Other People's Shoes and Cement Beds

Acting now. Fishing around the depths of a new play's guts. Making sure the theme bone's connected to the plot bone, and the plot bone's connected to the pacing bone. Working out if it really needs three kidneys, checking that the nerves and vessels are strung right and won't start flailing like an inflatable used car lot wacky man when we get this thing going.

Acting's an interesting temporal paradox. In the midst of a scene you're someone else, somewhere and somewhen else, but your mind is intensely focused on being in that moment, listening, seeing, feeling it. 

Almost nowhere else does my scattery, imaginey little brain so fully lock into the present. Even if it's not my present, neither me nor now, it's still a present. It's a salve for my hopping thoughts, being able to sink deep into a moment as into a bed of wet cement. Ahhh.