I plunged back into the creative maelstrom yesterday, and it was like reconnecting with that one special drug that lights up your synapses and makes the world seem like a friendly animal that wants to be your bosom buddy. Or something like that. My little theater group has embarked upon another little blast of madness, this time a playlet and loosely connected collection of songs that at least in my head could turn out to be a glorious little folly of sound and fury.
There is some kind of kick to be had working out on a stage (any open space), pretending to be some other character, mouthing lines that wouldn't normally pass these parched lips. Nothing like setting aside some creative space, with no concerns beyond putting on a good show. Combine that certain acting challenge with a rambunctious musical sidecar and, well brother, you are approaching that mythical territory called nirvana.
Part of the maddening pleasure is in the realization that there is no perfect performance, only approximations, valiant attempts, furtive stabs at the target. So you can never be satiated, never be filled to the brim, never lose that fire, it is an unrequited love, the gift that keeps on giving. Not a bad way to occupy a life.
