The Forge

"Live! I want to live inspired. Die! I want to die for something higher than myself, live and die for anyone else. The more i live i see--Live! I want to live on fire. Die! I want to burn out brighter, brighter than the Northern Lights, want to live to feel the daylight. The more i live, the more i see this life's not about me..."

~anberlin "Burn Out Bright"

Three scenes went up on Tuesday, and mine was the first. The professor held all feedback until the end. Then all of the performers and student directors sat down together to receive said feedback, and mine was first.

After a few accolades and comments, one of the directors spoke up, to the effect of the following:

"I feel like you're focusing on the audience response to you. It was really subtle, but it felt like you were registering our response and mentally trying to apply it to the performance. It was only at certain times, but it felt like you weren't completely in the scene." Another director agreed. "Sometimes you make these quick glances at the audience." The professor added her voice "I noticed that too, but i don't even think you're aware that you're doing it. It's subconscious."

The same professor who had previously pointed out photography as my major acting flaw returned to the subject when she said "You're soooo close. That's our one goal with you for this class, is to get you to stop being the cameraman, and get into the scene. Stop. Just stop it. Stop it."

I thought about this response for a good long while afterward, partly because i knew the improvement of my acting ability depended on my ability to follow the advice, and partly because i felt a certain hopelessness in ever fully abolishing such a deep subconscious part of myself. I wasn't sure why, but something in me said, well, dammit, i don't care. It's a part of me for a reason, and the last thing i'm going to do is perform surgery on my psyche for a grade.

Such a harsh response needed justification--real justification, something i could stand behind with full attention to ethos, and say this is who i am, and this is why i can't change. Having never owned a video camera in my life, and having only recently taken to photography as a hobby, i knew that this "problem" ran deeper.

My "problem," as defined by the directors, is that, unlike most people, i pay too much attention to myself and my surroundings. Not in a pretentious way--i do not necessarily assume people ought to be focusing on what i'm doing--but simply in an observant, third person way. Every action executed in such a way that a proverbial video camera would never catch me slipping up. That i do this is not the question, but rather why?

And then it dawned on me. I write.

I'm a writer. And what's more, i'm a writer of nonfiction. I do not write fantasy. I do not write action. I do not write romantic comedies. I write life. Specifically, i write my life.

I came to this college to learn how to write better. And perhaps i'll also learn to write differently. Perhaps i'll leave with a romantic comedy in my portfolio, or inspired to create the next Harry Potter series. In the meantime, my future seems to be stuck in the realm of the real. And since i am not privy to living the lives of other people, i am forced to draw from my own for source material. The minute i stop paying attention to what i and those around me are doing is the minute i lose my ability to write anything engaging, because i will have to depend on estimations of life rather than actual examples.

I will not--no, cannot--surrender this part of me. It is so deeply who i am that parting with it is not a goal i can conceivably allow myself to set. If that means that i never truly become an actor, that's something i can deal with. I'll have to deal with it.

So then, I enjoy acting, but i am not an actor.
I welcome the prospect of learning lighting and sound, but i will never become a professional technician.
I love music, but have neither been trained to sing nor play an instrument, and the opportunity to make a living from either is a ship that has long since sailed.
I love photography, and can definitely see it is an avocation, but i cannot stand being permanently relegated to a position behind the lens.
As i said, i am not a pessimist, but i am a realist. Whether i sound like i'm selling myself short or not, this is (save divine intervention) how things are going to pan out.

Which leaves me with writing. I enjoy writing, and have been told i am reasonably good at doing it. It is, as the saying goes, "what i do."

Michael Jordan plays ball. Charles Manson kills people. Nick Naylor talks. I write.

I've come to grips with what this means for my acting. But when advice i get from an acting professor becomes increasingly parallel to the advice i get from a friend about dealing with social issues, i am thrown off-guard. I can forego a career in acting, but i cannot in good conscience embrace a career in friendlessness. Doing so is to inherit the world at the forefeit of my soul.

As a friend recently put it: "friendship is about the other person. So whether they like me at that moment or not almost really doesn't matter. What matters is that I care for them. I just do. Unconditionally. Well, that's the way it should be anyway."

I don't really know how i'm going to reconcile my dependence on self-reflection with my need for selflessness, but i know such a reconciliation is necessary. That's the first step to recovery, no?

