Horror of Horrors last month, as I ventured to the garage to finally open and put to use some of my most favored theatre books: I found instead a damp, moldy, spongy mess in their place, as apparently some snow melt had made its way beneath the garage door and into my precious box of books.
But what the hell were they doing there in the first place?
You see, when I moved into my parents house, oh, nearly a year ago, I never expected to be here this long. Or I don’t know, maybe I didn’t have any expectations, period. Which amounted to me guessing which boxes would most benefit from unpacking, and which could linger longer in uncertainty… Although I (rightly) thought that this box should be brought inside and my beloved books put on shelves immediately, I had already used up most of the shelf space in my room and so adding these to the fray would require a fair share of rearranging that I (in my I’m-so-tired-of-packing/unpacking-that-I-could-pitch-a-fit-that-would-render-a-five-year-old-jealous) simply didn’t have the interest or wherewithal to tend to…
So I left the box, midway between safety and safer-still -all too near the garage door.
Where it lingered, hopeful and neglected, for 11 months.
And so, dear reader, is it not a gross metaphor for the negligence I’ve visited upon my own theatrical fires, that this box of Hagen, Meisner and Mamet, of Viewpoints, Shakespeare, and Limericks, of Collected Works and Collected Histories, be completely overrun by the very herald of disuse; Mold?
Which isn’t to say that I’ve completely abandoned the theatrical ship – oh no, far from it – what with a new play, a screenplay, and that time-consuming play festival I was coordinating, I can hardly beat myself up for being a deserter. However, I’ve not been as deeply in tune with The Muse as I’d like to have been these past few months either… and I’m left wondering, as I hope and pray that the books dry “Useable”, could I not have spared myself the heartbreak of seeing those pages wrinkled and flecked with grey if I’d only made more of an effort to feed The Muse and brought those damn books inside where they could remind me to buckle down and create?
I suppose the answer lies somewhere between the guilt of “what if” and the incredible urging said moldy books now offer to redouble my efforts and get back in the game.
Because I will be teaching some acting and writing classes this spring, and I have two new plays crock-potting between The Muse and The Laptop…
And I don’t want any of that to grow mold!