Comedy of Errors

So I’ve embraced the misery of my day to day.  Like the basket of plants I had a friend watch, it has withered into something far different from what it was.  I’ve continued to water and nourish this job, and given it time to grow back into what I loved, but now I must finally embrace that it’s dead.  I don’t have new plants yet, and seeds take time to grow, so I still have my basket of dried up, shriveled once-loved vestals of life, but I know that their presence in my room is dated.  Soon I shall toss out their carcasses, and replace them with something that can grow.

Now is just the time to collect the seeds.

I’m doing a comedy class, Improv to be specific.  It’s a troop that essentially everyone I respect has tried on for size, and I figured it was my time to Cinderella.  I’m not gleeful to back in a windowless and fluorescent classroom, but I’ll do what it takes to get back on a stage, and I recognize the value of practice.

Not to mention the weekly ritual will hopefully help regulate my creativity.  As existence drains me, it becomes harder to maintain an artistic schedule, especially with so little control over my industrial one.  I have continued to write, work on needlepoints, take and edit photos…all in alternation of hating one and thriving in another; but they are feeling like a minor, with my dead-basket-of-plants majoring all of my focus.  I don’t want to squeeze art into my daily agenda; and I hate feeling like I’m waiting for my days off to finally feel creative/alive.

I’m tired and I’m bored.  I’ve been reading Shakespeare when I can; something artistic at least.  I’m going in order of publication (and skipping the histories for now), so Comedy of Errors is first.  Obedient women, is a topic of Act I, Scene ii.  The anarchist in my appreciates the irony.

The good news is I know with total conviction who I am and what I want to be doing.  

The how is this step.

We’ll see.