Just January Scribbles

Tell me what you plan to do with your one, wild, precious life?: Mary Oliver

Just January Scribbles

Responding to the prompt copied above, I doubt that I will be doing much samba dancing, given that I just celebrated my seventy-fourth New Year’s Eve, walk with a walker, and live in a nursing home. I do plan, however to continue, as I can, attending the Halsted Center once a week. Everything else will catch as catch can.

Frankly, I am tired, so tired I wonder if I have chronic fatigue syndrome. I wake in the morning feeling worse than I did when I went to bed the night before. Yes, I know there is more to chronic fatique that this. I’m probably using the idea as a justification for my procrastination, but everything is a struggle for me. While I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time, gearing myself to go out into the world, however much I enjoy it when I do, going out is always a battle.

One thing I do want to accomplish, this year, is getting my poetry into the wider world. The problem is figuring out how to do it, what resources I need. Self-publishing has been suggested to me, as a way, but that requires skills (and money) I don’t have. I also have a problem with the idea of self-promotion. My training as a child was to shut up and sit down. It is probably that training that got in the way of my realizing my dream to be an actor. I never knew how to push myself as a product, and feel uncomfortable doing so.

O.k., I really didn’t want this entry to be a long bitch, so I’m going to try to end this theme, here.

Yesterday is gone,
Tomorrow is not yet here.
I have only, today.


Writing off the cuff is not as easy as it seems, especially in an allotted time. There come long stretches of empty time, empty head.

I had a dream, last night, that I received a call from an old director of mine, asking me to fill in at a public speaking engagement for someone who abruptly cancelled his agreement to do it. In the dream, his voice on the phone sounded, for lack of a better term, other-worldy. It was faint and distant, and I remember asking him if he was alright.

After a moment of panic and fear I agree to fill-in, warning him that it would be an entirely impromptu experience. He said, “You’ll do fine, you always do.” I woke, convinced for a small moment that the dream was reality. Realizing that it was just a vivd dream, I began to wonder at the reason for it.

I have not heard from this director in thirty plus years, even though I was, with his wife, an actor he never read for a part, just cast. He showed an enormous amount of trust in, and appreciation of, our ability. I did a number of plays with him, from walk-ons to character leads. He once told me, after a performance, that he didn’t understand why I wasn’t making the big money. I could only say that I didn’t either. His wife, on the other hand, was a gifted performer who chose, for reasons I do not know, to stay small. Perhaps the fact that she and the director had a special needs son was the largest reason.

But I am drifting from the dream story.

I am not a person who claims premonitions. As a predictor, I tend towards being a counter-Cassandra; the exact opposite of my predictions happen. Still I wondered if I had not, somehow, been visited with an announcement of his death. Having lost contact with both he and his wife (I had been told some years ago, that the two of them had divorced and he had now connected with some younger, blonde hussy (as my informant described her). I’ll have to check the trades.


About elrondsilvermaul

I never know what to say about myself. I let what I write try to speak as to who I am. I can only add, here, that I am 72, live in a nursing home, am twenty years a cancer survivor, and identify as a gay male. I intend to use this blog as storage for poems? written over the long years (and still being written). This does not preclude other uses.
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