Answering the Call

supramundane (soo-pruh-MUN-dayn) adjective

Above or beyond this world.

This whole week's been ridiculously stressful: It took me two nights to accurately submit an application for a job, during which I had to call old coworkers for references; regular evening storms have jarred me awake two out of three past nights; I'm blocked at a current spot in my play, that, in addition, has proven that I don't know what the hell I'm doing with Final Draft; my friend Justin is moving to LA this weekend and my friend Nate's in town from Arizona, making my ability to spend enough time with both of them super difficult; I have two auditions next week that I'm only half prepared for; and, all day at my job, all I can think about is my upcoming vacation. So, this morning, all that's on my mind--how's tonight's plan going to work? what's that line after Bruce talks about the gasman the first time? what if I put Act II in an interrogation room?--and then, while I'm opening up the office safe, the phone rings. At 9:15 AM, the only reason someone calls the desk line is to say they'll be late, an appointment took too long, slept in, loads of traffic, etc. That's what I expected; that's just what you expect. I picked up the phone, answered, and a coworker responds asking me if I'm the manager on duty. I am. Then voice starts to waver and she can barely say the words, "My aunt died."

Every ounce of stress from this week, every moment of tearing my hair, of staring at a computer thinking hard about the next sentence or an old job title or whatever, dissolved. Nothing, nothing compares to grief, to loss. What's so scary about all the bullshit I'm concerned with? What's so frightening? What's so overwhelming about all my human diversions? My God, have I lost focus? Someone I know, that I see almost every day, lost family, and I'm worrying about memorizing a couple pages of fiction?

Stress, worry--such self-imposed notions, such grey emotions. Life, love--so articulate in their expression. Yet, with which do I spend more time?

Sick on Saturday

identic (eye-DEN-tik) adjective

1. Relating to a diplomatic action in which two or more governments
agree to follow the same course in relations with another government.

2. Identical.

It's been quite some time since I last dropped any words in this online canister. Was I busy? Surely, sometimes. Was I lazy? Often, definitely. Regardless, today, as I sit on my couch, wind blustering in and out of the windows, a small ziplock of tissues at my feet, and tea cooling next to my laptop, I decided write again. To make a choice to write, and, more importantly, to choose to write something that need not be labeled as "good", "interesting", or "thought-provoking". Although I contend that those specific words rarely illuminate, they do sit heavy on my mind. Not in this blog really (how could they, you know? Thirty posts in a year or something?), but outside this blog, where I hope to create.

Do not write for the ends, write for the means. Focus not on the whole piece, but on a word, then the next word, then the next word, until you find yourself with a sentence. Like any art, to reveal something as "completed" marks a state of mind, not an end.

Oh, and as for the today's word, last weekend I saw SiCKO, and again found myself flung into the frustrating throngs of political disillusionment. I suddenly felt tossed into 2002, near the end of my college days and the very height of both my frustration and my action. Now, five years gone, as a day worker and a night performer, a renter and a consumer, I am further and further away from that self.