And the piano sounded out

In an angry sanguine blare:
We are not Mozart, nor were we meant to be.
Forgive us our Beethoven,
Our Baz and our vibrant Michaelangelo -
We are Shakespeare in his early days
We are Spielberg and too popular
We are joyful and tiptilted
Not staid, not dull, and pardon us for learning
Through doing.
Were things other than they are,
Were every item first afforded that luxury
Of out-of-town runs
Perhaps we should be better than we are.
Were things other than they are,
Our lighting should have been something played with
Earlier than the day after it was meant
To have been done.
But who is our better audience?
He who has seen it once too often,
Who has forgotten what fun is?
Or she, four years old, wide-eyed and open-hearted
Who believes.
He, eighty, connoiseur, guffawing heartily.
He, middle-aged, veteran, returning with his wife
And now thinking wistfully of the stage himself?
He, finally in the role he had so long desired,
And he as well and she as well
And what is theatre if not where dreams may soar?
Forgive me for being merely human.
Forgive me for at least exploring.
Forgive me for at least doing.
But then, no one must love another's work,
Nor am I obliged to read another's opinion.
Learning, reason, fortitude:
These will be my credo.
Nothing risked, nothing gained.
Nothing tried, nothing learned.
New is not necessarily bad,
Although it may be rough around the edges.
Give time, not pettiness, please.
And I shall to my piano, there to join Beethoven
In deafening duet.

Mood: Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh!
Music: None. I am typing, not playing.
Pensee du jour: I must take Julie's advice more often.