(no subject)
When people ask me what my day job is, I offer the disparaging reply, "I put paper in a drawer." While snarky, this is also the truth. I take papers and I put them in drawers, and if a properly labelled folder does not exist for a certain piece of paper, I'll go ahead and produce one. Then I can put that piece of paper into its rightful drawer.
I understand the necessity of "paying one's dues" when one is young; the possibility of instantly vaulting into a position of any prestige is negligible. My friends file papers and wait tables, they take drink orders and cut checks. They debug computers for people who are paid more than them. They play guitar at clubs on the weekends, rehearse their devised shows until 1 AM, write in notebooks bits and pieces of great American novels on trains between jobs. Sometimes we meet. We ask what everyone is working on, and these little bits and pieces are summarized and discussed, and we try not to mention these other jobs that pay the bills, because none of us can quite believe that we are move valuable as paper-pushers than as thinkers, artists, and creators.
December 9th is my last day here, and my first day ever being paid to direct, even if I am only the assistant. I will get to sit at a table with an incredibly accomplished, brilliant director and an amazingly vibrant, talented writer. Seated in the room will be a cast of dynamic performers, and together we will create a show that is based upon ancient myth and performed with modern flair. Jokes will be cracked. Coffee consumed. Tempers will flare. A show will open. There will be press there, and champagne, and congratulations, and, yes, I will have to look for a new job.
But I offer an early toast: to our papers, may they never be hidden in drawers.
Six more weeks.
I think I can I think I can I think I can.
I understand the necessity of "paying one's dues" when one is young; the possibility of instantly vaulting into a position of any prestige is negligible. My friends file papers and wait tables, they take drink orders and cut checks. They debug computers for people who are paid more than them. They play guitar at clubs on the weekends, rehearse their devised shows until 1 AM, write in notebooks bits and pieces of great American novels on trains between jobs. Sometimes we meet. We ask what everyone is working on, and these little bits and pieces are summarized and discussed, and we try not to mention these other jobs that pay the bills, because none of us can quite believe that we are move valuable as paper-pushers than as thinkers, artists, and creators.
December 9th is my last day here, and my first day ever being paid to direct, even if I am only the assistant. I will get to sit at a table with an incredibly accomplished, brilliant director and an amazingly vibrant, talented writer. Seated in the room will be a cast of dynamic performers, and together we will create a show that is based upon ancient myth and performed with modern flair. Jokes will be cracked. Coffee consumed. Tempers will flare. A show will open. There will be press there, and champagne, and congratulations, and, yes, I will have to look for a new job.
But I offer an early toast: to our papers, may they never be hidden in drawers.
Six more weeks.
I think I can I think I can I think I can.