Performance

Sorry this is so late, I forgot I hadn't done it until 11:56 last night, and I knew I wouldn't be able to write anything until I slept, so I did that.

Fair warning, this is less a story and more a ritual to touch base with my patron deities, Hermes and Hestia, to receive reassurance and advice from them.  If you read this, you will be taking the role of an audience member, beyond the lights.  It's a role, like being in a real audience, that demands only your attention, but if you are not okay with being in this role, please do not read further.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I stand on the stage, the bright lights shining hot into my face, a vast hush over the theater.  There could be a hundred people out there, or only one, I have no way of knowing, no way of asking, but I turn away from the lights, because this isn't about the crowd.

Hestia sits at the table, putting whole ears of corn, husk and all, into the big pot, the water sloshing soothingly as she moves, her dress, an old style worn by black grandmothers from a time gone by, is spattered with water, but her expression is gentle.

Across the table, Hermes lounges, looking slick in his flashy suit, the heavy lights glinting off the smooth brown baldness of his head as his body broadcasts amusement with every motion.  As always, I feel inadequate next to him, mostly because I am, but also because I'll never get on his level with my skirts and blouses that are alternatively too big and just right.

"You doubted us," begins Hestia, still putting corn into the water, one ear at a time, slowly and methodically, mesmerizingly.  I should be doing something, should be helping, but I am transfixed by the simple act, and I am so tired, my legs feel like heavy weights, every motion like moving through deep water.

"I did.  I'm sorry.  I know I have to act sometimes, but I don't always know when to act, and when to have faith."  It has the virtue of being true.  I don't know when to have faith, because I'm always afraid things aren't going to work, and then come the spiraling thoughts of just how bad things could get if I don't act, so I do.

"We're trying to help you," drawls Hermes, almost sounding like he's yawning at me, his fingers nervously tapping on the table, lightly enough to not make sound, because he's not stupid enough to be a disturbance to Hestia, but I can see his fingers, moving fast, frantically, arhythmically, and that hold me as effectively as the soothing motion of Hestia putting corn in the pot.  He's usually on his cellphone, throwing me a smile, laughing into his phone, or growling into it, but now he's actually talking to me, not phoning in a quick response, and he can't be on his phone.  At least I warrant full attention right now.  I'm never certain if I warrant that much attention, but apparently, I do.  "But we can't if you don't let us, if you don't talk to us.  Ask for what you want."

"But sometimes the answer is just no."  I'm not stupid.  I know that if they gave me every stupid thing I wanted...well, I wouldn't be so tired, that's for certain, because I'd have money and the ability to transport myself places, and no need for the foot-destroying, dehumanizing work I do.  And I feel bad for wanting this for myself and not for others, but only a small peripheral amount of bad, because it will never happen, and because I am unashamedly more interested in my own well-being than anyone else's.  "And I'm never sure what no looks like, as opposed to wait."

"That's where faith comes in."  Hestia again, slowly standing, her chair creaking as she removes her weight from it, scraping as she moves it aside with her hip to grab the pot, lug it over to the stove on the far left of the stage.  A stove is always necessary, because cooking is how I communicate with her, but I watch the shift of her clothes as she puts the pot onto the eye with a clank, listen to the clicking of the pilot light and the woosh of the flames coming on.

A hand grabs mine, my right one, and I look at Hermes, standing at my side.  I didn't hear him get up, and his hand is warm holding mine, his smile surprisingly gentle as he adds, "Faith and hope."  I feel something in me die a small, stuttered, painful death.  Hope?  Hope is that terrible thing with bladed wings that lingers in my soul, destroying it, piece by painful piece.

I snatch my hand away, frustrated, miserable and unhappy.  Usually, I would let that thing inside me be dead when an authority figure kills it with their words.  I would nod, a fixed expression on my face, blank and hopefully emotionless, but I can't let him kill this piece of me.  Not again.  Not with his hope, his painful hope that does nothing for me and only prolongs my pain.

"I DON'T WANT YOUR HOPE!!"  I shrill into his slightly shocked, faintly amused face, my voice grating out of my throat, and it will hurt if I keep screaming like this, but there are tears welling up in my eyes and threatening to bubble over, I can't hear Hestia moving, and I'm not looking at her, "I'm so tired of hope," I sob at Hermes, torn between burying my face in his chest, letting him comfort me, and pounding against his chest, forcing him to either endure, or make me stop.

