Q. Do you know who I am?
A. To be perfectly honest, I’m not quite sure.
Q. Why do you say that?
A. Because I thought I knew who you were, but I thought wrong.
Q. Who did you think I was?
A. My superego.
Q. Your superego? Why would you think such a thing?
A. Because you seem to represent my conscience, my higher faculties, always questioning everything, encouraging me to look before I leap — as opposed to my id, who has no conscience, questions nothing, and only seeks immediate gratification with no regard to consequence.
Q. And who are you?
A. I am my Ego.
Q. Why do I find this laughable?
A. Because I was wrong about you. You have no conscience – no feelings. You are merely a machine, generating inane questions from deep within the core of my confused and convoluted consciousness. You are not my superego; you have nothing to do with morality or even with Sigmund Freud, for that matter. You merely show up every now and then at times of particularly angst along my journey, and occasionally our dialogue is helpful to me.
Q. And this is why, on occasion, you summon me?
Q. And this is a time of particular angst?
Q. How so? Haven’t things suddenly taken a turn for the better?
A. Yes and No.
Q. No? In what way, “no?”
A. My external enemies having disappeared, my internal enemies have resurfaced.
Q. Can you say that again, please?
A. My external enemies having disappeared, my internal enemies have resurfaced.
Q. And who are your external enemies?
A. All those people who kept knocking on my door, trying to engage me in all kinds of nefarious activities at any time of the day or night, neighbors who were more nosy than neighborly — all of them. Everybody who lived at Friendship Square.
Q. Your neighbors were your enemies?
A. “Enemy” might be a strong word, but it sure felt that way.
Q. And you call yourself a Christian!?
A. That would depend upon your definition of the term, I suppose. But yes, I do identify as a Christian, of a certain type. So – what are you driving at?
Q. Doesn’t the Lord say: “Love thy neighbor?”
A. But that’s the whole problem! I loved my neighbors so much I couldn’t get any work done! Everybody wanted to talk to me, at all times – it was uncanny. I had to escape – I had to get out of there — but now that those guys are all gone, and I’m alone, I’m faced with my internal enemies.
Q. Loneliness, perhaps?
A. Ha! Loneliness is for lesser men. I’m talking about the Enemies of Art. They’re like these — inner demons. They surface whenever I begin to immerse myself in projects about which I am passionate. The more passionate I am about my project, the more they try to interfere.
Q. Can you give me an example?
A. Well, for that, we need to revisit the Professor.
There was a certain professor whose unfavorable reactions to my half-written rough draft of Eden in Babylon kept rushing through my head for three years every time I tried to sit down to work on the script. Now that I have solitude again, and am away from all the “hard knocks,” so to speak, I’ve naturally taken up the script again, thinking quite innocently that now would be a perfect time to do a second draft, polish up a few rough spots, and so forth.
So, I sat down the other night to embark upon a very simple scouring of the script in order to return four unnamed characters to the Kids Chorus Line, after I had irrationally removed them from the script at the last minute. For you see, the Professor had warned me about having too large a cast size – and of course a large cast is a deterrent. The first version he saw had a cast of 56, according to his count. I myself was neither counting nor concerned, since at the time I was aiming to submit the show to a specific theatre in the Bay Area that was requesting submissions for “large cast traditional musicals with a full orchestration.” But this is long past.
I proceeded to whittle down the cast, doubling parts when necessary, and actually feeling quite good about the whittled version. But at the end, I made the serious mistake of significantly reducing the Kids Chorus Line while not significantly reducing the cast size! So I sat down this past Saturday night to return the four unnamed Kids to the Chorus line, and thus enhance the experience musically, while only increasing cast size from 23 to 27.
I had presumed this would be a simple matter. However, it involved a technical nightmare of placing an unformatted, unpaginated copy of a script next to a paginated copy, locating all the places where the Kids had once been involved, and making the appropriate adjustments. This challenged my dyslexia. Moreover, as I tired into the wee hours of the night, I became less and less focused, but more and more determined not to let go until I got the job done. That was when the Professor surfaced.
I would see a line in the show that I thought was particularly exceptional, and I would suddenly remember his scathing critique of my earlier draft. I would fly into a rage inside my head. I would shout within myself: “How could he?! How could he not see how good this is?? How inspired I was!!! Did he even read the script??”
So, my old enemy, of associating the script revision with the unfavorable response of a previous presumptuous professor of the past, had returned. And that’s only an example.
Q. A second example?
A. My other friend, seeming to have money, and not wanting to kick it down to help me pay the singers, but dismissing my request for assistance as evidence of a “mental health episode.” He also appeared in my mind, and I also became enraged at the thought of his classist arrogance. Rich people are often quick to blame the abject poverty of poor people on some kind of problem the poor person has, as though I’m supposed to spend the rest of my days solving whatever problem they think has resulted in my poverty, in order to become rich like they are, and similarly blame the suffering of those less cozy than they on some random peccadillo in their personality, thus silencing my conscience.
Q. And just who are we calling “classist?”
A. Look, buddy. I had to spend years sleeping in a gutter getting the shit kicked out of me, while one by one, every so-called “friend” I knew from my previous life of opulence dismissed my legitimate need for shelter by telling me to see a psychiatrist. And so what if I do have a psychological problem or two? I’m in my damn sixties! I’m practically fighting Alzheimer’s trying to get this show on the road! What am I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my days trying to solve some elusive problem of mine? Or spend my days trying to figure out a way to use my God-given gifts for the good of humanity? You can’t shovel out the darkness!! You can only turn on the Light!!
So – obviously, don’t you think it makes a hell of a lot more sense for me to throw my energies into looking for singers, musicians, a venue. a crew, a cast, a production staff, and $50,000, than to keep hammering away at trying to keep shit jobs that I always lose? And wind up feeling demoralized? And incompetent? Sure I’m incompetent in every area of my lifelong failure — so why don’t we start focusing on the relatively few but valuable things that I can actually manage to occasionally do well? I am not incompetent in the areas of my expertise — I know exactly what I am doing! I am not crazy! I am a very talented, but spaced out, absent-minded, but ingenious, agitated, but highly determined, totally stressed out man!
Q. Fifty thousand dollars?
A. You heard me! But this pointless dialectic is nothing but drivel!! Let’s adjourn until tomorrow. Your incessant questioning of everything I do or say angers me. Goodbye.
The Questioner is silent.
A. And don’t you dare ask me if I am in “denial!” If I want to hear about denial, I’ll go to a frickin’ 12-Step meeting, for God’s sake!!
The Questioner is still silent.
A. And I am not lazy, either!!!
The Questioner, quite wisely, remains silent.
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