I Still Don't Understand The Play
I've been guessing for 4 years.
I’ve had a recurring dream/nightmare for years where I wake up in the wings of a set stage, right before a play is about to start. Everyone is rushing around, getting ready for the show, and I am completely relying on context clues to figure out why I’m even there. It soon becomes clear that I am supposed to be in this play as people start asking me questions like, “Are you ready?” and “I left your umbrella for Act II on the prop table.” I panic when I realize the show is about to begin, and I have no idea what’s going on.
I wander backstage, trying to gather more context without revealing that I don’t even know the title of the play. I approach other actors with vague questions like, “Did you bring your script? I wanted to check something really quick…” Flipping through a thick booklet of lines and blocking, I scan for handwritten notes—anything to tell me who my character is and when I’m supposed to be on stage.
By the time the lights go down and I sense the silent audience behind the curtain, I still have no answers. The opening scene starts, and my stress level skyrockets. All I can do is guess. I watch the scenes unfold and try to predict when my character should appear. When another actor pauses like they’re waiting for something, I walk on stage and say whatever comes to mind, staying as long as I think I’m supposed to. Sometimes, I enter scenes without knowing if I belong there, waiting until it feels right to speak.
It’s obvious I’m guessing wrong half the time. The other actors give me looks that scream, “What the hell are you doing?” I shoot back silent pleas of, “I DON’T KNOW.” But the show must go on, and they have no choice but to improvise around my mistakes, or try to guide me toward something that keeps the plot moving.
The dream goes on like this until I wake up. I’ve had it so many times that I can picture the stage perfectly when I’m awake. Yet, I never get to see the end of the play, or really get to know what it was all about, or who my character really was. Each time I wake up with a thousand questions. Was I actually supposed to be in the play, or did I just think I was? Was I an amnesiac who forgot months of rehearsals? Why am I the only one who doesn’t understand? What would happen if I just walked out?
I’m no dream analyst, but this one feels obvious enough. Ever since I started living life more on my own—maybe four years ago—I’ve been terrified of living it wrong. Of saying the wrong things. Of disappointing an audience. Of becoming someone I wasn’t meant to be. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a writer’s room in the sky where they’re arguing about whether or not to kill my character off or something. It’s the constant weight of feeling like everything depends on me while knowing I’m miles behind everyone else.
When I first watched Asteroid City (dir. Wes Anderson), it felt like seeing my dream play out on screen. In one scene, an actor named Jones Hall, playing a character named Auggie, realizes mid-scene that he doesn’t understand the story or its meaning. So, he walks off stage to ask the director some questions:
JONES: Am I doing him right?
DIRECTOR: …You’re doing him just right. In fact, in my opinion, you didn’t just become Auggie: he became you.
JONES: I feel lost.
DIRECTOR: Good!
JONES: Do I just keep doing it?
DIRECTOR: Yes!
JONES: Without knowing anything?
DIRECTOR: Yes!
JONES: Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of answer? Out there in the cosmic wilderness…? I still don’t understand the play.
DIRECTOR: It doesn’t matter. Just keep telling the story. You’re doing him right.
Maybe that’s just how it has to be. I don’t understand everything. In fact, I don’t understand very much at all. Life feels like one long guess. I go to work at 8. I go to class. I do my homework. I go to the gym. I write songs and letters. I go on first dates. I say my prayers. I play my guitar until I fall asleep...
It feels like swimming upstream forever—always tired, always starving, always unsure, always waking up from the same dream and wondering if this is all it will ever be.
I wish I could close this letter saying that I figured it out and I know how to push forward without feeling so terrified. But I don’t think I have that in me just yet. Maybe that’s ok. Maybe it’s supposed to be scary. Maybe it’s supposed to break your heart every night. Maybe it’s enough to keep showing up, to keep telling the story, even when you don’t have all the answers. Surely that’s better than walking away. But like I said–I still don’t understand the play. I’ll let you know when I do.