the voice

I have been speaking with someone else's voice for the past day. The tone has become flatter, the timbre unfamiliar, and the cadence unremarkable. My dry wit and sharp asides usually spoken under my breath ring differently, perhaps too loud or too forced as if merely my own dialogue without discernible inflection on the page loses all of its meaning. Quiet has become much more attractive and mono-syllables seem to make better sense.

At last night's show I kept getting peculiar stares and reactions from my friends and fellow artists. One of them wanted to record it, perhaps for posterity or a future prank. Another was exceedingly flirtatious due to the deep, rough, raspy nature of my every breath. None of them seemed aware of how differently they were treating the "new" me. Being stuck with such an ailment seems akin to getting rhinoplasty, I should suppose. One becomes identifiable by certain key features and characteristics.

The voice happens to be a significant one.

Given my penchant for metaphor and symbolism, this whole scenario speaks (dare I say) to something greater.

The third weekend of the show wrapped up last night. The show has been going exceedingly well since I last wrote. That rough night seemed to be a minor speed bump in our brief four week run. In my mind, the best show happened last night as everyone appeared in top form, our audience was at its largest, and my family came into town to see the show. It has been an uphill battle for the last sixteen or so years, as I have struggled to get any regard for my true identity, the fuel of my existence.

This was the first time they made an effort to support something I've done creatively. As someone who grew up feeling unheard and like little more than the mumbling outcast, it seemed reasonable that my literal voice would go out on me. Last night as I stood there on stage introducing the show, speaking with someone else's voice, I found that the presentation and my involvement therein were left to speak in ways I could not.

Suddenly a spark of interest from them!

A couple months ago my life calendar flipped the last few pages between thirty and thirty-one. I felt the self-assessment bug biting and watched as another year flew past without my own satisfaction. Out of nowhere my knees started locking up, keeping me up all night, making stair climbing a challenge, and generally moving me from one place to another at a geriatric pace. Then a friend solidified things for me, offering me the energetic meaning behind the knees. It's said that the condition of the knees represent how one moves forward in their lives.

That was the light bulb I needed! I had come to a standstill personally and professionally. It all made perfect sense. This realization refocused my energy, but the new plans and re-assessment of goals only moved me so far as I became more and more distracted with this play, in support of someone else's voice.

Lately I've not been putting ink to paper, or fingers to keyboard, or feet to pavement in support of my own desires. In a way I see it as a metaphor for a loss of literal personal voice. As a writer, I've been sculpting my voice, my place in it all for so many years, nearly tapping into it on a number of occasions. Sure, one facet of me comes through my involvement as the oil to the gears of this theater production, but a big part of me is left wanting.

Losing a voice, even in the slightest, offers the chance to listen more, to be more selective in your speech. It gives me thoughts of that great old show "Northern Exposure", whether Marilyn Whirlwind's deliberate contemplative cat-like silence or Chris Steven's episode long voice loss that led him to this on-air speech:

"After my recent brush with voicelessness, I thought I'd share with you a few thoughts about speech. Don't take it lightly my friends. If music is the pathway to the heart as Voltaire suggested, then speech is the pathway to other people. Live in silence and you live alone."

Somewhere in all of this a point lies. I find myself fascinated by the intersections in life. The collusion of these elements are always easier to see and examine closely in a book or a film, but when it comes together in life there are fewer barriers, fewer finite truths, but for me right now I see something to ponder.

So as my illness-related post-concert strain of voice continues to cross my lips, I wonder what I'd really like to say when I can speak with my own voice again...

paying dues

The life I lead never seems to warrant frequent posts in this journal. I let so much time pass between them. I go about my business, forgetting that I even have one or that I've been neglecting (if nothing else) some facet of myself. I find it far easier to step away from my little-read ramblings than most any other daily distraction that suits my fancy.

My main focus of late has been some menial labor in a local theatre. I fill the shoes of a stage manager. The show got underway last week to an opening night filled with strong performances and spirited applause. The review from that particular performance was in the local paper today. It was quite a glowing write-up, giving appropriate credit throughout the talented cast and offering a decent run-down of the play itself.

Tonight we entered our second weekend on a rainy night with some strange energy. Though more responsive than our weakest night last weekend, the audience seemed distracted. Some of this became reflective in the cast as the positive review and dead audience seemingly blended together and seeped into the performances to create a less than stellar evening.

Things were just a bit off, and being in the non-creative backstage position I am, I was left to bear the brunt of actors who disbelieved my encouraging words and who placed me in the continued position of a librarian as I continually attempted to keep everyone quiet while off-stage. There's a disconnect the actors can have between their on-stage and off-stage demeanors that allow them professional strides in front of the audience that quickly becomes conversation and cigarettes backstage. To a point I could only wish for this, since I have to be "acting" in my role the whole time. This leads many to misinterpret me in a variety of ways and creates a wall I'd prefer wasn't there.

The thin line that exists between the social and the professional are one of many things that draw me to filmmaking as a career. I know that theatre moves through a similar space. I get the feeling it is not really my place and I have admittedly reacted quite well to the expected culture shock. What gnaws at me is how I keep getting caught up in this cycle of doing behind-the-scenes grunt work that advances other's goals and helps earn them praise while leaving me nowhere particular.

...

After the show, I walked into my darkened house with tired feet, a tinge of hunger, and minor bruises to my ego. Each step seemed louder than the last as my wet boots smacked kisses upon the wood floor. Following my predictable computer time of checking e-mail and whatnot, I put together some munchies and popped in the "Wonder Boys" DVD. This little gem is one of my go-to films when I'm feeling down about my writing or my career in general.

Add to that, a rotten night at the theatre.