But, yes. Do't and to bed then, you crafty devil. I am done with you. Or will be soon.
The hyperbole of theatre is "good for the soul but it's bad for the heart / It's very good for practicing self control / It's very good for morals, but bad for morale..." I mood-swing like crazy. I go from being wildly elated and electric and powerful and doing this thing I love to do, that I'm trained in, that makes me more wholly me, to feeling socially inept, unwanted, unlovely, awkward, and definitely NOT THE RIGHT AGE.
Not that I ever was, if there ever was such a thing as the right age.
And it's tiresome, to be lonely in company. Solitude has its own weight, sure, but its heaviness suffocates more velvetly, without that bitter acid edge.
All that said, that's... That's just the LOW. The lows of now, the lows of theatre, the lows of me. And mostly I'm not there. I don't dwell in the lowlands. I live in the heights. I live high up, both in outer habitat and in inner landscapes. Mostly it's GIDDY FUN to be in a play. And I speak the rest from weariness.
Tonight was lovely. In an odd moment of my theatre life conjoining with my literary life (HAS NEVER HAPPENED REALLY, though the reverse has happened, when I bring performance to my writing, etc), three of my fellow actors, for reasons of being sweet and supportive, read my novella "Martyr's Gem" which recently made an appearance in Rich Horton's Years Best Science Fiction and Fantasy 2014.
And so, I'm standing there, half-dressed in my royal blue velvets and gold-spangled snood, BEAMING ALL OVER MY FACE, as my fellow actors start talking about what they liked about Martyr's Gem, and Shursta, and Hyrryai, and the whole crew, and the over-arching themes, and catharsis, and world-building, and I can't help it, I start bouncing like a pogo-stick, and I love them all just for... just for being READERS, and for reading ME. And I felt GOLDEN in the glow of their eyes. And happy. And, you know, PAID ATTENTION TO.
"a girl's gotta do, after all
whatever she can
And it did much to wash the rest of it away. The rest of the sting of sadness, and the tiredness, and the readiness to give up theatre and just be a WRITER again, because at least then I can be ALONE with my WISH-FULFILLMENT, and give my inner fiends other meat to feed on than the fleeting fondness of my fellow men.
Oh, it all looks very silly. All of this typing. Here in words.
I AM SILLY. I know it. You don't have to say it. How revoltingly facile, really.
Sometimes I think I'm a great fool to feel anything ever. Wouldn't it be better (much COOLER) to be remote and mysterious and cold?
Sometimes I am that person too. But it never lasts long enough. It always melts in my easy blush of gratitude or of shame.
Tonight I am not cool. But I'm not ashamed either. I am... ZING ZOU ZOU!
All the golden things seem to glitter down at once, don't they? After my last scene, I have a good half hour till curtain call. So I was playing with my new phone, and there received an email from Shveta Thakrar pointing me to K. Tempest Bradford's article in i09 about the week's best short stories.
AND "WITCH, BEAST, SAINT" WAS ONE OF THEM!
AND BEK'S ARTWORK WAS FEATURED!
AND I AM SO HAPPY!
So, I don't even know.
I know ice cream. With Baileys.