In the so-long-ago-it-seems-like-it-happened-to-someone-else, I made a stand and withdrew from the MA program at Texas Women’s University. I was young and had hope and a purpose so I picked a side, Process based evaluation vs. Product based evaluation.
It seems such a senseless argument, particularly for Theater program, but I firmly believe that there are some prices too high to pay for a performance and that, to some performers, the process is the goal. If only I remembered that a scant nine years later when my brain exploded because I was trying to have the perfect body while being the perfect performer, but I digress.
Still and all, I’m where I have chosen to be career-wise, such as it is and overall, I think I made the right choice, as when push comes to shove, I want to go out knowing that I fought the good fight and did the best that I could.
That being said, I’m tired of waking up scared.
Not scared in that there are zombies trying to munch on my tenderized brain as I flee, a flurry of post-it notes in my wake.
No, I’m talking real fear. The fear that comes from knowing you are doing your best and still watching yourself drown.
The house has sold. (Whee!) Now I have about 30 days to get everything out/sold/trashed and find somewhere new to live. I’ve started sifting through the detritus of a dissoled marriage and stuff Steve left behind. There are a few things that Actor Boy left when he went to college. There’s not a few things of BatBeard’s that I need to relocate.
And then there’s my stuff. I know it’s just stuff. But it’s not just stuff.
It’s the piano, that I fondly refer to as August Wilson. My grandfather bought it for my mother when she was learning to play the piano. It was convereted from a player piano so it can’t be retuned; it needs to be restrung.
It’s books. My favorites and a few that were gifts. It’s the book that is a compilation of Bob Dylan’s lyrics; the songs that got me through the days of madness as my parent’s marriage dissolved and I tried to finish college
It’s the drafting table. The last vestige of Fort Worth Theater. Steve Garrett rescued it from the rubble and it’s mine.
It’s the pictures. The oil painting that Steve had in his living room and the framed Georgia O’Keeve print that my mother had framed for my ex-husband. It’s the pictures that have to be gone through, all of the wedding pictures that need to be stored or discarded because the frames might mean something to someone else.
Yes, it is all stuff, and I do have to process all of it. Very soon.
Because in all of the stuff, there’s the memories. There’s the TEN, 10, ten mason jars of pickled corn that my Esther Hembree put up for my ex, back in the days when there was a Homefort in Tracy City.
I have the jars and I am more than a little resentful that I have custody of the corn and the jars and I have to move and find a place for a piano because someone else screwed up. (Or down, you remember, girl with the little rat face and teeth that make an x in front.)
And then there’s the fear that it’s all ending anyway, so who cares?
Because, as you know, in the litany of choices I made, the biggest one involved me promising to keep my students safe.
We are in a world where that is becoming exponentially harder as hate spews from the mouths of those who have more guns, more money and more voice than the rest of us.
I know I have plenty to do without worrying about this, too, but I do.
It’s part of the process.