Musical Chairs
yesterday, after he bought me lunch, jack said, "your heart is not in it, but you do such an excellent job!"
i serendipitiously ended up eating at mandarin villa at the same time as the audio crew. the behind the scenes guys who hang mics and run cable and engineer the audio. they waved me over to join them and jack ended up buying us all lunch.
sitting around the table, they all cut on each other and laugh. harp about their wives and discuss the drug dealer living up the road. they make off color jokes; "what's a canadian? a mexican in a sweater!"
i try not to feel like too much of an outsider, flattered that they've asked me to join them. i get introduced to the few guys i don't know as "the guy who has to sit outside of J's office all day." this gets me some respect and some sympathy. i enjoy their company. they know how to laugh. i almost feel like one of the guys.
but walking back, jack makes that comment and i realize he's right. how did i end up in the administration? i'm more used to having a walkie talkie, standing in the wings, taping down cable. it stuns me that jack sees my heart not in it. i barely interact with jack. is it that obvious?
then, in the afternoon, i steal a few minutes to read more of the novel i started a decade ago. it's a section about when the main character is working as an extra. a lot of it is written from the POV of the 1st Assistant Director. and, i'm amazed. there was a time when i could speak that language. when i was crew and knew what it meant to call the martini or fly the call sheets or lock it down.
so how did i end up here? scheduling conference calls and preparing contracts and taking local oversight committee minutes? how come i'm not on a walkie asking, "what's your twenty?," while wearing a pair of filthy jeans? how come i'm not still in my sweats, the coffee on in the kitchen, while i write and rewrite and rewrite a sentence so it sounds right.
i read this section of the novel, in which the main character thinks about love in the age of AIDS:
Our songs of love are sour things. Unripe fruit replete with worm. Sung under our breath to an Elmore James tune. Only detectable with a Geiger counter and litmus paper.
I will love you, despite the fact that it may well mean my doom. Your arms entangle me and your lips drag me down. I will swim in your body like the black night sea and I will do so chained to knowledge, like chum, that will eventually attract sharks. Take me quick, the waves cap white and I cannot feel my toes.
Your love is wind to hold me aloft. A whipping wet gale force kiss felt through a thousand layers of thermals. I will toss myself off this cliff and pray you catch me on your breath. No. Forget it. I will just toss myself off and dream of a second Slurpee.
heh. a little dark, perhaps, but not bad. maybe i will work on that novel again after all...
it's just strange to pick your head up after ten years and see how far you've come. and to question how and why?
i never wanted a normal life. i wonder, is this life normal?
i do like my job. my heart may not be in it, but that's at least partly because my heart is devoted elsewhere. i'm not going to quit to work on my novel. and i'm not going to try and squirm into the union so i can work backstage.
i'm going to keep working at the symphony -- learning about how to produce DVDs, how to negotiate with unions, how to tour an orchestra -- until it's time to play hooky again.
boy. this sure isn't such a funny blogpost. okay. i'll make a joke now.
what's a mexican? a canadian without a sweater!
Ha, ha, good one! Damn canadians.
Life is gay.
Damn but you're a good writer, Zack. I hope you keep working on that novel and that you let me read it one day (soon). As for the job thing, it certainly seems that there's stuff to learn from working both sides of the coin. Can you work both sides of a coin? Whatever! You know what I mean.