I do neither, simply stand there, swaying on my feet, my hands coming up to my face to wipe away the tears before they fall, "I can't take anymore hope.  I just can't.  I'm so tired.  I know I have a purpose, in the good moments between all of this, after I've had meat and enough sleep to nourish my body the way it should be, the way it can't be, because my aunt and uncle have such vastly different eating habits, and I have to rely on them for food."

"Is that what you want?  Meat and sleep?"  Hestia is salting the water the corn is in, and if I strain my ears, I can hear the shh-shh of the salt escaping its confines.  "I want to be nourished according to what my body needs.  I don't want to work this hard for so little return.  Yes, I want meat and sleep.  And vegetables and dairy and choices that are not terrible and miserable to make."

"What would be good choices?"  Hermes' shoes clunk against the floor, ever so slightly, nice shiny shoes, as he turns and makes his way back to the table.  I follow, taking Hestia's seat across the table from him, slumping on the table, "Choices that don't put me between being yelled at by my aunt and being homeless, because if I quit this, they really will kick me out, I just need my driver's license.  I want to go to Lansing, so badly,just because I'll get to eat there."

Hestia opens the oven, and the smell of cooking meat wafts out around her, tantalizing my nose, "Are you sure you'll get to eat there?"

"I won't be anxious about it there, at least.  And they eat meat."

"Why don't you ask your aunt and uncle to provide more meat?"

"They don't eat it like I do, and they can't afford the way I eat meat--"

"But the folks in Lansing can?"

"There's more of them.  And I don't care if I inconvenience them."

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and don't have to look to know that the long, thin fingers belong to Hermes, "So why do you care if you inconvenience your aunt and uncle?  They aren't blood, and they took you in knowing there'd be expense."

"Because I feel like I owe them a debt from before college, and if I don't care about their stuff, they'll be upset and yell at me."

"Your aunt yells at you anyway, because of her bipolar," Hestia points out.  She's right, of course.  My aunt uses me as a confidante, and she's made of loud noises, with a tendency to yell, especially when she's upset.  Because of the debt I feel I owe her, and the fact I need her, I don't feel like I can contest her, and because of my anxiety, even when my aunt's not yelling AT me, I feel like she is.

"Are you saying I should detach from them emotionally?"

"Yes."

"Yes!"

It comes in chorus from both Hestia and Hermes, and I can feel the rightness of their words, the truth, feel myself coming to terms with it.  I have to allow my aunt's feelings to skate over me, rather than burrowing into me.  I have to let her shit be hers, even if I contribute to it, because I'm doing the best I can with what I've got.  I just haven't got much.

"I want to be a trucker," I tell Hestia and Hermes, having worked through my feelings to come out at what I want, what I need to say.

"You also wanted to be a tech support agent," Hermes points out.

I growl at him, sitting up, "No, ok, I want to be a writer!  I want to write for a living!  Fiction, nonfiction, motivational speaking, these are the things I want to do!  But there's no money in the writing I enjoy doing, and I need money, or rather, I need food, shelter, internet, phone service, social interaction beyond just being on my computer all the time, like physical people with physical contact!  I NEED these things, and I need at least marginal reassurance they won't be taken away from me, which money and the folks in Lansing offer."

"Your aunt and uncle don't?"

"I'm constantly afraid they're going to kick me out.  My aunt keeps joking about it.  It hurts and it's frightening, because I'm afraid they'll just suddenly say that I have two weeks to find a new place.  I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, and they offer no reassurance ever."

"What would you do if they did say that?"

"Call the folks in Lansing."

"And if they said no?"

"I have a friend in Ohio who might take me in, and friends in Massachusetts."

"So you have options."

"That I'm afraid will turn me down."

"You know that in desperate times, you'd find SOMEONE who could help you, right?"

"Yeah, I guess I do, I just..."

"Wish you didn't have to wait until things got dire to find out?"

"Exactly."

Hermes taps my head, causing me to look up into his big smile, "Aren't you glad things are not so dire you have to find out?  Aren't you glad they've never been that dire?"

I can't help but laugh, "Yeah, I guess I am."  I look out into the lights, try to see if I can see the audience through them.  I cannot, but I suppose it is alright.  It will be painful and difficult, breaking old habits and creating new ones, but I must if I wish to be happy.

I slowly stand, walk over to the edge of the stage, then execute a low bow with a flourish, the heavy cloth of the richly blue dress I am suddenly wearing making a thick, heavy sound as it fwooshes into existence.

I straighten to grasp my skirt and offer another, better bow, "Thank you, audience, for bearing witness."

The curtains close, plunging me into darkness.

The performance is over.