TIVOLI JENSEN

If there is one word that has followed me since birth, I do declare, ’tis dramatic.  

Perhaps the notion of my being prone to dramatics stemmed from being an only child.  I was alone for much of childhood, lost in a world of kidnapped princesses, daring sword fights, and the hero often dying valiantly (which, of course, all the best stories have).

Or, perhaps, it is from that eighth grade visit to the Folger’s Library, where I immediately fell in love with the bard and his flair for the sensational.

Or, more still, perhaps its all those years in the theatre, where I had the luxury of being so many different, interesting people all the time.  In one season, darling, I played a thief, a murderer, a witch, and an aging aunt.  It was fantastic.

At any rate, I love dramatics.  I love drama.  When my daughter, out of pure instinct, throws herself onto her bed in a fit of wailing, I have to hide my devilish grin that, yes, she understands.  “And the Daytime Emmy goes to…”

I do not, however, enjoy drama of the unproductive kind.  When one’s words are filled with poison about another, who is not even present, I get bored.  This is blase!  Why, when you could set up a duel with pistols with your antagonist instead of enlisting others for your dirge of melancholy!  My dear, you could fight!  To the death!  Wearing gloves and peacock feathers and like a bloody gentleman!  You, my dear woman, could out the impostor in the midst of a raging party!  Arms flailing, tongue lashing, eyes ablaze with ill-contempt!

Oh!  The things humanity, you and I, could do if we embraced the dramatic!  Oh, the possibilities we have, my dear!  We can do it all!

We could sell our possessions and drive off into the night in your beat up car– waiting for the moment the engine finally dies in the middle of nowhere (otherwise called Ghent, West Virginia– my, your car got far!).  Whereas, having used all of our money in those bootlegger gambling rings and on the richest caviar Tennessee had to offer, we had to set up a syndicate of parading gypsies who dabble, secretly, in the arts of communicating with the dead!  Of course, its all a sham, but the dashing young Lord Kettlesbutt of Cambridge doesn’t know!  And, oh!, how you looked when he proposed!  And how I must have looked when you said, “YES!”

Or, if you are into keeping your things, what if we packed up and sailed around the world– our final destination some uncivilized island off of the coast of Madagascar!  We did, of course, have the magic of fire and technology at the ready and led the natives to believe we are gods!  Or what if we made that band finally and sold over a million records (are records even still a thing? add this to the list of “What We Need to Find Out Before Adventure”), and then revealed that we were the founders and figureheads of an all-person cult dedicated to Our Lady Dramatic, Patronus Saintificus, Taylor Swift!  It’d be the new Kabbalah!  We could have green string bracelets!  Tom Cruise would jump on couches for US!

We could volunteer for the the Old Folk’s home and go around granting wishes as if we were fairies!  Take Mrs. Robar to Vegas to see the Chippendale’s!  Read the last of War & Peace to that handsy Mr. Valdridge– who was a war hero how many years ago!  We could finally join that circus and have the best tight rope walking act around!  We could moonlight as tigers for the Zoo when they’re on vacation, we could start fan clubs for the ordinary people of the world, we could create intricate holidays and Pinterest boards for every day of the year–

Oh, the things we could do, my friend– oh, the possibilities abounding!  Our lives would not be written with periods and commas, but with dashes, and exclamation points, or, even! dramatically unfinished sentences– because who has time to stop

And yet.

In light of all of the above, here you are, and here I am, and here we sit.  On your couch.  At your job.  In that over-priced coffee shop.  Doing things that we’d rather not.  Seeing people we’d rather not.  And being, perhaps, a person we’d rather not.

But, oh– how even our most melancholic shrugs are laced with the impossible…