Greetings from Vaudeville

Greetings from beyond the grave.

I died and went to Vaudeville...and this is me, waiting backstage.

Holding my accordion, in a swimsuit: waiting to high-dive off the low-dive into nothing and everything all at once.

I am no clearer now than I was ten months ago.

I left you because I died.

I died on the inside!

And I'm no less dramatic than I was ten months ago...

So let's start at the end, and work our way back to the beginning. I am sitting in a new office. I am sitting at my same old desk, at my same old computer, thinking maybe I should be looking at a brand new blog with no audience yet, instead of looking at the old blog hoping someone, anyone, still cares, and will listen.

I like my old audience.

Ten months is a long time to lose yourself, and never find yourself, and come slinking back with your accordion between your thighs.

I'm waiting for the Marx Brothers to finish their act. I watch Harpo and Chico's backsides intently, and smile.

"These goofballs...," they're always eating up the first five minutes of my act. I play the intermission. No. Scratch that. I play the accordion, DURING the intermission.

I hear rain pitterpatting outside the theater, and I know people will be heading home soon. "Hurry up now!" I whisper, waving my hand to no one because no one is looking. The Marxes are running around the stage like monkeys lit afire. The audience is going nuts.

I'm lost here, I thought, only yesterday, and now I feel finally like I'm fitting in! Waiting in the wings for the Marxes to finish their madness...I am going to sing and dance, and play the accordion, and put on a show for anyone willing to watch, for anyone willing to brave the storm later, instead of sneaking home now while they still have a chance in bearable rain.

In a red swimsuit, I slink across the stage. The Marxes are still bowing, but soon exit the opposite side from my entrance.

"You're not leaving yet, I hope!" I say to the crowd playfully. I'm happy. I'm forgetful! This isn't the end...it's only the intermission! Of course the crowd will stay; of course the people will stick around! Be damn a storm, the Marxes will be back soon. And then I can hide behind them again, until you like me again.

I am still here. Only a ghost, singing in Vaudeville. In another place...in a different kind of place; busier, bigger, more structured, uppercrust. I am a prisoner here.

After the show, the rain falls harder with every second and every step we take towards the train station. The Brothers will not let me go onto the train. Groucho takes me by the arm, and pulls me towards a waiting car.

In the backseat, I am squeezed between Harpo and Chico, and now their behinds are of no concern to me. I am a grownup, not a romantic, saucy, glossy-eyed, sex-obsessed girl in love with every man over forty (or am I?). "I am not," another voice says, and it's always best to listen to the first voice, not the second.

-- Or is it the other way around?

And I nod my head, only to have the brothers shoot glances of disapproval towards me, and then to each other.

The driver takes me to the Standish Sanitarium where Dr. Huntz Hall gives me a lobotomy.

Just how I got here, to this new office, to this old desk and blog, is a mystery.

I am lost here, and found here, and waiting in the wings.

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