Dispatches from Home – Theater, A Reality Check.

When it comes to acting, there are times when I find it easier to direct my energy toward the mundane than to practice the intellectual discipline and imagination that acting requires. As I sit learning lines for the upcoming production of “Scrooge The Musical,” the demons of doubt dance in my mind. They whisper their thorny skepticisms: You can’t do this; you don’t have the brains. They snigger their antagonistic warnings: You’ll fail; you always do.

“And Mr. Kalberg, what about your imagination,” the demons taunt? At your age, doesn’t it begin to fade? Fade into nothing more than a watercolor memory of that which was and can never be again? What about all those people out there in the dark? Silent. Staring. And waiting. Waiting for failure? For the curtain to finally drop on your lackluster performance, leaving them to say this should have been your last performance?

But when that happens, I’ll put down the script. I’ll take a sip of strong black coffee. I’ll look out the window, staring at the majesty of God’s heavens, and think about my acting friends who had gone before me–onward to whatever reward they had earned on this side of Jordan. I will remember all those nights we stood just behind the vast velvet curtain, waiting for the show to begin. Waiting for the house lights to dim. Waiting for the audience to go silent, anticipating the magical world behind that velvet curtain.

As I stare into the vast azure-blue sky, I’ll also remember the warmth of a fellow actor’s hand clutching mine, his energy flowing into me. I’ll remember the sweet, silent wink from a pair of dancing, delphinium-blue eyes, her eyes assuring me that we would wow the audience with our talents. I will pick up the script and continue learning my lines. One by one, I’ll grab the demons, cram them into the recesses of my mind, and discipline myself to do what must be done.

What about the imagination that acting requires? That will be easier. I’ll think about that lonely little boy from long ago. That innocent little boy who sat on his parent’s front porch, staring at the billowy-white clouds, watching them silently glide by. That same little boy became a master at discovering the silent portraits in clouds. A fearful face. A laughing clown. A vast tree to climb. A fuzzy teddy bear to hold in his loneliness. Yes. Oh yes! He’ll be my muse…just as he’s been for sixty-six years.

(Originally published August 19, 2018)