Rain falling, power going on and off and on and off and on and off and on then off. And this time it stays off. So I leave my house and drive. I love driving. I was a colicky baby. How many times was I told I didn’t stop screaming for months after my birth? Far too many to count. When my poor frazzled mother could stand it no longer she’d put me in the family Rambler and drive. It calmed me. And although I remained alert…I was quiet. And my mother could rest.
Listening to Glenda Jackson talk about…well…everything. I find everything she says fascinating. Whether it be about acting or politics or life…she feeds me. Always has. She started…really started with Peter Brook very shortly after my birth…I like to believe there’s a link there. Even if Glenda has no inkling of my existence, her existence is paramount to me. Patron Saint and all. Earthly Saints are so often unaware of the minions they save. Probably better that way. It might make them self conscious, dim their light. And I prefer my Saints luminous.
There are times when I think…what’s the point? I always quickly remind myself of what the point is but the question lingers.
Happiness. Contentment. Life well lived.
Whether checking out people’s groceries at Safeway or taking their dinner orders at the rockin’ Rock-ola or tearing their tickets and showing them to their seats at the theatre or casting them in this or that or acting opposite them or coaching them…regardless of whether or not I feel passionately about the actual job I’m doing…the specific job I’m being paid to perform…it all becomes less and less important as I grow older. What I do for money is ceasing to matter. To do what I’m passionate about makes me grateful…but to do what makes it possible to support myself and my family does too. So passion or no…paying the bills and affording a life that keeps smiles on all of our faces…is enough.
Life guarantees nada. And that’s okay with me. I learned how to deal with that about the time Glenda Jackson started working with Peter Brook.