I've come to the conclusion that i'm not paranoid. There was a time when i thought perhaps i was blowing things out of proportion--and i'm sure i was--but just because something is blown out of proportion doesn't mean it's nonexistent.

I've had the opportunity over the last several weeks to work tech for the one-act festival and a sorority-sponsored fundraiser, and had a small acting role in the mainstage production. I've had the opportunity to see the same people day in and day out, sometimes for five or six hours straight.

I've also had the opportunity to stand there in a room of over a hundred people and watch them, in small groups and large groups, filter out of various black boxes, stages, dressing rooms and hallways, chattering and laughing with one another as they left. I've had the opportunity to catch the formation of plans to eat at restaurants, take shopping trips, and nominate places to hang out.

I've had the opportunity to stand in a room of over a hundred people and watch over a hundred people leave me perfectly alone.

With the single exception of an offer to go to a bar after one performance (which i gracefully had to turn down), i have received no invitation to go anywhere or do anything at all with these people.

I wonder how many people know what that feels like.

I just don't understand it. It's not even like i'm somewhere else when these plans are made: i'm standing right there, literally within a physical yard of the people discussing what they're going to go do, and yet i'm never part of the conversation. If i were to (as i have been known to) stay behind, i would not be (as i have not been) missed. No one turns and says "Aren't you coming, Adam?" or "Oh come on, you have to come!" No one turns and says anything at all. No one turns, period. Or if they do, it is simply to gut me with a parting. It is like poisoned chocolate, seeming sweet--for they say "goodbye Adam!" and "see you tomorrow"--but it hurts more than silence would have, as silence could not have said "you are not invited" as eloquently as such a parting.

The conclusion i must come to is that either i am not the sort of person worth including in the lives and activities of others, or that a good thirty or so people with whom i spend most of my extracurricular time are not the sort of people worth getting involved with. Either is a troubling prospect, since in the first case i cannot help but be who i am and in the second i am doomed. Consider that the path i am on dictates that i be heavily involved with the theatre for the duration of my stay here. Thus i am forced to more or less abandon any hope of pursuing deep commitments outside of the theatre community (i simply haven't time to be elsewhere). If i cannot truly befriend these people, then i shall live a friendless college career.

And what is the nature of a friend? He is more than one with which you get along while working; he is more than one with which you get along in general. Strangers can sit together at random for a meal and have a good time, but it takes a friend to plan the meal and send out the invitations; without friendship, a story is begun with meeting and ended with parting, but with friendship a story has a history and a future, and we play out the present with both in mind.

I cannot imagine someone a friend who pays no mind of me when we are not within eyesight of one another. If he never greets me outside of the demands that societal norms impose upon him--that is, when we are in close company, or else passing with proximity on a sidewalk or in a hallway--well then he is no friend. If i receive no call, no letter, no e-mail, no slight measure--indeed, no indication that he is aware of my existence--well then he is no friend.

Likewise, if i have wronged any that might desire me a friend in not exercising what i preach here, then a true friend will reprimand for the sake of the relationship. I say that he is no friend that does not send from time to time a token of the friendship; if there be any who feel they have been slighted of such tokens from me, i would happily have them tell me so, and i would be quick to recompense them in double measure what they have lacked in the interim.

In the meantime, i cast off the heavy burden that is the pursuit of friendship. We are warned to avoid being unevenly yoked, and i cannot think such words apply only to faith and romance, as the narrowminded are wont to consider these but words to keep the Christian from the pagan or the Jew. No, i think these words are fair warning for all relationships, and so must be carried across to the realm of friendship. Is it fair that one ox do all the pulling so that the work be done? Certainly not. Therefore, i refuse to be the ox that is used by a lazy partner. If a friendship demands that i put forth all my effort to yield but meager results, and that the other half, my "friend" would be equally happy being unyoked altogether, then what value can possibly be laid upon the friendship?

The answer is none. I do not have the energy or resolve to pour myself into unyielding bonds that wear a facade called "friendship" but are beneath this mask as far from true love as day from night. On this path i will soon exert myself past exhaustion, and find all my labor for naught besides, as my failure to continue the effort will mean the effort fails to continue. I'd like to believe that my earnest heretofore would be enough to prompt the other oxen to pick up where my efforts trail off, but--and call me a cynic if you must, but--i cannot in good faith expect that to happen.

