Crossroads

I don't want to end up like some characters I've seen in movies lately. Namely, I'm referring to Paul Giamatta's character in Sideways, and John Turturro's character in Box of Moonlight.

The kind of guy that hides behind a white Oxford shirt because he thinks it imparts authority.

The kind of shmoe who reads thick rules manuals, uses a specialized vocabulary and adopts a preening, uptight demeanor when he's in trouble socially.

Someone who uses the term "I've got a very important phone call to make", to get out a situation he doesn't like.

I see myself sometimes in these fictitious men, and it disturbs me. I'm fighting an internal war, it seems. On the one side is the suburban guy who gives it his best 40 hours a week in khaki pants, and on the other is the artist guy who lives to mock the world and be known. Perhaps we're all just various combinations of these two archetypes. But lately, for me, they're becoming almost two separate lives.

Where is the bridge that connects the two? Should there even be one? How to reconcile the prosaic and the fantastic in my life?

I suppose the reason I bring this all up is last night I had the opportunity to attend a friend's opening weekend performance at Freehold Actor's Studio in Seattle. We went out for drinks afterwards, and I felt ridiculously shy and withdrawn, clumsy even, for most of the night. I sat there at a long table with the other actors and had a couple of beers and kept wondering why I wasn't being more present. This was, after all, exactly what I want most from my life - to be among artists, actors, playwrights on the evening of an opening in which we'd all shared.

But my Inner Suburban Guy wasn't having any of it. He kept monitoring the scene, noting all the black clothes, piercings and cigarette smoke and feeling quite uncomfortable. Wondering how to approach the bartender and order drinks without drawing too much attention to himself. Thinking I had to buy everything for the artists, even though they are able to afford classes I can't at Freehold. (Tuition is several hundred dollars per class). It was ludicrous. I'm like a stone golem when this kind of anxiety creeps in - mumbling, stiff and unsure of myself.
Every interaction is forced, every sentence out of my mouth carries no weight and drags on interminably. It's painful to witness.

But at the same time, Inner Actor Guy was revelling to the point of bursting. I introduced myself to all the actors I could recognize and bugged them about their work, their histories, all of it. They were like shamen to me - people who had accessed the Holy Fire, and had all come to some dive bar to huddle over it. There was a hunger dwelling inside of me last night that would devour them spiritually and then atomically redefine my DNA with their quicksilver energy.

So, all night long there was this absurd tug of war going on inside of me psychically between the safe, dull Suburban life I've led up to now, and this ravenous dancing Artist who keeps me churning. I don't know how long I can reconcile them, because the effects are starting to become cumbersome and debilitating. I'm wasting valuable time, not only with my life, but with the people I care about the most. Because at this rate, both sides of me will never flourish, but end up slumped in the corner - sedated and drooling with a ten-mile stare in my eyes where the spark used to be.