She said — to her, but I heard it — “Some people would love to have to make that choice.”

Deflections followed, the necessary defense. Who would want their problems diminished? We are our problems. I am, I know.

They say you cannot prove a negative, but I am proof. I define myself by what I do not, say not, am not. Each day sears me with decisions that are not mine, but for which I am responsible.

It’s fair.

That’s life.

Accept.

Except…

I burden myself with the dreams of others, hoping they will help in return, but I am not the red hen and they are always welcome at my table. The bread is gone, and I feel guilty I did not make more.

…and I shall give you no piece of my hidden heart

the sanctuary I have built and repaired after your several onslaughts

But you need not worry, because there is no piece worth having

I defend an empty hall and rest in a court with no people.

I had to stop at the grocery store before I came home, because we needed things like milk. As I lamented the needless contact and meandering fogginess of the people around me, I saw a new friend of whom M and I have become quite fond. We exchanged brief small talk, but then immediately learned of each other’s projects, and fell to, scouring our work for joy and meaning. She is more together than I am, of course.

She has recently made friends with a big-wig at the Rep, and she expressed his and her feelings that people seem to hate the massive theatre presence, and that they both wish there could exist better mentorship between that goliath and the smaller companies in its shadow. I had been in long talks at the Alchemist just the night before, proposing my takeover of smaller companies in order to provide guidance and a more united front for theatre arts in the city.

My heart warmed some to know that my people do exist out there. It is hard to feel alone. I passed the feeling on to a friend mired in doubt. I do want to help everyone. I will work as large as I can. Some more time for sanctuary is perhaps all I need.

It’s a pretty brutal job sifting through all that darkness.

-Butters

I see the unending, uncaring universe,
and my mind spins like a pinpoint galaxy on an angel-head axis,
so I work smaller.

I see plains on fire and bellies swollen with emptiness,
and I hand out my single sandwich and wave away the grasping hands,
so I work smaller.

I see stars and stripes as asterisks to mask screams of profanity,
and my clear voice only adds to the cacophony,
so I work smaller.

I see paints poured into sewer grates from golden pots,
and they run in to runoff, raising rainbow soap bubbles in slippery streams,
so I work smaller.

I see people cloistered so close they are closed,
and, I like them, put my nose to the grindstone, until it peels the irises off my eyes,
so I work smaller.

I see the simpletons in the seats, snickering so they know they have support,
and I point the same way and howl, my finger out as a growl,
so I work smaller.

I see my belly crack as it creaks wide, comfort claiming creases,
and I know the tears will abate for a few hours,
so I work smaller.

I see the tarnish on my silver thread
and the scrubbing only rubs it red,
so I work smaller.

I brush my teeth,
and check it off the list.

I’m good at theatre, and I hate it. Does that mean I’m actually bad at theatre?

I’ve spent 20 years of my life learning my craft, and now that I’m capable of creating at a high level all I do is compromise. Compromise does not feel like collaboration. My choices are to become a dictator asshole director, or to simply succumb to the pressures of external egos and make lesser art. Maybe theatre, despite my protestations, IS lesser art, because it resists the auteur? And to what end? To cater to the egos of the beautiful, the charismatic, and the capitalist?

Seems to me that joy is the province of the naive or the sadistic.