Wednesday, October 10, 2007


I have been thinking a lot about mortality these days. My own and that of others around me. Especially the people I care most about. This closeness to death that I feel is the result of two losses within a few weeks of each other.

My Mother's cousin and, just this weekend, a very important person in my life losing her mother unexpectedly.

As much as I don't want to admit it, things often change at a pace that exceeds your ability to cope. Eventually you do, once perspective is gained, and the next time you are better equipped. However, I'm not certain that that perspective, that preparedness, leaves you any more able to handle the situation.

Today after the funeral I came home and sat on the couch. My Mother sent me a card and some articles from the Minneapolis Star Tribune and I have been staring at them for hours. I am still here, on the couch, listening to Peer Gynt Suite No. 1, Op. 46 : Ase's Death by Edvard Grieg on repeat. This has been my evening. I look at the card and then to my phone. I want desperately to call my mom, but I just can't seem to will myself to do it. As if calling her makes her more mortal and thereby able to be taken from me unexpectedly. And while I recognize the fact that this is illogical and silly on my part I'm not sure I have the strength to have that conversation with her tonight. And anyway, it's to late to call where she is and I like her to get her sleep. That is a half-truth I will allow myself this evening.

These things shake me. To look at me you would say that I am solid when things like this occur. I am not. I feel the loss deeply. It forces me to ask difficult question. Questions I have no way of answering. I try to stay solid and strong in appearance. Perhaps for myself, perhaps for others, or perhaps because I am a man. That last reason I don't buy much, but houses are wired in complex ways and so are we. Perhaps it's a result of work. What I do demands an openness, accessibility, and rawness. I do this in front of people for a living so much that I covet my privacy when it concerns these matters.

One night a few weeks ago I had the second scariest moment I've had onstage. I lived through a moment of truth. People in this business can understand that when this most rare of occurrences resides in you it can be a glorious thing. It can also be terrifying.

My character wants forgiveness. I kiss my partner, lead her stage right for a few steps, turn to stop her, and start my life. ( <---- is that a slip or what? Freud is smiling at me from somewhere. I have to leave it in because I subconsciously typed it when I really meant to type "line")

My line doesn't come out, however, because my mind says this to me: "Don't you realize that you are going to die. Once you are gone there is void. Don't create one in the time you have left."

I say this to myself with more honesty than anything I have ever said to myself. I say this, not my character. That moment and the questions it raises has yet to leave me.

I am going to sleep now. This post has rambled into something I hadn't originally planned on, but I don't really care. I think I just needed some weight off of my chest.

I love you all.

Mom, I'll call you in the afternoon.