Care or Kill

You may have noticed that I've been blogging more than normal. And by more than normal I mean more than one anemic post a year. Indeed. I am resolving to write something everyday for public consumption; rather than the reals of abject bullshit I spit out privately.

So, anyhow, there's this thing. This crippling thing. This horrific bone mutilating hair churning thing that I have on some occasions believed would kill me. (Or cause a Victorian-esque fainting spell.)

Stage-fright.

I intended to live out the rest of my life in absolute public silence until three years ago when I started that thing you all know I talk too much about already. This switch is partly because of improv and because I decided not to care.

Stage-fright is like a hand around your heart. Generally it's relaxed. You know it's there when your pulse starts to run off but the pressure isn't unbearable. It's something you can live with; you just can't run.

Then an audience slithers in; in a classroom, on a bus, in a crowded store when glass shatters. It has nothing to do with theater most of the time and everything to do with a physical tightening. Your throat squeezed so hard that you think your voice really died. That the regard of another, even one person, might actually kill you.

It's the feeling of crushing loneliness when those few people you've given yourself permission to be genuine around are not around. A curtain of voices feels like a a blanket of little spiders. Every mouth is sharp.

But people don't really want you to fail. Generally they don't even know your there; or comment on your silence. And the ones who really hurt and rip apart your little space and little voice are the people you led there.

Stage fright, in the end, is just the fear of the unknown. In that case, then, it's good to fail. In fact, it may even be necessary. Say something stupid, move incorrectly, trip on your shoe lace. It's the worst that can happen and it ain't shit.