Twelfth Night
Saturday evening we went to see a performance of Twelfth Night at the University of New Mexico. It was a poignant performance because it marked the retirement of two of the theatre faculty who'd been at the University over 50 years. I think Rachel and I were among maybe half a dozen of the audience who were not alumni. The scene design was gorgeous, and they made some very interesting choices in the presentation. On the whole it was an enjoyable performance. During the curtain call the retiring professors came up and took a bow with the cast. There was open weeping on the stage. It was an oddly disconnected feeling to be so close to something so emotional and yet not exactly a part of it. It set off a strong sense of nostalgia in me for my own days in the theatre.
Most of my life I've been on the outside looking in. The theatre was one of the rare times where I felt strongly connected to the lives of people around me. Towards the end, though, things weren't quite the same. I think "estranged" is the best word for it. It's not that any particular people made me feel unwelcome. There was just this general sense that it wasn't my place anymore.
I've thought many times about getting involved in community theatre or something of the like. Partly I've been concerned about the time commitment, and that I wouldn't be able to put my best effort into it. But I think more importantly I've been concerned that it still isn't my place anymore. That I'd be trying to shoehorn myself back into a world that is no longer mine.
I'm wondering, too, if the melancholy brought on by the play had something to do with the matter of it: specifically the connection with the idea of a lost sister.
Most of my life I've been on the outside looking in. The theatre was one of the rare times where I felt strongly connected to the lives of people around me. Towards the end, though, things weren't quite the same. I think "estranged" is the best word for it. It's not that any particular people made me feel unwelcome. There was just this general sense that it wasn't my place anymore.
I've thought many times about getting involved in community theatre or something of the like. Partly I've been concerned about the time commitment, and that I wouldn't be able to put my best effort into it. But I think more importantly I've been concerned that it still isn't my place anymore. That I'd be trying to shoehorn myself back into a world that is no longer mine.
I'm wondering, too, if the melancholy brought on by the play had something to do with the matter of it: specifically the connection with the idea of a lost sister.