I say that a friend is ever endeavoring to stay connected. If you read this, and in reflection discover that i have been ambitious in targeting you with such endeavors, then weigh carefully my meaning. I do not say that your friendship is worthless inherently. I do, however, say that after all this time if my affection has been unrequited, and if it continues to be so, then you expect a steady decline in such endeavors as i have more recently been engaged in. This is not to make anyone value more what they already hold in esteem, but to make aware those who currently hold our relationship in such slight esteem that it is soon to be abolished entirely, unless they give indication that they desire otherwise.

And so i give up being friends with those who would as happily not be friends, which is to say i give up nothing, as a friendship not worth maintaining was never a friendship at all. Consider that, then, a test to the bonds between us. If you would be my friend, then be it, and i will endeavor to be an equal partner in the enterprise. I would like nothing more than to be proven gravely wrong about my forebodings, to find that the paranoia was entire, and that the issue blown out of proportion were no issue at all.

Yet i am no optimist. I am no pessimest.
I am a realist, and reality tends to sting.

But that's perfectly fine with me. I have my epinephrine ready.

You're not worth it.
None of you demons in my head is worth the cost. So you might as well give up.
No. I can't make that decision.
It's not my decision to make. It's--complicated, i guess. I'm just saying, it's not mine. I can't--it affects more than just me.

This is what it's like. It hurts lots of people. Well, a few, anyway, directly, and then others maybe. No way to really know. But it's like, it hurts me. And it'll hurt God. And then it'll hurt someone else. Someone i may have never met before. Or maybe a really close friend. I don't know. Not my place to know. But the fact is, it's there, the reality of it all, and i have to deal with that. I can't keep being so naive.

It's too difficult to make that decision. See, me, well...i can do that. We all do it. We love to hurt ourselves, we do it all the time. Every time you pull through a McDonalds Drive-Thru. Or take that slice of cake. Or let your treadmill go dusty. Those papers you save for writing right before the deadline. The hours you should have been resting, but spent gallivanting around the city, or glued to a computer screen. You say you love yourself. Most of the time you say that to justify your actions. But if you really, and i mean really loved yourself, you'd take a lot better care of yourself. Face it. You know it's true.

But, okay, you don't care about yourself. So then there's God. That's easy, too, because you cheat him so often it's hard to consider the ramifications of just one specific action. Whenever something goes wrong, you blame him. You like the idea of it being his fault, because then you don't have to take responsibility for yourself. You live in a country that is at once the most self-centered and egocentric in the world, and yet least willing to accept personal responsibility for its actions. So you point the finger at God, and step nonchalantly in to the next Burger King, the next night club, the next adult video store. You don't care about God at all. Besides, what's one more lash on an already broken back?

But then it comes down to the other and you get real still. Because that's different. Stab me, stab my religion, whatever. But most people can't just stab their friends. And even fewer can stab a total stranger. Especially in this case. It's the most beautiful person you've ever seen, even if you don't realize it yet. Someone you'd like to spend your whole life with. Providence says you can do so. But here you are, taking that beautiful face, and spitting in it, kicking it to the ground, grinding it into the mud with your boot, and all for what?

You can't justify it. None of you can.
Just not worth it. None of the demons in your head are worth the cost.
So tell them to give it up and leave you alone.
It's not your decision to make.

Cut the vines.

Last semester i had to select two works from our survey of British literature and draw comparisons between them in an eight-page paper. This was my opening paragraph:

In 1925 Thomas Stearns Eliot composed "The Hollow Men," describing a collection of individuals stuck between two kingdoms of Death, forced to remain in the first out of anxiety about the second. Yet the hollow man is not limited to Eliot's imagination; he exists everywhere, if one is careful enough to observe. Eighteen years before Eliot alerted his readers to the presence of these beings, James Joyce was completing the fourteenth chronicle of a work he would call Dubliners. It was the story of Gabriel Conroy and his experience on one particular January 6th, the feast of the epiphany, and like each story in Dubliners, "The Dead" emphasized the paralyzing effect that Ireland's capital could have on its inhabitants. Gabriel, much like Eveline (of another Joycean chronicle), is a man who experiences a great deal of passion, only to have it snuffed out by the most improbable of matters. They are people stuffed with ultimately fruitless emotion. The inhabitants of Dubliners are, in short, archetypes of the hollow man.

