Don’t Ask. Don’t Tell.
We attended Kitchen Dog Theater’s annual fundraising party, Hooch n’ Pooch, last night. Three hours in a room full of very smart and talented people. I could drop names, but in the interest of time will only say that any list of same would include Director Trull (and I mention that because we are now officially heading into Tech Week — not unlike what we knew in my fraternity life as Hell Week — and I really need to stay on his good side).
When the community of theater artists get together there are invariably three conversations going on. Two are spoken. One not so much.
Spoken conversation number one: I am designing or directing or acting in this or that play and it is going this way or the other way or both ways.
Spoken conversation number two: I have this new job or that new spouse or here is the picture of our new house and the kids are fine and by the way what’s up with the Mavs.
And then there is conversation number three — the one we’re having with ourselves: The car needs new brakes and the creditors are calling. We haven’t had sex for weeks and I’m afraid she hates me almost as much as she hates her job. She’s really sick and I’m really scared. I’m really sick and I’m really scared. I’m feeling old. I’m feeling fat. I f*&*$d up. I’m really f*#@*d. And so on. The places we really feel vulnerable because we really feel helpless or inadequate or incompetent or all of those at once. The face we have behind the face we wear — especially to a party.
In the Birdnow piece, Author Steele tells the story of a man that finds himself in conversation #3 in a very public way. To connect to that I’m going to have to ask myself what conversations I’d really rather keep to myself. What are the things I’m NOT saying? What is there about Barry I’d be terrified to share? And why.