Nights Like This

Nights like this are the worst.

It’s been snowing in Geneva since 3PM – it’s 8:30PM now. And it’s sticking this time. I’ve been wanting it to stick for days, since that means the possibility of a snowball fight, or romantic eyelash kisses by dozens of snowflakes. But instead I’m looking at it through a window, trapped inside my own head.

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It’s been three years since I’ve performed in a show that someone hired me to do. I’m embarrassed to write that, but it’s true. There are thousands of stories of actors going through dry spells and then bouncing back again. And perhaps I’ll be able to add my story to that lot in a few years. But there are an equal number of stories about the actor who can’t take the rejection, feels unwanted and untalented, and loses all confidence in himself as an artist. It seems I am leaning toward the second category. And I’m beginning to fear that it will be easier for me to stay there than to rally against my own inner critic. Perhaps I’ve always known these were my true colors: The coward who would rather whine about circumstances contriving to keep him from reaching his true potential. The woman drawn towards men that allowed me to focus all my energy on them and distract me from my own needs. Or the New Yorker who stayed busy all the time with minutiae so I wouldn’t have to actually devote myself heart and soul to my passion. After all, the loftier the goal, the closer it is to the soul, the more it means when you fail – so why not just purposely avoid success altogether?

But let’s leave that thought for awhile…

The things I miss right now number greater than good sense lets me count, but what leaves one of the biggest holes is the ability to plug into New York when your battery is low or your motivation flags. It’s a contagious city for that reason. If you are open to it, it will feed you when you’re empty, and reflect back the smallest output of energy ten-fold. I’ve lived by that creed for years – what you give out comes back to you in spades.

But it doesn’t work in the same way here. My brand of energy isn’t what they’re buying. Or sending back either. And as much as I try to convince myself I can adjust to a different source of power, it’s a bit like telling a plant it should be able to live on fossil fuels, rather than solar. The plant’s just gonna wither and get sad-looking.

So I’m sad-looking, which is great for Droopy the Dog but not for me. It’s a strange thing we actors thrive on – positive reinforcement – two words that for the rest of the world are usually reserved for the therapist’s couch. And yet for a working actor, positive reinforcement is abundant. A nightly audience is exactly that – immediate feedback for the hungry actor. The lucky few who go from job to job can survive for years, decades with no second guessing, no dips into the dark part of the soul usually reserved for character study, not for daily living. But take that away, and you start to see the same symptoms a drug addict exhibits when going through withdrawal. Because it’s basically the same thing. The sweating, shaking, swearing addict, the wilting plant, the depressed actor.

The way out is a catch-22 as well, which makes things even more interesting. Confidence is an aphrodisiac. Even when it’s faked. But faking it also requires the conviction that deep down you’re the cat’s meow when in reality you feel more like a horse’s ass. And all animal metaphors aside, sometimes even that secret stash of belief in yourself is tapped out, with no place in sight to recharge.

Which is when I come to my computer, and start to write. During these times when things seem so bleak, it is the one way I can work these thoughts into some semblance of logic and transfer them out of my brain and onto a keyboard.

And then go outside for a walk and catch snowflakes on my tongue.