Trust

Its 10 minutes before showtime. My hair is full of gel, its 95 degrees outside, and I’m in a wool jacket. I can’t stand the conversations in the green room. Generalization and stereotype comedy isn’t something I try to indulge in regularly, so I go backstage behind the curtain. A feeling of cozy comfort envelops me. The show has sold out. Conversations among patrons make the air buzz with energy. I love the sound. It screams to me of malleable minds waiting to be twisted into beautiful shapes. Soon I will go on stage and grasp that energy firmly. I will pull and stretch it, discover its tension and weight. To discover how it reacts to emotion, and where it is comfortable going. Watch it resonate with music, shudder at pain, flourish with laughter. I will wear it as a mask or cape. I will tear it to shreds, and then put it back together wrong. In the end, it will leave the same way it came in. Maybe stronger or brighter, I hope. But they will never leave without having felt something. The only people who truly understand this relationship is the audience. If they trust you and feel that what you are experiencing is genuine, they will follow you wherever you go.