I dreamed I was directing a production of a Neil Simon play, not sure which one. One of my coworkers from the Fire Department was involved in the production. Like me, she's a half-time admin assistant and also like me she comes from a Nor Cal alternative/hippie background. We haven’t gone too deeply into the details, but it’s clear that we have more in common with each other than with the other women in the office. In the dream play, I was directing two actors from OSF and Kristin, the woman from the office. I wasn't supposed to be directing, I knew that the project “belonged” to Kristin, but I couldn’t stop myself from stepping up and taking charge. I had that strong feeling of being the resident expert, the person who knew more and was most capable, so I stepped in and went to work.
The stage manager/director motif is a reoccurring theme in my dreams. Usually, the dream theatrical enterprise is in total chaos and I’m responsible for picking up the pieces. I often have to go onstage for missing actors, even though I don’t know the lines. These dreams are usually anxiety-filled, but this latest one was not. Every time I started to feel the anxiety creep up, I would remember that it was not my project, it belonged to Kristin. I was just along for the ride. I wasn't invested in the same way.
This is not unlike my job at the Fire Department; well, except the part where I know more than the people around me. I am definitely the least knowledgeable person in that room. But it's true that I'm not invested there in the same way I was at OSF. I take the work seriously, but I don’t live in a constant state of anxiety like I did at the art factory. I can very much leave this job behind when I go home.
The art factory trauma is slowly starting to fade. In truth, Art with a capital A is fading too, receding in life’s rear view mirror. OSF is over for me, thus ending an artistic relationship that began in 1974. I'll write about it some day. Hamfist is long gone, much to my sorrow. Bathtub Gin is on its last legs. We are scheduled to play a New Year’s Eve show and it will be my last. I haven’t told them yet, but my mind is made up. The band had to break in yet another drummer and bass player this fall. They're lovely people and good musicians, but I can't get excited. This band has been through so many drummers and bass players, I don't think I have it in me to train another rhythm section.
The truth is, I can't get over losing Jesse on the bass and vocals. He is the kind of musician who can hold his own in any circle. He is rock steady, swings like a pendulum, and really feels the music, which makes his collaborators feel it too. It's a rare pleasure and hard to describe, but musicians know what I'm talking about. Playing with Jesse took so much weight off my shoulders. I could depend on him onstage and off, which freed me to PLAY– not just play notes, but play like a child, playing a game, play with abandon. He made playing fun. Now playing is work. I’m in a constant state of alert, banging out tempos, trying to keep everyone on the beat, signaling stops and starts. I can’t let go and melt into the music.
Listen to me bitch about playing music; what a spoiled brat. But, the joy is gone and that's the truth. It's the end of my Art and it's breaking my heart.
It has been a hard year. My 50s are going out with a whimper, will my 60s come in with a bang? Shall I rage, rage against the dying of the light?
