bairdduvessa

one I bought almost a month ago but was still in the Borders bag it was laying in. Fool for Love and other Plays by Sam Shepard. Turning through, flipping through the titles at random, trying yo catch what airs of mystery may lay with in each one. I bought the book a month ago looking for things to read, things to say in my microphone, to record, to listen-to improve upon my vocal and cognitive controls. My friend Erin ever recommended one specific Shepard play to me. However I cannot find it. I Did however find this. Suicide in Bflat.
Reading it, envisioning it, the characters-the actors in my head doing their parts. I became enthralled in the apartment where it takes place. Each joke made me laugh, each casual movement visually played out in my minds eye. Tool was playing on my computer, giving me a metal soundtrack to the advent guard soundtrack in my head.
Each beat in rhythm. Each rhythm in beat.
Hell, I could see myself as both audience and actor, although the actors soon began to take on their own physical states, far from my own.
How many of you have been upon the stage? And fell in love with its presence.
There is something rather intimate about being on the stage, all eyes fixed upon you as you play your part(s), becoming for a second a minute a life time what you are not. There you are naked in a sense, out there for everyone to see. You are perfect-ably vulnerable, the crowd could descend upon you in an instant ending the intimacy, raping your very essence, or the could give the thumbs down and the lions underneath the stage can come up to consume you for their ancient Roman feast.
And while you are there naked, aware of the fact that you are not really naked; you are aware that everything depends on you. If your line is not said right, however minor it could be, the atmosphere of the play changes the story mutates
Like a tuba in a concert band, the down beat falls upon you to establish the tempo even if it is your only note (something I am familiar with myself).
The is something powerful at the same time, there you are ready to be torn to shreds by the Sadistic voyeurs watching you-it is still up to you to tell them they are allowed to do so.
Standing before the people who want to kill and consume you, it is you who will give them the order to or not.
That is power.
It is pure, it is simple.

And I miss the fuck out of it.

Whether it was standing on the stage, after weeks/months of rehearsing just for a few lines just for your few seconds of godhood. Or being that musician performing a solo in front of people you have never met, nor ever will. Hell how many people do you know who got to play on the Boston Esplanade as well as the Boston Symphony Stage? How many people do you know that in front og hundreds of people played If I Only Had a Brian on his tuba a solo.

Or in the moments of darkness before a scene in a play, everything hangs upon your voice coming from the darkness of stage setting up each and every scene?

Oh dear lords and ladies of the stage. All you Deus Ex Machinas, I miss it terribly.

I wish that I could get the motivation to quit my job, give up this monotony of my life and head out there on the stage. To by metaphorically naked before the entire world again, to bear my inner voices on your ears.