And so, here I was, drunken in truth, deep in meditation- running between auditions to a contemplative community in the bottom of an office building with fluorescent lights, that to me, even now thinking back, seemed the most sublime space. The breeze from the Los Angeles parking lot like a gust of the most high.
And I was. Totally high. (sans any drug, mind you.)
I was an “actress-” (a useless word, as “actor” describes all) Immersed in a reality of hairdryers, make-up, and mirrors. Until one day when Reality came to visit me in my room.
The Diva knows a little secret.
Given the opportunity to participate in sexual activity, she might opt out on account of her undergarments not suiting her own sense of romance, at the moment. That moment, seduced by Surprise, she's left the house in her white cottons. Her bra doesn't match her bottoms, she hasn't been waxed recently enough to suit her Fancy, her last cycle left a trace. Call her what you may- vain, rude, obsessive compulsive- it is her prerogative to only bare herself in a certain state of lace and lingerie.
Let’s now consider all of those chaps (men and women)- you, perhaps!- who have headed home wondering what went wrong. What was it that you did to turn off the wily diva? You should have worn the other shirt, not made that one comment (Stupid!), not eaten the last bite, and (for heaven’s sake) have gotten a different job- one that made more money- or less money and more sense- before having stepped foot into the home of the likes of Diva - or at least LIED about it!
Or, of course… the nagging, overall suspicion that you were entirely out of your mind to begin with, for why in the world would you have thought for even a minute that you might be worthy of something as crazy as this thing called Love- from such a succulent and worthwhile creature, no less.
On the plane and late after a long good-bye.
“Alice!” The flight attendant exclaimed as I approached. The whole plane had been waiting for “Alice,” and here I apparently was.
“An extra long good-bye,” I explained.
As I took to my assigned seat, the ego-mind entertained the possibility that there were people on the plane thinking, “Well, if that’s Alice it was well worth the wait.”
“She was worth waiting for.”
Mind catches itself, “No,” it shadowboxes, defending its ungraceful blurt of arrogance,* “Not because I’m beautiful but maybe I was so lovely, pleasant- GLOWing, even, upon entering.” I might have cracked more of a joke. “What if I had?” It says. I could have thanked everyone for waiting like a big announcement. My little Extra-Long-Good-bye comment was sweet, though not a big laugh. And probably even made Someone angry- “You have love so we wait?”
Hmmm. Not beauty, or wise glow, or humor. The mind searches like a scanning computer for worth. What made me worth waiting for. What makes me worth waiting for? Not that they should have left, but how have I made up for the delay?