forté? fortissimo? forté.

the silly thing about it is when i try to describe how acting makes me feel, it comes out sounding cliché: "when you're onstage, y'know, you can be somebody you're not." s'true, though.

you could be a child, an apostle, with a blue flower painted on her face. you could be a giant, or the queen of england, or an ordinary housewife. you could be a shepherd. you could be some poor gil trying to throw herself off of albert bridge, or a firecracker of a cockney flower girl. you can be anybody, ANYBODY. anybody but yourself.

there's no problems. no worries. no weight of the world on your shoulders; if all the world's a stage, then you're standing on it. you can mask over your realities and emotions or use them, power them through your eyes and your mouth and your limbs. like an electric jolt. it's an intense outlet, and for me, it seems to be the strongest one.

tom waits' baby's leaving on the 2:19, and he don't know what to do. but he'll remember me. would anyone else? will i stick with the stage or will the gravitational pull of the camera lens lure me in? will i stay true either way? will fame be my lover?

your pull has already lured me in a bit. and you, far away--it's the first time i've really thought about you in months.









but if you're the person reading this, c, it's not you. no.

-d