Scar

Just before my right elbow on the forearm, there is a round mark. It is from throwing myself across the stage face first. The specifics of what exactly I was catapulting myself into vary a little depending on the day....golden grahams, a giant exercise ball, one especially memorable container of yogurt. It wasn't in the script. It evolved from a moment of "where can I go with this stoned lunatic" that I was portraying, into taking the skin off of my arm every performance until it stayed with me forever.

I live in a world of envelop pushing. In the Neo/Alt Burlesque part of my universe, it is an imperative part of the stew. Do something new and unique and see how far you can go with it. It is exciting and stimulates the imagination. It also very often takes brass balls to execute and can be scary ride. It is emotionally dangerous because, among other things, you literally expose yourself and maybe put yourself in a situation that you never dreamed you would be. It is about committing to an idea so completely that you are willing to go outside of your comfort zone to make it great.

Sometimes its just a matter of taking a chance and risk having something fail publicly, humiliating yourself by choice, leaving yourself open to the harsh judgment that some other members of humanity feel entitled to inflict on others. Even if it is just a kiss in an uncomfortable place. If those things don't work, the scars go on the inside and the scab gets picked every time you see something that reminds you of that moment until they fade into a flinch and grimace and then later, if you are lucky, just a flashing "oh" resonating in the pit of your stomach. 

Dancers usually try to deter damage so that their bodies will last but, really, have you seen their feet? Circus performers put  themselves constantly into precarious situations, abusing their bodies to be super human.  It is like a badge of honor to see how far an actor can mess with their physicality for a role (or just to get work) gaining and losing unhealthy amounts of weight, injecting botulism into their faces,subjecting themselves to awful elements to make their work look authentic. Artists, if they are worth their ilk, are often a pigheaded lot ignoring upbringing, pain and common sense to bring their innards out for closer examination. 

I am proud of my scars and the residual pain that I live with today. They are not the choice that one would make to keep and I would prefer not to have them. They are, after all, the results of error. But they are also my story of how I was brave that day and did something difficult in my life, how I gave the audience my all and then some. Win some lose some but the story is still out there. Or embedded in your forearm to remind you forever.