I assumed most people would be familiar enough with "The Hollow Men" to make alluding to it in my own poem a worthwhile endeavor. Otherwise my omission of the final line of the poem (which you are meant to anticipate as the entire point of the poem) sort of undoes the effect. For those unfamiliar with the poem, i'd suggest a read through. The hollow men are many things, but the area i focused on was motion through the poem: they begin "leaning together," and are found subsequently swinging, trembling, groping, dancing and, finally, running. Clearly the energy of the poem is mounting with each passing stage, until we get to the final four lines.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Compare this with my summarized version:

Building, spinning, raging, on the threshold of a brand new day, a brand new dream, a brand new kingdom, and then
Nothing.
This is how the world ends.
This is how the world ends.
This is how the world ends.

I then proceed to explain the whimpering finale, and why i wanted, for a moment, to disappear entirely.

It's strange, really, that when i wrote my paper, i'd never considered myself among the ranks of these poor, destitute creations. In fact, i don't think i considered translating their story into real life at all. To me, while the hollow man could be found many places in literature, it was never considered that he might also exist many places in my world. And yet, as i wrote my poem, i realized the true meaning of Eliot's words, because i was experiencing them first hand.

It's difficult to really explain what happened that night. From the moment i woke up, my day began to build in momentum. Class discussions were fun and lively, work was canceled, and before i knew it i was at the outlet malls buying clothes for that night's homecoming dance, which i thereafter attended. I moved from group of friends to group of friends, and as the night rolled on i found myself quite happy with the way things had worked out. As far as i could imagine, the party would rage on until 11:30, and then "Closing Time" would play, and i'd slip happily back to my room and crown my exciting day with well-wanted sleep.

And yet, as quickly as the energy had mounted, it was gone. Absolutely abolished. And all for one little thing. Well, little in the eternal significance of the event, but as far as my night was concerned it could have had severe ramifications. "I saw her see me seeing her." Eliciting no response despite the clear fact that eyes had met, my energy came crashing down. I had imploded. Somewhere, echoing in the distance, a man walking his dog heard a whimper.

I never really recovered from it, at least not for the rest of the night. We watched a comedian on television for awhile in Jordan's room, and i was laughing and such, but something must have been tugging at me subconsciously, because "i left his room, left the hall, left the floor, left the building, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and then suddenly i wanted nothing more than to step out of existence."

Some people live for entire months and years in the heavy shadow of depression; i simply passed through its kingdom for a moment. There was an undeniable urge to just start walking. I was still in party dress, sans suit jacket, and therefore entirely unprepared for long exposure to the elements. And yet, air chilling my breath, i stared down the sidewalk and momentarily considered just walking until i passed out on the side of the road.

Thank God my eyes teared up and i was struck with inspiration to write that poem. I'm not depressed, nor am i in any way suicidal. But i daresay anyone who has lived in the realm of heightened emotion comes to this point some time or another. Faced with the fork in the road, the desire to end the struggle must at least for a moment seem more appealing than a road marked with suffering. And so it must have for me, in a moment i still consider surreal, as i stood there, numb in more ways than one, considering my options.

Yesterday's homecoming was gorgeous. The parade was thrilling--well, i love music, anyway--and the light was perfect for photography. Sure, we lost the football game, but then again it is Grove City. And the fall party was quite fun, even if i knew barely half the people there. So, clearly, the road of suffering has its merits.

I saw her again and she was laughing. Sparks flying.
Maybe she didn't see me that night after all.

"They say when you meet the love of your life, time stops, and that's true.
What they don't tell you is that when it starts again, it moves extra fast to catch up."

I said "ashes, ashes, we all fall down." That's the nursery rhyme. It's a game, a dance, that involves running in circles. Energy builds. And then the children collapse to the ground. Dust. Cold. No spark at all.

But that's not all. Because it's just a game. Everyone plays their part, and their part involves ashes and falling down. But then they get up. Children laughing. They move on. We move on. Time breaks free of the chilling grasp and resumes, hot, ready for whatever comes next.

There’s a part of me I’ve compromised,
buried somewhere under ghosts of lies.
Make it quick, make it sick,
turn the crank and just play the greatest hits... sigh.
There’s a part of me that I despise,
pull the curtain back and see what dies.
Emerald spires of the near profound,
let’s burn this lousy city down.
~BS2

Not as far from Titan as i'd hoped;
Perhaps Reese has been reading my mind.