Don’t worry, this’ll all be interesting when I’m dead.

Have I ever told you about the first time I acted?

I was in high school. Senior year. I had interest in taking the drama class for a few years but it wasn’t open to underclassmen until I was actually IN senior year. Bugger.

The first half of the year was spent mainly reading plays in class at our desks, watching movies and plays on film. By the time mid-terms came up, we were ready for our first big assignment: To perform a soliloquy from either MacBeth or Hamlet. If necessary, we could use another classmate to read a line or two during it. If I remember correctly, there had to be at least 32 lines or something within the soliloquy. I chose MacBeth.

I chose the part which includes “Life is but a walking shadow…” and quickly memorized the surrounding 31 lines, but it wasn’t enough. There was still a lot more to this scene and I couldn’t just stop there. I went on to memorize the entirety of scene 5, act 5, and I enlisted the help of Mary Falls to play the part of Seyton and a messenger.

SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle.

Enter MACBETH, SEYTON, and Soldiers, with drum and colours

MACBETH
Hang out our banners on the outward walls;
The cry is still ‘They come:’ our castle’s strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up:
Were they not forced with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home.

A cry of women within

What is that noise?

SEYTON
It is the cry of women, my good lord.

Exit

MACBETH
I have almost forgot the taste of fears;
The time has been, my senses would have cool’d
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts
Cannot once start me.

Re-enter SEYTON

Wherefore was that cry?

SEYTON
The queen, my lord, is dead.

MACBETH
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Enter a Messenger

Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

Messenger
Gracious my lord,
I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do it.

MACBETH
Well, say, sir.

Messenger
As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The wood began to move.

MACBETH
Liar and slave!

Messenger
Let me endure your wrath, if’t be not so:
Within this three mile may you see it coming;
I say, a moving grove.

MACBETH
If thou speak’st false,
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth,
I care not if thou dost for me as much.
I pull in resolution, and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend
That lies like truth: ‘Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane:’ and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!
If this which he avouches does appear,
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.
I gin to be aweary of the sun,
And wish the estate o’ the world were now undone.
Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack!
At least we’ll die with harness on our back.

And with that last line, I swung my back to the class and walked away towards Mary Falls, waiting in the back for the scene to complete. My eyes widened as I approached her, as did hers. My arms stretched out, as did hers, and we just hugged as we squealed. I was filled with electricity and adrenaline like I’ve never felt before.

But it was when I turned back around, to face the class and my teacher, which took me to another level. I turned and saw my teacher get up as he clapped… briskly walk towards me with his hand held out… and he vigorously… shook… my hand. He shook it with a combination of excitement, pride, and (if I may say so) amazement. The class had risen to their feet with him as they continued to clap. I was so overwhelmed, it was as if I was hit in the gut and had the air knocked out of me. The emotional release of the powerful scene with the addition of how the performance was accepted by my teacher, I can’t remember what happened the rest of that day but I will always remember that moment.

I aced that mid-term. The 2nd half of the year focused on the play we’d put on for the school and community at the end of the year. I played a crotchety old man, still in love with his crotchety, old wife as they reflected upon their lives together in a play entitled “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.”

I left high-school with a clear indication of what I loved. This was a passion greater than music or art or anything else. Above all else, THIS felt right. This fulfilled me in ways nothing else could. But I couldn’t pursue it when I left school. I had shift-work jobs that were unpredictable in the times and days I would work, preventing me from committing to any sort of community theater. When I did have set schedules, I worked too far from home to allow sufficient time in my evening to commit. Then I got the job I’m at now and learned a co-worker acted in a theater close to our job. But I couldn’t because I had the band.

I realized just last Friday that I can now do this. The time is finally right. It’s been over 10 years since I left school, though. It’s a very scary thing. But I have to do this while I still can.

So, I went to an audition at that local theater last night and for the first time in 10 years, I acted again.

It would be sad if I don’t get a part in the play, but in a way, it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t really about getting the part. It was doing it. It was going. And man, what a fucking rush. Just like the soliloquy, each time I walked off stage I was shaking and unable to focus on anything or anyone. I was totally filled with adrenaline again. There was no applause for anyone during these auditions, which I found slightly rude, but maybe that’s just the way things are there. Regardless, I found it very interesting that I could still feel this way even without any praise. It proved to me it was not about that. It’s just being up there and doing it.

