"Dread"

He wondered what the word dread sounded like in other languages . . .
   Does it have two "d's" like dead? 
   Is there a glottal impasse lurking somewhere
      while triangulating through innocent sinuses?
   Does the “eh” slowly gasp like a ventilator?

He knew what it felt like . . .
   a creeping infection of his Spirit
   signaling to roving organisms
   that he would be a great place for a family feast.
Like a wounded octopus moving slowly after one of its arms
   had been eaten by a pyjama shark.

Soon, dread began to inhabit every corner of his mind
   and body,
In sinking tones that rolled and folded over each other,
   as Dark Energy from another era crept under the door.

It had been three years since his last play . . .

A successful screenwriter, he still missed
   feeling a character taking hold of him in the dressing room, 
   heart pounding before stepping on stage,
   knowing the other actors' lines better than they did.

Acting kept him artistically young, and emotionally sane.

Sure, the pandemic shut down many a theater group,
   but there were still productions happening —
   some online, some outdoors,
   and of course,
   workshopping.

Auditions used to be so clear, and motivating,
He knew where he stood at every stage —
   “Thank you. Next,” or,
   “We’ll call you if there’s an opening,” or,
   “Okay, can we hear you read this other part?” or,
   “Can you come back in a week to read for the director?”

Now, things are different . . . very different.

He approached one theater group and they asked for his contact info,
   but didn’t get back to him.
He approached a group and they asked for past production references,
   but never got back to him.
A new group approached him and asked for his rehearsal availability,
   but never followed up.
He approached a group and they asked how many shows he would like to do,
   but forgot they talked to him.
A different group asked if he enjoyed doing teaser scenes for social media,
   but after that, couldn't be reached.
He approached another group and they asked if he could play multiple roles,
   but later insisted they never made that offer.
Another group asked if he ever directed and would that interest him,
   now they say it was taken out of context.
A final group asked if he’d consider writing for their company,
   they later apologized and said they have a ‘new cultural mandate’.

He saw other actors getting into productions,
   and wondered what happened,
   with all his training and experience?

So, he hired an audition coach who assured,
   “You’re a terrific actor, fifteen productions under your belt,
   and countless auditions.
   Just relax and enjoy the process.”

And that vacuous dark tunnel of non-response kept happening,
   over and over and over again,
Like the sinking tones that roll and fold over each other,
   with the Dark Energy from another era that creeps under the door,
and the 42 languages that he can now utter the word dread in,
His breath labors like a ventilator
   looking in vain for words that don’t start with “d”
   or rhyme with “dread” . . .

It all begins to take a toll on his Soul,
   feeling partially amputated,
   looking for a shell to take refuge under.

Later, the coach consoled,
   “Yeah, things have really changed,
   You’re bound to find something.
Don’t stop putting yourself out there,
   just relax and enjoy the process.”

 

February 2022

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©2022, Michael Smolens