A rant.

Last night, I went to the Theatre, and realized how much I hate it.

It was so safe, this theatre. Big, comfortable chairs. A warm, rich hall. A proscenium. Funding that totaled millions a year in tax-free contributions. The patrons, grey-haired and professional alike, seemed to know one another and the actors. It was community theatre for the six-figure set.

In a lot of ways, it helped confirm my theatrical beliefs. In others, it turned my stomach. Perhaps I was Tired, Hungry and Cranky, perhaps I was just jealous, but my teeth continued to grind until the curtain went up.

I go to the theatre to be entertained, and I was. The play was well written, designed and acted.

I go to the theatre to be inspired, and I was. The physicality of the actors made me want.

However, for all the opulence, I wasn’t filled with wonder.

For the rest of the night and this morning, I’ve wondered why that is.

Perhaps Brecht has the answers. Perhaps Banksy holds the keys. Perhaps this isn’t my passion, after all.

If it ain’t, methinks I’m in a world of trouble.