(no subject)

:
It may be springtime, but it is winter on our stage at the Orpheum Theater. Yes, dear reader: after interminable delays (more of which I shall speak of), our Ibsen revival opened last week with yours truly in the title role of Hedda Gabler. We will follow with the scandalous A Doll's House, next the passionate Love's Comedy, followed by the ever-relevant An Enemy of the People, and then the melodramatic Ghosts. If our revival is popular enough, we will have an extended show; I have petitioned for When We Dead Awaken, despite my unfamiliarity, but it is more likely that we will close Peer Gynt, instead. That would be unfortunate, as I feel our staging cannot even approach the Natatoria Neptuni's.

We have taken too long to get ourselves on the stage, and I have myself to blame. I should not be both an actor and a producer. I have too strong a personality. People fall in line with what I say too easily, and I lack the discipline to be a proper leader. This long time has weighed heavily upon my old standbys. We have a few old faces and a few

I had known T___ since my days before I called myself Xin Jin Meng. He has always been a supporter of my work, and he has helped bolster much of my early work. I can tell he has not enjoyed the changes he has seen in me, nor has he enjoyed our recent work. I suppose he is a hanger-on in the classic sense of the word. In our early productions, he was prop-master for our ornate Spanish and French operas; what he lacked in skill, he compensated with enthusiasm.

I have always found him to be somewhat of an enigma. He is not a typical theater person. His appearance is unkempt. His sexuality is quotidian. He does not smoke, or drink, or otherwise engage in intoxication. His knowledge of theater is casual, at best. Our most recent row, however, was about politics, which I know I shouldn't be discussing, but some days I get so angry. Those of you who are my familiars know what I believe; my acquaintances must surmise from what they know of my liberties. Our stage manager, who has known T___ as long as I have, recently speculated that the reason for his reactionary bluster may be because it makes him stand out among us lackadaisical bohemians. I cannot say.

Three nights ago, our production was finally open to the public. It took much of my resolve to avoid reading the reviews -- if they were too good, I would be tempted to make changes in my performance; if they were too poor, I would be despondent. No, I force myself to listen to the director. (For at least an hour a day, I meditate under the Veil of Maya to mask my own ego. Sometimes, I am successful.)

Later, I discovered T___'s room was empty. He had taken his articles and packed up, without a word. A theater always has people about, some folks remarked on his passing. Honestly, I can't spare the time to worry about him, and I must quash the part of me that likes to worry. It saddens me that I could not work with him, but frankly there are many who can serve as prop-master in our modest plays, and I can't waste resources culturing loyalty at the expense of the show. I hope he finds a way.

Afterwards, with myself still in makeup and dress, I lounged with the younger folks who discussed the latest in popular culture. I smiled and nodded appropriately, as much of it was lost between my ears. Eventually, I excused myself to retire to my room, where I recited my lines while staring into a long mirror, until I reached sufficient excitement for orgasm. Heaven above, I know in my heart of hearts, this is why I wanted to be a part of the production. I hope this doesn't become habit-forming.