Unconfirmed Reports

Last night was the opening night of the American Pilot. I was playing the Pilot, and this was a really Big Thing for me - the first time I’ve had a major role. (I’m not quite sure whether it counts as “major” or “starring” or what - the Pilot is on stage the whole time, and in a way it is all about him, but he doesn’t actually talk all that much, and when he does, he is inarticulate.)

I think I did the part quite well. Certainly, I did much more than I thought I was capable of, even a year ago. It was an incredibly intense experience: I became the Pilot, at least in some moments, and acting started to bleed into being.

Because of that immersion, I was totally drained when the show finished. It’s a pretty traumatic role, and some of that trauma passed through me in the course of the play. I could barely talk afterwards; I couldn’t sleep either; I felt very empty, and just wanted to be alone.

It occurred to me then, after the show last night, that acting seems a very unwholesome art. I felt so emotionally wasted by it: it’s so much “about you”, so impossible to be detached, such a public spectacle. Going through emotions in public, for the edification of strangers. There are people who do this all the time: I can’t imagine how.

Also, after the show I had a strange feeling of pointlessness. I’d done what I set out to do, met the challenge, feathered my cap. And then what? Nothing. Silence. A slight loneliness. What do we do things for; why do we strive? You make so much effort, then you get there, and then what? You don’t reach a state of nirvana, just emptiness. So what’s it all about then?