As for this audition, I don’t know if I was supposed to get a call today/tonight or not. I’m waiting to get confirmation on when I would receive a call, if I were to be cast. Whatever the case may be, I am proud of myself right now and I can’t remember the last time I felt that.

This is a true account written just after Christmas 1999 about an event which happened a few days earlier.
Being the shut-in that I was at the time, please put yourself in the shoes of someone who really tries to avoid contact with most everyone for unexplainable reasons.

Thursday Night, December 23rd.

I go to my psychologist’s office for my weekly session. I’m a little early so I sit in my car for 15 minutes or so puffing away on a cigarette. In that time I spot a girl who looks to be in her early 20’s inside the lobby’s big glass doors. She’s sitting on the steps with long brown hair, as she ties her shoe. She grabs hold of the railing and lifts herself up. Her legs are wobbly as she grabs onto her wheeled walker and slowly pushes over to the door. She has a tough time getting out of the heavy door, as I watch her — unable to get the courage to help her.  She walks over to the payphone not 30 feet from my car to make a phone call. She struggles to get her hand inside of her pocket for some change. She goes to put the quarter in the phone and it falls to the wet concrete below her. She strains to get to the ground safely to try to find where the quarter had dropped, all the while holding on for dear life with one hand to her walker. Yet still I cannot get the courage up to go and help her as I try to look away from this sad sight. She picks herself up and walks back into the building.

A few minutes later, I finish my cigarette and go into the building. I walk up the stairs and down the long hallway to the door of my doctor’s waiting room. I open the door, and who’s sitting there talking with the doctor? It was that girl. I felt ashamed that maybe she saw me in the car and hates me for watching her struggle. I fear she will give me a dirty look. Though, I receive a small smile from the girl as she goes back to talking with the doctor about her lack of transportation.

They make a few calls together, as she probably has trouble dialing the phone. “Let me try my roommate to see if he’s home.” She says, and they do so. There was no answer. The doctor calls me in as she sits down in a chair and sets her walker next to her. He explains her situation briefly with me, and tells me that her “cab service” hadn’t shown up, so they tried calling them again. I continue with my hour-long session and walk out only to find the 20-something girl still sitting there.

I look at her for a second and ask if she needs a ride. She agrees with a quick glance for reassurance from the doctor.

The community service bus comes around as I am folding up her walker into my car. I send him on his way and explain that I will save her some money and apologized for this inconvenience to him, but subtly remind him that it had been quite an inconvenience for her to wait for what I found out later to be 2 hours for them.

We talk a lot during the ride, though it seems like a small battle to get every word out at the same volume for her. Her name is Kristen, though I’m not sure if she spells it that way. She is a patient of the same doctor I see and it was her second visit to him. We talk about smoking, we talk about Fiona Apple, and we talk about the winter solstice and the moon. She tells me she’s not looking forward to this Christmas. “It hasn’t been a good year at all.” I ask her if her handicap is due to a disease, or….

As it turns out, Kristen has Multiple Sclerosis.  She developed it in ‘93, but that’s not why she was seeing the psychologist. She added, “I don’t want to talk about bad things.” So I dropped it. We also talked about her “cab service” and that it is not reliable at all. I ask if she always has to rely on this service and if she has any friends that take her around. “No,” she says, “not really.” We get to her house as she thanks me immensely for about the 4th time.

As I pull into the driveway to a fairly nice sized house, I ask if she has anyone waiting for her. She replies with another “No”.

I help her out of the car and set up her walker for her. I walk her into the garage through the automatic doors and to the door leading into the house. We shake hands and exchange best wishes for the approaching holidays, though it seems mine will do no good.

And that was that.

I got back in my car and I said to myself (and whoever else was listening) “See? I did it. I missed it the first time, but I got it.”

It was an experience I don’t think I’ll ever forget. I felt good. I felt spirited, and alive, and real. I want to do more for Kristen. I’d like to take her out but I’m afraid she’ll get too attached. Or perhaps I’m afraid I will get too attached. It just doesn’t feel right that that would be the only time I see her. I didn’t get the feeling she’d be around for much longer.

