BEGINNINGS : Off-off-OFF Broadway

BEGINNINGS : Journal Entry #2 - Off-off-OFF Broadway

Sent: 10/25/2000 11:33 PM

I think I've reached that point in my life that is something of a mid-life crisis. Yes, I'm only 27 years old, but it feels that way just the same.

It's that point at which you suddenly take a step back from the play of your life, look around, view it from all different angles, and find that some of the set pieces are out of place, some pieces are missing, a few characters no longer need to be there anymore, other characters are missing their cues, etc. It's the moment that everything becomes overwhelming and of equal importance. It's that point just before the curtain goes up on your life.

You've spent so much time preparing for this moment. You've studied and worked and have tried to make everything perfect. Suddenly, the orchestra is beginning to play. The audience is getting settled in their seats, and there you are behind the curtain frantically running around trying to make sure everything and everyone is in order and accounted for. It's that moment where you almost feel as if you don't have time to breathe because if you stop to take a breath something might get overlooked or missed. The orchestra begins to swell. The lights go down. The curtain begins its climb.

And then, I see it's just me.

Just me, alone on the stage standing in a single spotlight. The audience is quiet. The violins high tones begin to fade up somewhere beyond the ceiling. Then there is silence. Nothing. Not a sound is heard except for a few rustlings from the audience and even those sounds only whisper. Then I realize it. It's all up to me. It's up to me alone. Sweat begins to trickle down my forehead as my eyes scan around me. My hands nervously shake by my sides. Questions bullet in my head. Where are all the set pieces? Where are all the characters? Who says the first line? Have I forgotten the script? Who writes the script anyway?

And that's the moment that I'm at right now . . . the moment I'm in at this very moment as I type this to you . . . the moment that I want to call off stage and ask, "Line?"

I listen. I am listening intently. I know that in the silence it will come to me. My faith in God will carry me through the rest of this play. Certainly, it will come to me. Certainly, I will be able to find my way. Certainly, life will begin to make sense to me. At least, I have hope that it will.

Chad

October 13, 2000

BEGINNINGS : Signs

BEGINNINGS : Journal Entry #1 - Signs

Sent: 10/25/2000 11:26 PM

New York City is covered by low, gray clouds making the city seem as if it is nighttime in the middle of the day. You know these kinds of days. It is one of those rainy days that you find yourself staying indoors only to look at the window occasionally to see if it has let up enough to go outside and get food.

I finally managed to roll (literally) out of bed at 5:30 p.m. today. Sleep. It has become my best friend as of late. And right now, as I type this note at 7:30 p.m., it is already calling to me from under the comforter. "Chad, you're sleepy. Come back to bed." Not surprisingly, it is taking every ounce of willpower that I have to keep focused on this note and to deny Sleep's pleadings.

I really can't explain what is going on with this sleep lately. I don't feel depressed per say, although I'm not bubbling from happiness by any stretch of the imagination. There is a part of me that wants to feel sad, that wants to cry, that wants to say, "This life sucks," but, unfortunately, I can't seem to grasp that part of me. It feels as if the Paxil has placed a wall between me and that level of depression, and no matter how much I crave the saddness, I can't seem to find myself there - in that most comfortable of places. Alas, instead, I sit here somewhere in between, like purgatory, not feeling heaven or hell, just waiting for entrance to one or the other. And God knows how I hate waiting. Patience is certianly not something I have or am good at.

Definitions. I like definitions of things. I don't like the gray shadows that linger and creep behind things. I like to know what the things are. It makes me wonder why Peter Pan wanted his shadow at all, for it wasn't really him, just an undefined extension of him. HE was what was real; his shadow was merely his body or parts of his body blocking light. Even now, as I watch the shadow of my hand type along the keyboard, I know that it isn't me, it isn't defined, it's an abstraction of me. And I guess that's the way I feel about a lot of my life. There are a lot of things that are there, but undefined. My job. My exsistence. It seems that there are a lot of shadows, but I can't seem to find the actual object that blocks the light. Alas, I digress.

There was an image that came to my mind the other day. It seemed to speed into my mind like an express train through a local stop. It was the image of being a little boy and riding my bike home from playing with my friend Donnie Hawks one day. I guess I was about 10 years old at the time. Once I turned the corner of my street, I noticed in the sky, between the line of trees on either side of the street, hundreds upon thousands of dragonflies were darting here and there. It actually looked like a dark cloud of bugs hovering above the street. It was frightening but strangely exciting as I knew that I was going to have to race down the street towards my home under this scarf of insects.

Then, without warning a flock of birds swept down from one of the tall oaks on the street and began attacking the insects. Above my head a war was engaged, and my feet could barely pedal fast enough. I was in a state of terror but awe as I watched this battle above me.

What I find most strange today, is that at the time, all I could think of was the Bible and the plagues brought upon the Egyptians. Everything seemed to have some sort of Biblical, mystical overtone, and I remember thinking as I rode my bike towards my home, that this was a sign. A sign of something. Nature was the voice of God, and he was trying to tell me something.

I find myself doing that quite often even now, and sometimes it makes me wonder if I'm crazy. For instance, walking down the street, and there, in front of me was a lightening bug, a firefly in midtown flying down 8th avenue right in front of me. What did that mean? I felt like it had to mean something. I find myself consumed by images, and because I want answers so badly, I look for clues in them. Is that crazy? Is that inspired? Is that spiritual?

In any case, this is all I have to say today.

Chad

August 12, 2000