Today was one of the first genuinely Nice days this year.
I was sitting at the Java House with one SN – a Wandering Writer who I believe hails from New Orleans – and my girlfriend, A. It was a serendipitous and strange meeting since both SN and I had been attending shows at the University of Iowa's New Play Festival and when you see a familiar face so many times under similar circumstances you either become curious or deeply worried about serial killers and such. Anyway, A ran into SN at the Haunted Bookshop the day before, crossed paths again on the street and I happened by while they were talking. SN and I both recognized each other as That Person from the plays. That's how Life goes sometimes.
We got to talking about the plays and she told me about one I had missed, Idris Goodwin's Black Intellectuals Chew the Flan Waiting for Death and/or Tenure (awesome title, no?). She told me how the audience, including the industry guests were struck Dumb. "It was weird, you know," she said, "to meet someone after the show like that. To stand in front of someone and think... this person... you're standing in front of one of the next Greats. This person, when they write theatre history, is going to be one of the Names."
And I sat there and thought, Christ, I'm glad I'll never be one the Names or the Greats. What tremendous pressure. It's liberating being mediocre.
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