Thursday, September 11, 2014

Early By And By

Five-thirty a.m.  My bedroom window is still dark, but I thought I heard birds chirping a little while ago.  Sleep is absent, so I'm writing instead.  

I'm beginning to think I fall too precisely into the dysfunctional artist stereotype.  Maybe I should consider trying on responsible grown person, or even stable adult sometime, just to shake things up, you know.  

Does everyone have this insistent, insatiable, overwhelming urge to try and connect with other souls through art, so strong that if they don't try to obey it, they start to suffocate inside?  Do they squash it, or ignore it, or find some way of managing it, somehow?  I'm so glad I'm allowed to teach now, because it's a kind of art, or at least it feels so to me.  It doesn't suffocate, the way some of my past jobs did, and that is a relief.

I've spent hours and hours this past year typing words into my computer, or revising my already-written words.  Hours more analyzing lines, memorizing, rehearsing, performing.  My last play ended a few weeks ago, so I auditioned for two new ones.  It wasn't really a choice; I had to.  It didn't matter that my desk was a mess, my calendar a study in chaos, my dishes and laundry piling up, and some bill or other probably overdue.  The theatre was calling.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe it all boils down to simply wanting to be somebody--or a somebody.  A desire for recognition, adulation...fame.  After all, it is quite pleasant to be greeted after a performance, hugged and complimented and patted on the back, or to see the pageviews climb into the dozens after an especially good post, or to hear someone recite one of your poems from memory, because they liked it that much.  To think how cool it must be to be a Rowling or an Allie or a Tatiana, to create and to create so well that thousands of people know your name.

To be a somebody.

Then again, that's a very silly motivation, because I already am.  There is no relative scale of existence; I wouldn't be more alive if more people knew me.  I wouldn't even be more loved.  Infinite love is the only thing holding me in existence, causing me to be, and if I strip away all my petty human desires for recognition and praise (but of course I never can completely), that's what I truly want: to be, to experience infinite love, and to be a channel for other people to experience it, too.  

It's amazing to be allowed to love truth and goodness and beauty in the form of a Person.  It's like something out of a fairy tale, not a normal fairy tale though, maybe like an Aristotelian fairy tale where the prince isn't a toad but a philosophical ideal.  If I were a princess, I would totally kiss a philosophical ideal.  An ideal has no warts, and also I think my metaphor is getting away from me.

My point is, God is amazing, and He made me to exist and that is even more amazing, and He made me able to make beautiful things myself and share them with people and that is the most amazing thing of all, and I don't care if I'm dysfunctional, I just want to do it all the time.

Compliments are great too, of course, don't get me wrong.

No comments:

Post a Comment