Poppy-headed Theatre
-----Confessions of a Drama
At a risk of sounding like a drama queen … well, actually I don’t care.
The System of Cikgu Tuko
Warning: Wall of text
The stage is bare.
The props are gone.
The players have left.
The story is told.
And I’m left feeling bereft – with nothing to fill. The most surprising thing, would be that, I was perhaps waiting and wondering why I felt the vacancy throughout the whole production.
I used some of the ‘isolation energy’ on stage.
There were remarked points during the play throughout the 10 plays, that I’ve been consistent in this feeling. The anger, the estranged frustration of wanting to fit in, of being a part of the whole, … trying to be a friend.
Trying to feel included, or at least waiting to be invited.
I felt like a ghost in the wall sometimes, wishing for a thought. Maybe they’ll think of asking me to come out and play.
.Sigh.
Ok – so I will hold myself accountable as well. I’d had imagined I was doing some preparation in truth and however much I hate myself for it, it was for the production. I intentionally kept to myself, whenever I could before call and standby. I waited on the side watching them bond and mingle and I cultivated that mood before getting on stage. But it scalds.
Did I have to do it?
Who knows … coz I didn’t get any feedback on whether it made my performance any stronger, and I just … stuck with it.
.Shrugs.
While they frolicked and conspired with the scenes, I was left guessing of the outcome on stage. At the least, it would have been nice to know what would happen.
My back is either turned away from the audience (which makes me un-relatable) or the ‘student’ (which alienates me from their skit). I do not participate, well partially so.
.Puzzled.
Should I have said something?
I have … as unobtrusive as I could into their sacred circle. But the more I tried, the more I felt I was simply disaffecting their delicate dynamics, and I had to stop and wait for an invitation. Which never came.
Sure, I’ll be extended the occasional jolly invite which in retrospect seem to occur, when I happen to be in close proximity, as an afterthought / consideration (last man in, anyone?), or simply the assumption that I would have known anyways and that I would jolly invite myself irregardless.
I guess its makes sense now. They really don’t know me nor the way I feel.
.Sad.
Its strange to feel understanding and envious. To reason and accept both the situation as it must exists and reconcile my conflicted feelings at the same time.
I know the stage manager has a great rapport with most of them as well, because it shows during the production. The nary invisible tugs and strings of camaraderie that exists beyond the stage walls. They were friends before the production and during.
I thought I was … until the production.
I believed in a virtual companionship instead. I thought I tried, I thought I’d made my intentions to be friends clear by expending a censure of effort to maintain contact, making plans to meet up … but I’m reminded it works two-ways.
But its ok.
That’s life, no? And the most convincing lies are often the ones we tell ourselves.
.Bemused.
I’m not saying that they were being bad, inconsiderate rude fuckers. Quite contrary.
Perhaps, in their conscientiousness to remain understanding, my need to connect was overlooked, over-assumed and subconsciously neglected.
Good intentions, hell and all that.
Or maybe, I’m just getting old. Disassociation and all that.
.Reasoning.
So am I sorry? No.
There’s nothing to apologize for. There’s nothing to forgive, no one did anything wrong. All I wanted to be was a devoted friend, and if I said or did anything unsettling, I didn’t mean it.
I told them every night, I told everyone in the production every night.
But I was drowned out.
I put on a good enough performance to make them look good, and do good they did, so maybe that’s why. I think everyone heard but no one listened.
.Detached.
So now –
I will leave it at that. The moment has passed, and opportunity only really knocks once regardless of how many times I hear the word “Its never too late”. We really can’t turn back the hands of time.
.Regret.
At a risk of sounding like a drama queen … well, actually I don’t care.
The System of Cikgu Tuko
Warning: Wall of text
The stage is bare.
The props are gone.
The players have left.
The story is told.
And I’m left feeling bereft – with nothing to fill. The most surprising thing, would be that, I was perhaps waiting and wondering why I felt the vacancy throughout the whole production.
I used some of the ‘isolation energy’ on stage.
There were remarked points during the play throughout the 10 plays, that I’ve been consistent in this feeling. The anger, the estranged frustration of wanting to fit in, of being a part of the whole, … trying to be a friend.
Trying to feel included, or at least waiting to be invited.
I felt like a ghost in the wall sometimes, wishing for a thought. Maybe they’ll think of asking me to come out and play.
.Sigh.
Ok – so I will hold myself accountable as well. I’d had imagined I was doing some preparation in truth and however much I hate myself for it, it was for the production. I intentionally kept to myself, whenever I could before call and standby. I waited on the side watching them bond and mingle and I cultivated that mood before getting on stage. But it scalds.
Did I have to do it?
Who knows … coz I didn’t get any feedback on whether it made my performance any stronger, and I just … stuck with it.
.Shrugs.
While they frolicked and conspired with the scenes, I was left guessing of the outcome on stage. At the least, it would have been nice to know what would happen.
My back is either turned away from the audience (which makes me un-relatable) or the ‘student’ (which alienates me from their skit). I do not participate, well partially so.
.Puzzled.
Should I have said something?
I have … as unobtrusive as I could into their sacred circle. But the more I tried, the more I felt I was simply disaffecting their delicate dynamics, and I had to stop and wait for an invitation. Which never came.
Sure, I’ll be extended the occasional jolly invite which in retrospect seem to occur, when I happen to be in close proximity, as an afterthought / consideration (last man in, anyone?), or simply the assumption that I would have known anyways and that I would jolly invite myself irregardless.
I guess its makes sense now. They really don’t know me nor the way I feel.
.Sad.
Its strange to feel understanding and envious. To reason and accept both the situation as it must exists and reconcile my conflicted feelings at the same time.
I know the stage manager has a great rapport with most of them as well, because it shows during the production. The nary invisible tugs and strings of camaraderie that exists beyond the stage walls. They were friends before the production and during.
I thought I was … until the production.
I believed in a virtual companionship instead. I thought I tried, I thought I’d made my intentions to be friends clear by expending a censure of effort to maintain contact, making plans to meet up … but I’m reminded it works two-ways.
But its ok.
That’s life, no? And the most convincing lies are often the ones we tell ourselves.
.Bemused.
I’m not saying that they were being bad, inconsiderate rude fuckers. Quite contrary.
Perhaps, in their conscientiousness to remain understanding, my need to connect was overlooked, over-assumed and subconsciously neglected.
Good intentions, hell and all that.
Or maybe, I’m just getting old. Disassociation and all that.
.Reasoning.
So am I sorry? No.
There’s nothing to apologize for. There’s nothing to forgive, no one did anything wrong. All I wanted to be was a devoted friend, and if I said or did anything unsettling, I didn’t mean it.
I told them every night, I told everyone in the production every night.
But I was drowned out.
I put on a good enough performance to make them look good, and do good they did, so maybe that’s why. I think everyone heard but no one listened.
.Detached.
So now –
I will leave it at that. The moment has passed, and opportunity only really knocks once regardless of how many times I hear the word “Its never too late”. We really can’t turn back the hands of time.
.Regret.
------