Carpe Diem, folks. You can do more for someone than you think you can. And for yourself, too. Looking back at all the gifts I got this year, I couldn’t have asked for a better one than the opportunity I had to help out a girl like Kristen.

For the record, I never did see her again. But I do contribute to The MS Society from time to time.

I do plan on writing a mini-memoir about my surgery, post-op complications this week, and whatever else… but so far I’ve only felt like soaking in rest and relaxation, so I’ve not been inclined to do it yet. In the meantime, I would like to share a story I wrote a number of years ago and just found again. Unlike some re-postings, I have no other purpose for posting this again other than I thought it was pretty good.

Originally published elsewhere on January 17th, 2004

“Bottoms up.” she says as she told me she just found her ex-fiancé asleep in bed with her roommate. Also sleeping. Also topless. A shot of Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum runs down her throat as she goes to sit back on the couch she just left from, when she decided she should get to bed.

I put down the shot glass she handed me. I had already had too much. I sat down again, still dizzy and disoriented from the alcohol I have had. I offer my condolences and try to help her look at things from a different perspective.
She smiles and calls me “sweetheart.”

It’s the decision he made. He had two bedrooms to choose from. He’s been picking Holly’s for the past 3 years since the marriage was called off. This time, he didn’t.

“Such a stupid little boy,” she says as she fixes herself to rest her head on my lap. I cradle her and take the hair from her eyes.

“You touch very well.” She says.

Time goes by as we talked. Eventually, I kiss her forehead to seal the connection we have discovered. We are two lovelorn souls with so much love to give but no one to give it to. The cat meows and we smile.
I kiss her lips. Dry and chapped they were, but soft and predictable. Her tiny tongue so sweet and I only tasted the tip. We smile. This is nice.
She nestles up under my chin and around my neck, lightly clawing at my sweater as she positions herself in a fetal-like position on my lap. We kiss some more. Like a kitten, she rubs her cheek against my chin and then shows me her tattoo. It’s the word “kitten” in Chinese and in so many ways this is a perfect tattoo for her. I am amused at her cuddling and fall in love with her familiar body, as I begin to explore it. I’ve touched this body before… it just had someone else’s face and name attached to it. She begins to get a little aggressive – she gently bites my lip — as the cat meows again. We laugh silently but are muted by the sound of an opening bedroom door.

He walks out. He sits on the adjacent couch and lights up a cigarette.
“I think I’m going to have that other shot, now.” she says, and he gets up to ask what’s wrong. They whisper for a minute or two. They sit back down.

Silence.

I light a cigarette. He gets up and walks down the short hallway and enters Holly’s bedroom.

Holly lets out a large sigh.

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart” she says as she gets up and follows the same path he took.

”Good luck to you” I say to no reply other than the flipping of the light switch.

And here I sit. It’s dark and I’m drunk.
I guess I’m going to bed now.

Going through some hidden archives of my writing.
Came across a few things that, I have to admit, I’m quite impressed by. Most of it I don’t even remember writing. I’m glad I did, though. Perhaps I’ll share more publicly here as time goes on.

I wrote a number of pieces through the telling of a fictional story, or a fictional story based on real-life events; a mixing of reality, metaphor, and fantasy. This is one of them.

12/22/05

“I wasn’t really in that bad of a mood,” I recalled to myself later in the evening. I remember walking into the hall of tears and cheers and looking at all the paintings on the wall. They were animated, but lifeless and soaking wet. They forgot where they were for a moment and couldn’t remember their way back. It’s just that they’ve been hanging there for so long.

I felt someone tugging at my shirt but there was no one behind me. I think someone’s been trying to hang me on that wall. I’m a little too lucid for that, still. They’ll keep trying harder. I somehow missed the placement of one single eye screw stuck in my shoulder blade. Here I thought I just had a pinched nerve!

This was here yesterday. Not the screw, the whole deal. I put this in my sockdrawer, didn’t I? Shoved it in the back, didn’t I? I thought the sock goblins would come and eat it up like they do with the other things that get pushed back there. How did this get out? Why am I seeing it again? I feel like clicking my heels together and chanting an infamous line.

I was through your veins not long ago. Like everything else, it passes. Soon there could be nothing that remains the same as it is right this second. Soon, there could be nothing at all. But I’ve got a stint up my sleeve, I suppose, because some things will never fade away.

