Miss Cleo?

I just had the most interesting phone conversation.

I have been trying to get in touch with a woman who evidently doesn’t usually answer her phone or return calls or respond to messages left on her voice-mail.  You might consider these deficiencies to be enough to bar her employment as a secretary.  Someone, however, decided to give her a chance anyway.

“Hello?” she spoke in a languid, sing-songy tone.

“Hi. I’m trying to get in touch with Beverly S-”

“This is Beverly.”  I had no idea anyone with the aforementioned “languid tone” could possibly interrupt so quickly.

“Hi, well this is J-”

“Can I call you back?”  I was a little shocked that anyone would answer the phone instead of letting it go to voicemail, speak to the individual on the other end as if they had hours to gab about the weather, and then interrupt with requests about ‘calling back.’

“Um, sure.” At this point I can literally hear the space between the phone and the receiver grow smaller.

“DON’T…you need my name and phone number?!”

“No, I’ve got it.” Unless Miss Cleo recently obtained a new name and day-job, I cannot possibly conceive how this women would have this information.  And caller ID be blasted because my number doesn’t come up, and if it does it is under a different name entirely.  Again I can hear her start to hang up.

“DON’T…you need to know who this is?” I am incredulous.

“No, I’ll call you back, Honey.  Bye Bye…”  There is space…and a click.

All I can do is sit here with my mouth open and the phone still to my ear.  What…was…that…?

End of an Era

I always hate that feeling of emptiness when something ends.  Sometimes it’s a good book, a great TV series, and sometimes it’s 6 months of dedication to performing with a wonderful group of people.  I’ve lost count how many times I have lived through the end of a season, but the feeling is always the same.  Sometimes it’s a minute twinge, leaving me with a slight sigh and the thought of “oh well, I’ll miss that” for a week or so.  And sometimes it’s a big hole in the pit of my stomach that leaves me with an insatiable desire to immediately fill that place in my life with some other activity.  No matter how many times I live through it, it never becomes possible to sufficiently prepare myself for the inevitable and abrupt halt.  All things come to an end, and for all things that are good, it’s this finite quality that makes them even more precious.

I live in the moment the best I can, and when it’s all over I am left with only memories.  Asking “how did it feel to live this particular minute or the next?” will never bring to the surface a sensation that compares to the original.

We are bound to the passage of time, something I have always had difficulty coping with.  And while I feel obligated to conclude these thoughts with something uplifting and profound, I have little to offer.  Yes, every experience ends and my existence will persist, but there is never any guarantee that something else will begin or that anything that does will be good.