ON THE WAY TO LONDON
I’ve spent the whole day rummaging through all my closets. I’ve been packing, but as always with these simple intentions, I stretched the agenda to include switching some clothes from wire hangers to plastic and vice versa (Danny Dearest?). Relocating some garments, by putting all short sleeve shirts together and all winter clothes in the same place instead of scattered around at random. Giving up on pants and shirts that are definitely too small and putting them in the hall closet with a note on the hanger. My brother Bob, or Ed, gets those. It’s fun to do this. But it’s perplexing, too, because I keep getting sidetracked. So many questions. How many bags? Which ones? Okay. So, what will I be wearing?
It’s summer, luckily, so almost all of the clothes are light, of cotton or linen or both. Tee-shirts. I believe in the ease and function of tee-shirts. They seem like no clothes at all, as if they’re weightless in the luggage, and infinitely versatile. Wear one with a suit—nouveau chic—or with jeans, of course, as expected, or under a long sleeved shirt for extra warmth (but not too much). They’re so slight that I can take ten or even fifteen and not feel that I’ve gone too far, taken too much, overburdened myself, and then have every color I can imagine just in case I need to match a pair of socks or get bored and want a surprising new combination of contrasts. I know damned well that I’ll end up wearing a few of the same clothes over and over again. And who else cares? No one will notice. What am I afraid of? Of boring myself? It’s working in a prison yard, rearranging and reordering and stacking and aligning and noting and recalling, giving a false value to things, which don’t really matter. Making time, spinning wheels, shuffling along, is all it is; this flurry.
I’m relieved today, now that I’m ready to go. Rehearsing the play is all that matters. I’ll be too busy to think about clothes. I’ll be in an intense revery, pounding lines into my brain and repeating ad nauseum words and moves—no, I won’t get sick of the work for weeks. I may not ever wear out and wish it over. Yes, I always want to get to the end of an assignment. I want to start, to continue, to end. I want all the phases, thank you.
Girls in high school used to cry when the play was over, remember? I was always glad. Let’s get to the next project. Movies go on. They follow you. You hope they’re not bad, so that they haunt you. But a play goes away. It’s smoke. It lives in the memories of those—few—who saw it, some people write or tell you. Not for long. You can barely remember the details, especially years later. You remember very little. That’s good. Move on.
Having the experience matters, that’s all. Living. For me, acting. Actors are forced to take action. We act! We can’t deny life, our very work demands participation. Maybe that’s why actors seem immortal—or at least youthful, energetic, enthusiastic. Ours is a therapeutic exercise. When you’re doing it right you are only, blessedly, in the moment, unaware of anything outside yourself. It’s that state of utter relaxation many Eastern spiritual disciplines speak of or seek; being in the moment, without desire, clear, unencumbered, restful, fully alive moment to moment to moment. It’s a refreshing state to be in. You’re telling a story, being a story. Some writers say that, after food, story-telling is the greatest need of humankind. Could be. I know you can’t wage war or peace without it. The Iranians and Iraqis could not possibly have continued their war, and they can barely live in peace, because they will not allow the belly dancers to tell their stories. We have Bob Hope and singers, dancers, actors telling things—stories—that make us laugh, cry, and relieve loneliness. Maybe actors are lonelier people themselves, so that they must always be telling stories in order to feel involved, needed, necessary; not left out.
I know darn well the clothes don’t matter, except insofar as they help me function in London so that I can go about preparing the story we’ll be telling. The clothes tell my story, partly. They’re my costume, aren’t they? They entertain me, amuse me, comfort me, while I scuffle, run, and jump around. The bags are scuffed now. I’m trying not to go back into them. I’m trying to put away everything in the apartment, as I aways do when I leave. To leave it neat, clean, and welcoming for the next visitor. But the order gives me freedom. Life is complex and messy. It’s dirty out there—too noisy and confusing. I have to be relaxed, clear, and undistracted, so I can tell our tale. It’s full of what? Signifying. . . I beg your pardon? And what did you say that makes ME?! Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Have a nice piece of fruit, then I’ll act out a story for you. Okay?