No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction at anytime.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
-- Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille
Was || Will Be || Past Moments || Now || Notes

2002-02-09 - 7:01 p.m.


These are the moments.

2 pm on a Friday, barreling towards the base at Keystone, and you slip over the little hump in the slope, and you find a picture-perfect batch of moguls. Immediately your brain starts screaming "don't do it" and conjuring up pictures of the days and days of pain your knees will put you through if you ski those bumps. Not just ski those bumps, but ski them the way you *want* to. Ski them like you're seventeen and invincible again. And you know you shouldn't. But you do. And it's all about the fall-line, and it's turn, turn, turn, no wussing out, no slowing down, knowing in your heart of hearts that for ten seconds your form is perfect, and to hell with tomorrow.

11 pm that same Friday, and there's been driving and more driving, and a complete rehearsal of Lear, and that asshole didn't have his contacts in so he smacked you a good one on the wrist with a big fucking piece of metal and you're so fucking tired, and all you can think about is the bed at the end of the drive. Wishing it were your bed, but knowing that if you don't spend at least *some* time with RockGirl you'll never hear the end of it. But Sam is singing on the CD player. Just for you. And All of This. Is all you ever need. And you play that song over, and over, and over again, singing at the top of your lungs, gasping in cold, thick, oh-my-god-what-is-that-stench Commerce City air as you blow by at 70. And in that moment you wonder what you as a high school senior would think of you now. Cause you as a high school senior swore you'd never take money over desire in job choices. And you wonder how it took you ten years to rediscover that vow.

Some time early in the morning and you're lying awake wondering if you'll ever sleep, and you hear a sigh from the bed next to you. She sighs in her sleep. And for some reason. That just kills you.

Because at 3 pm on Saturday you're at a rehearsal that isn't really a rehearsal, and you're playing a weird form of tag where one person is a witch and you keep asking her the time, and when she says midnight, she can tag you. And just few minutes ago someone was making love to algae. And a few minutes before that you were watching people who not so long ago were strangers reading out your words. Acting out your sketch. And laughing. And you're not getting paid for this. And there's not even a guarantee that you'll get on stage. But so what? It's fun. This is what you want to do. Play. Just play. And if only you could make a living at it, you could get up every day looking forward to the day.

We're all looking for a life worth living.

These are the moments that make mine.

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