On the way home from Stage last night (2300) the seniors started asking each other about our gaits. To describe them in one word.
I thought for a second and blurted “calculated, no, gingerly, no, ginger? Calculated.” They glanced around in mock surprise, asked if every step was a huge consideration and I answered in my usual way of peeping a cheerful answer before my rationality took the reins, driving my mumbles into murmurs.
We had a camp and script read today; the camp was largely improv-based (which boosted my confidence, seeing how Michael, who had blasted us the day before for being unprepared, was laughing voraciously at my adnittedly-clever use of “ice” and “gateway” to sell drugs to an Eskimo) while the script read was interesting in the way that made my eyes and mouth smile but shift restlessly on my crossed legs.
They nominated me as the Stage Manager, which the exco was rather respectful for, on the condition that I couldn’t act this time. I gazed blankly, discarding my ideas of being a manager both in Six Characters in Search of an Author and faked an enthusiastic, gracious thumbs up for the tough days ahead that Steph and Michael promised.
I didn’t know what they thought of my script reading… Was I bad? Atrocious? The medicine coaxed me to forget about it (it does that a lot I think) and I continued to talk to myself on the way back from the loo. The doubt is there but it’s not threatening me at knife point.
I was sure if I knew less than or equal to what the others did, and that this role, although not on Jesus’s level, was a huge sacrifice at least. Tears will be shed and my heart will be wrenched… Plans will be ruined. I don’t know. Maybe everything’s gonna work out just fine.
What’s the point of joining Stage if I can’t be an actor, though…
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