the actor

It is never too late to be who you might have been.

George Eliot

 

     Imagine a man, walking alone along the street. Any street. Pick one you know well. Pick any season; any time; any weather. Imagine that man there. Call him The Actor.
     Give him a role. Write him his words; his motive, his world. It doesn't matter what you imagine; he will do his best to satisfy whatever role you assign him. He is an actor, remember. It's what he is; it's who he's been since he entered the life: someone who will bury himself in the part.
     Now, place yourself in the scene. Imagine The Actor walking toward you, his eyes upon a spot on the sidewalk in front of him. He seems deep in thought, though his face, his expression, is impassive. He might even seem to be a little angry, unhappy, uninviting to you, as you draw closer. Had he been looking ahead, you might have been inclined to say "hello" to this stranger in passing, as you generally do. But what you feel instead is an invisible aura around him, and you feel it pushing against you, warding you off, so you simply avert your gaze and pass him in silence. And you wonder, did he even know I was there?
     But remember, you are the author; you need to provide him with his role; you need to invite him to perform; he is no one, without you. So, you turn and call out to him, and say "hello". He stops, looking over his shoulder at you, and you notice his eyes for the first time, looking at you; his expression, now merely bland, but a little less hostile; perhaps curious.
     Imagine that you engage him in conversation. Anything will do; as long as you take the lead. Imagine his responses, as you feed him his lines. Imagine that he begins to slowly open up to you, and that some sense of character is emerging. You notice that he's beginning to improv, taking his character unexpected places; but still within the frame of how you have imagined him.      
     As the scene goes along, you notice that he becomes friendlier; perhaps even revealing some interest in you, beyond the limits of a casual acquaintance. Yet, you're aware, he only takes his character so far. He explores his role only as far as you guide it, you notice. It's a good role, and the character emerging is attractive to you; even desirable but, in truth, you're beginning to become a little bored with him; you're feeling a little drained from the effort of leading him; directing his role.
     But you think, "he's showing me so much; perhaps I need to demand more". So you take the dialogue in a deeper, more personal direction; asking pointed questions that you hope will give him a chance to take charge of the character, perhaps become more real to you. But, this does not happen. He simply deflects, and reflects only you.
     He wasn't always The Actor, this man. He used to be a very good, very real improv performer, especially as a child. He used to lead all his scenes, drawing from a true sense of his character. But his castmates were brutes; harsh critics of his efforts; insensitive to his abilities.
     Over time, he offered them less and less of himself; he gave them only what they needed from him; fashioning characters that worked for them, for their scenes. And he became The Actor; a cypher, perfectly folding himself into all the other lives and the scenes in which they starred but keeping himself for himself; safe and alive, deep within him.
      Now, imagine that you realize the scene is over; that you don't even want to be in a scene - you're not an actor; you're not a writer; you're not a director. Imagine that you say goodbye, and walk away, wishing you'd never stopped.
     Imagine a man, walking alone along the street. Imagine that he's just a man. Let's not call him The Actor.