And I’ve been on the verge of tears for reasons I can’t finger. (that’s not a pun)
Is it the holiday season of which I am not really participating in this year? Couldn’t be. Guilt from eating too much? No. I think it’s just feeling powerless over my entire life right now, especially because I had such a firm grasp on it not too long ago.

What’s another term for “missing you” ? I can’t find a good word that describes the feeling of missing someone so very badly it seems to cause exhaustion and fatigue. How would you say that? I’m fatigued by the ____ that I am feeling. By the “missing-you-feeling” that I’m feeling? NO!! There’s gotta be something.

So I had these water-words boiling in me and I don’t know if I soothed it or not. I’m thinking not, but it’s not burning me so much anymore.

I gotta stop now anyway because I am having a hard time keeping my eyes open. It’s funny how much I bore myself.

But I’m still here. As usual. As always. And I’m definitely looking forward to a day off tomorrow/today. I need it.

I like to re-post this every once in awhile. It was written by an old blogger friend named Sarah (a.k.a. Timtom).

“Maybe these aren’t the shit times, maybe it’ll always be like this. Probably not for you. You usually get what you want.

I remember though, my A level teacher was always talking about Deferred Gratification. How us 6th formers were doing the right thing, and we’d get our rewards later, and they’d be better for it. Then, they said the same thing at university. I feel like I should be sending off for my gratification now.

Maybe it’ll be like when I applied for a provisional driving license last month. They wrote back saying ‘But you’re already allowed to drive until 2047, Sarah.’ And I’d thrown out the last one assuming it had run out. Maybe it’ll be like that.

They’ll say, ‘You’ve already got your gratification, Sarah. This is how much you get.’”

OMG MEMOREEZ!

Sorry, Dan.

I was supposed to see Religulous today with him, but it completely slipped my mind and he drove all the way to the theater to find I wasn’t there. I could have sworn I put it in my calendar but it wasn’t there to remind me. I feel awful.

I spent the last couple hours going through some really old blogs. Man, I was fucking nuts between 19 and 22. For real. I feel bad for acting the way I did to a handful of people. I’m just not like that anymore.

Here’s a picture of me from around the year 2000 (Age: 20). Pretty hot, right?

Weird…. I just had a flashback of walking down Lansdowne Avenue with an ex from long ago.  It was  around Christmas time, perhaps Christmas Eve; and it was so quiet, so still, with a brisk chill in the air.  We were lit by Christmas lights adorning the houses and the streetlamps above.  It was so peaceful in that moment.  I’ve not known a moment like that since.

I really do dwell on the past a lot.

It’s been 10 days since Circuit Theory “broke up” and played their last show.

It’s been 4 days since I witnessed a woman crossing the street get struck by a speeding car, who never stopped. Kinda having a hard time getting that out of my head.

Thursday will mark one month since my grandmother’s death.

I’ve been thinking lately about people in my past. I’ve been thinking about how we can have people play such integral roles in our lives; to be friends and/or lovers with someone for whatever amount of time and then just separate like a split cell to go in totally different directions, never looking back. It’s kind of amazing that we work like that, y’know? We can walk past someone in the mall that we went to high school with and not even nod. We can live within a mile of an old flame and never acknowledge each others existence.

I look back a lot. I mean A LOT. And I’m left wondering if others are looking back, too, thinking about me, and we both continue on figuring the other is not interested in catching up. Or is it that I am broken in some way because of how I am not able to just not look back?

It does depends on the situation, though. There are some that I never think about that I might be expected to. But not many.

So what if we were struck by a car? What if our lives ended without re-connecting with those who were so important to us in the past? It may not make much of a difference but unless we make efforts, we risk never being able to say “Thank you. You were good to me.” or “I’m sorry.”

Before there was cozbaldwin.com, there was redrival.com/coz

(That’s some of the text that was on the “news” page. NOT the blog. The rest of the page’s design is unavailable in the web archives.)

Some other flashbacks:
http://web.archive.org/web/20030420150004/http://cozbaldwin.com/

http://web.archive.org/web/20020602044755/http://www.cozbaldwin.com/

A brief tribute to John after his passing based on the design above:
http://web.archive.org/web/20020924125638/http://cozbaldwin.com/