It started with three auditions, in three different cities, over the course of two weekends. That's enough to shake anyone up (and, yes, I'm aware that this is a big part of my chosen profession, but if I'm not allowed a jolt of apprehension before an audition, particularly in my first Real Audition Season, what's the fun in doing it in the first place?), without having to worry about getting lost, finding that a giant hole has somehow been torn in your the one pair of nylons you brought along, and coming down with chills and body aches two days prior to a weekend with multiple engagements. First World Problems all, I know, but anxiety doesn't seem to give a damn about societal privilege, so I refuse to apologize. In the end, I felt as if the auditions went well, for the most part, although now I have entered the most agonizing stage of all--the wait for results. And so it goes.
The second of these auditions took me far south, almost to St. Louis--no lie, there is actually a town in Illinois called Effingham, and I was near it, resting for the evening in a Holiday Inn in a town called Pontoon Beach, which, as far as I was able to tell, has neither a pontoon nor a beach within the city limits. The drive was rainy and took ages, as solo roadtrips usually do; I crossed through the dreaded Land Without NPR, and by the time I reached the hotel I was completely strung out from miles and miles of highway. Less than 24 hours later, I turned around and drove all the way back. This was audition number two, one of two that weekend.
Road-trippers, a friendly word of advice: if the song "Turn the Page" comes up on shuffle on your iPod as you are driving through the dark, and you feel that this song expresses the deepest feelings of your soul, you have been on the road too long. Also, did you know that the lyrics to Kanye West's "Monster" the more times you listen to them? Because they do. I promise.
So as I approached my exit on the freeway, after five hours of driving, I noticed a strange sound. "Oh my God," I thought, "please let that not be my car." And, of course, it was, in fact, my car. Thankfully, a friend with a talent for fixing cars was over to come over the next day, go for a drive with me, and determine that the horrible unsettling noise coming from the front of the car was just an early signal that the brake pads need to be replaced in the next couple hundred miles, something which he can do easily in an afternoon. So that's what we're doing tomorrow.
Between solo road-trips and the resulting long hours spent at work trying to catch up for time lost due to traveling to and from auditions, I've had the opportunity for some serious introspection lately. I'm the sort of person who tries very hard to cling to logic at all times, even (especially) when dealing with incredibly illogical emotions. Right now, however, I'm not sure whether that tendency to seek logic in the midst of chaos is a help or a hindrance when it comes to dealing with grief, as I am at the moment.
This morning, I got the news that a friend with whom I worked at a restaurant during the gap year between college and grad school, and whose sister was one of my favorite co-workers during my time at Starbucks that same year, passed away suddenly late last night. There are no words for this feeling--mostly because the feeling hasn't really settled in yet. There are, in my experience, two different kinds of grief--when someone dies after a long illness, in many cases one does much of the grieving before the end really arrives. This is especially true when losing someone to Alzheimer's, as we did both my paternal and maternal grandfathers--we see them slip away by inches, as if their death is occurring in slow motion, in front of our eyes.
When we lose someone suddenly, especially if that person is young, grief comes on more slowly. It has been about eleven hours since I found out about this passing. I have not cried yet, except in fits and starts, for a minute or two at a time. This slower grief feels to me like an approaching thunderstorm--the rumbles in the distance, the flashes of lightning growing gradually more frequent, the electric smell in the air. The news does not feel real yet, even though the viewing and funeral are scheduled. What I feel are not so much emotions as shadows of, or precursors to, reactions that will hit hard at some point in the very near future. Is it possible for an emotion to feel far-away? Maybe this is the shock. Distantly, I feel anger, that somebody so young, so intelligent and positive and empathetic and passionate, is gone, and yet there are horrible, selfish, apathetic people who will live for decades and decades more; it feels like there is no justice in the world, and no sense of reason governing the allotment of time to each person to contribute what they can to the world. The sadness is coming--I feel it behind my eyes, and caught in the back of my throat, and in a growing tightness in my chest--but it isn't quite here yet. This waiting, the sensation of something creeping up on me, this slow grief, is agonizing. The lack of catharsis is maddening.
He was so young. He had so much more to give. I don't understand.
