Writing about Thinking about Thinking

My dad pointed out yesterday afternoon that I am adept to a flaw at distancing me from myself and projecting my mind into the minds of others. This was after I told him in depth exactly how I'd feel if I were gallivanting on stage in front of 700 people while singing my brains out.

I even distanced my stage-self from that, somehow, and pondered how I'd feel as stage-me pondering how I (I as in me, an audience member) would be feeling if I were feeling how stage-me'd possibly feel... And then it turns into an endless feedback loop that spirals out of control until it hits a granite wall upon which are incised the words: YOU ARE NOT A PERFORMER.

(EDIT: I am not a SOLO SINGER. I will, however, dance in front of crowds and judges, and performing in choirs and orchestras as a flutist was one of my favorite things to do... When I had time. I can play piano with a degree of innate skill, but it's hard for me to perform on it.)

My aunt was recently diagnosed with malignant, systemic cancer. On my way home from the bridesmaids' coffee & crepes party, I imagined being her spouse. It was such a thorough imagining that it was like being hit by a truck; to be somebody's lifemate, to have that relationship threatened so suddenly. To be powerless, to be terrified to let any moment pass without regarding it, consummately examining its import... Afraid to sleep lest some precious moment spend itself without packing every thought, every ounce of love and meaning and color into it, to use each second to strive to convey it all in a limited span of time. I think I'd die of somebody else's dying.

Guilt. How dare I have moments of boredom! How dare I stare into space for an instant. Why wait until one knows the deadline (no pun intended) to throw oneself wholeheartedly into the "project"? Ugh!

Why do I do my best work when I procrastinate? Why, only when it comes down to the eleventh hour, do I do my best appreciating, my most vivid existing? At least I work well under pressure... ::grumble::

Brain. Do not want!

The above is why, as my singer sang his arias flawlessly as Marco (the crownless one in the 3rd pic) in The Gondoliers Friday and Saturday nights, I remained on the edge of my seat trying, through sheer force of will to help him shape his voice. It's such a good thing I'm not psychic; I'd ruin so many potentially great situations that fate, in its omnipresence, would have sorted out so much more expertly.

I think that part of my grief yesterday morning had something to do with the fact that all of that is over and done with. I tend to get so enthusiastic about the passions and endeavors of others that I neglect my own.