once more, with feeling
Dish to cupboard. Towel to rack. Vacuum to floor. How many
times the body bends to its tasks, groaning at the endless rotation of repetitions.
I cannot love it, no matter what the Buddhists advise. If there is joy
in the industry of this infinite busywork, I cannot see it. These scripts,
long memorized, have lost the novelty of their early drafts. Worse,
each performance now plays without a theater; the encores go without applause.
And yet, we players keep returning to the stage, opening and closing drawers,
wiping counters, shaking out the bathroom rug, and the curtains never once
come down. We shuffle through the steps, strangely loyal to our aging roles
as we lift the glasses to their shelves and gently stack the bowls.