The Kwento Times Reading Series Cast of Julie and the Starmaker, Bindlestiff Studio.
Being at this stage in life has made me reflect on the lifespan of creating performing arts–it’s so short. I think I’ve thought about it more in seeing so many friends in the performing arts. It’s like a work is performed in front of an audience for a really brief moment in time–like a short poem, to a song, a dance, all the way to a full-length 2 act musical. For an audience, that’s all they get to see, unless they’re like me and (if it’s good) come back multiple times, to see how that organic work changes over several performances. And for the artist, that work lives as long as they create and perform it. It’s doesn’t last.
I guess that’s what makes that art form special. That each moment, look, movement, and breath taken on a stage should be cherished because it won’t happen again.
But at the same time, that’s what makes me sad. It’s like a druggie rat race in trying to catch that “specialness” as one run closes and the hopes that another production can happen again. It can get depressing. I mean, I can hold on to the memories of that feeling of creating something that brings people together to laugh, cry, or move people to take action. But living in that cloud of before eventually goes away.
And that’s where I’m at. I’m just always chasing it. And I’m tired. And probably worse, it got me thinking if I’ll ever get there again. Get to the place where I convince myself I have value. That I still have purpose.