feel attracted too. But her self-esteem, her sense of self, is so tiny that she seeks approval in pretty much everyone she meets. That's probably what attracted me in the first place: how can you fail to be accepted by someone who needs your acceptance. I've got to be less afraid of relationships, or I'll end up dating people like Cheryl, pretending to be in love only with people who won't reject me. I should also probably stop immediately suspecting myself of the worst subconscious intentions, but one thing at a time.

Mary Jo, meanwhile, stayed only part of the time, kept the conversation light and entertaining, and left before most of the interesting bits happened. Too bad, there was some really interesting conversation going on, in between the silent social observation made by yours truly. It's wierd for me to not be involved in social settings, but there's a real attraction for me to it. That's probably the real reason why I smoke: I get an excuse to just shut up for a while and observe. I have to start doing that sober more often, stop relying on THC to do it for me. Besides, it is an expensive crutch.

The night ended up with me, the director, and Cheryl standing outside for two hours, talking of many things. Shoes, ships, sealing wax, cabbage heads and kings. Well, mostly we just bitched about and dissected Tony, Scrooge, and hated CJ, our Bob Cratchitt who left the show last week without notice because he 'need[s] to direct'. In the middle of it all, still mildly high, Cheryl started running our scene with me. I wasn't paying attention to the thrust of it until we'd started, so I got into it without thinking. I haven't done that in maybe 2 years. We ran the scene, without pretention, without trying to be actors, just listening to each other and reacting. It was wonderful, it was electric, and I was breathing hard by the end of it from the power I felt moving through me. It is flying. Douglas Adams, God rest him, described the art of flying in 'Life, the Universe, and Everything'. He says the trick is to fall, miss the groud, and then whatever you do don't think how odd it is to be flying. The second you do, gravity suddenly remembers you, and down you go. That's what it's like. You get your brain to step aside, and you keep it there, you never think 'oh shit, I'm doing it', or you suddenly won't be. It's like being posessed by a fragile, but powerful, spirit. It's getting your brain to cooperate that's the trouble.

I think it really affected Cheryl. I don't think that's ever happened with her before last night, I think she got to see what acting is, or at least what I conceive it to be. Hopefully this can be repeated, we can do it on-stage, and not in a parking lot. But I got out of my head, I escaped myself last night, and I haven't done that in a long time. I haven't lost it. For a few seconds, gravity forgot about me, and the kiwi flew.

So, to sum up, last night humbled me, exalted me, scared me, bored me, thrilled me, worried me, and shook me right the hell up. I need more nights like that.

�

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