Officially, winter ended last Monday, and so to celebrate this joyous occasion, I packed up my troubles, slung a rucksack over my shoulder, and took an early morning tram to the grey monstrosity that is the home of the company that pays my rent. Since moving to this concrete and clay monument to Le Corbusier, I’ve tended to work from home, but the sun was shining, and I had to check on a few plants, as well as make sure the coffee was as bad as ever, (it is), and say hello to the odd colleague, (and there are some very odd, if nice, people at ****), but before I took my leave, I was asked a rather troubling question: Are you still writing?
I suppose that, given I am sitting at my ancient Mac in a café and words are appearing on the screen in a somewhat erratic fashion, then the answer is yes. I must admit I’ve been here for over an hour and have so far managed only to add to my list of possible essay titles, (I look forward to dealing with ‘The Ophelia Problem’), and think deeply about what I should have for lunch, (cheese on toast perhaps), but suddenly the flood gates have opened and I am ready to put finger to keyboard, if you’ll excuse the phrase.
It would seem I have a major problem when it comes to writing in that, if I actually try to compose something to order, my mind is a blank. I basically have to throw words on the screen, juggle them about a bit, stand on one leg, hum ‘The Internationale’, and then, if I am lucky, a theme will appear as if out of nowhere. I suppose you could say the words come first followed by an idea of sorts. Well, it works for me.
Writing is a great escape, almost as important to me as the weekly pub quiz, and only just behind red wine, music and meeting dogs. It is, in all probability, more important than sex, but my memory no longer goes back far enough for me to remember…
What is it with memory? I have been doing quite a bit of reminiscing lately. I think it started when an old friend, someone I haven’t seen in about fifteen years, got back in touch and suggested a visit to Vienna. We met when we were both teenagers at a summer school for aspiring actors, (yes, I was young once upon a time). He played guitar, charmed the girls, and introduced me to the music of James Taylor and Dan Fogelberg. (Dylan was beyond my understanding. I tried some ‘Blood on the Tracks’, but had no ‘Desire’ to continue. Can’t sing, can’t play guitar…apart from that, marvellous.) And then Andy changed direction, became an accountant, got married, moved away, got divorced, eventually emigrated to Canada, got married again, and we lost contact. But we will catch up over countless Austrian beers and ancient LP’s, and perhaps a fragment of our youth will return, if only for an hour or two. We may even look at old photos, but that might be going a step too far. I have visions of scary hairstyles and even more terrifying clothes. Oh fashion, where is thy sting?
How much will we have changed since those heady days when the world was our oyster and hope sprang eternal? I was told quite firmly last week that hopes and dreams are worth little unless they become reality in which case I would have failed to pass go. I’m not sure I agree with this assessment of my existence, but she was probably right. Have I wasted countless years? Maybe, but I have so many friends in my life that I must have done something right.
It would appear to be quite unusual to end up doing what you were desperate to do when you were young and ever so slightly naive. I’ve spent the last thirty odd years wanting to act, and so, I suppose, as I am on a Viennese stage in a few short hours kissing a beautiful girl in a back-to-basics production of Orwell’s ‘1984’, I’m actually rather lucky. I think most of the males who see the production are envious, although that doesn’t have much to do with me. Indeed, it doesn’t have anything to do with me. OK, so I’m not playing Chekhov at the RSC or collecting my umpteenth Tony on Broadway, but I do spend my evenings in a theatre with like-minded people, telling a story and hopefully adding something to the lives of the audience. The money might be almost non-existent, but we are doing something we believe in. After all, I could be working long hours for some faceless banking corporation or insurance company, (and believe me I have done this), arriving home with only a microwave meal and a bottle of something to keep me company through the night.
I am willing to accept that I may have ever so slightly misjudged the balance between dreams and reality in my life. All right, I have frequently made the most momentous miscalculations and mistakes over the years, but while I could attempt to address this in the time I have left, it would, I think, take something away from what and who I am. I agree that I am quite probably the most inept self-publicist on the planet, which is suicidal in the theatre world, and that when it comes to blowing my own trumpet I seem to have totally mislaid the mouthpiece. It has endlessly frustrated the women in my life, (not that there have been many), but that was the guy they met in the first place and so surely they’ve only themselves to blame. And there must have been some good times…even I can remember those.
Having said all this, I do come home in the evening to a cold sandwich and with the need for a bottle or two to get me through the hours of darkness, so not everything in my vineyard is rosy. (Or should that be rosé?) Perhaps there will come a time for action instead of studied inaction in the coming months, but I don’t think I can write those days quite yet. I can dream a little, hope a little, and maybe something or, more importantly, someone, will arrive in my crumbling little life and blow the past away. Maybe they are there already but I simply haven’t noticed them…now that would be fairly typical.
Until that moment arrives, and god help me if it doesn’t, I shall make occasional visits to Café Sperl, order a pot of coffee, start up my computer, throw words at the screen, and hope that they form themselves into something coherent and possibly amusing. As I said at the beginning, I have a title I need to work on, ‘The Ophelia Problem’…you want to know the idea? Get thee to a nunnery!
