For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring

In what may have been my ultimate act of theatrical hubris, I cast myself as Mercutio in a production of Romeo and Juliet I directed fifteen years ago this summer.  Mercutio is probably one of if not my absolute favorite of Shakespeare’s male characters. He’s so witty.  He does whatever he wants and simply doesn’t give a fuck.  And the bad boy has a bit of a temper.

Both times I directed the play, I made Mercutio a woman.  Mostly because I like the undercurrent of Mercutio’s love for Romeo.  Something that is just waiting to explode, but put into one hot Verona summer, it goes very, very badly.

That fight/death scene is one of the greatest tragedies in all story telling.  A sad lesson in the need we all have to face sooner or later to take a step back before things escalate out of our control.  Certainly, most of us aren’t in those moments with swords pointed… but I don’t know, these days our weapons both literal and metaphorical are a little more harmful.

Last night I found myself in one of those moments.  And I can’t get over how foolish it was.  But my blood was boiling.  It had simmered all day after looking at headlines and Facebook posts about Trayvon Martin and Zimmerman.  I didn’t cool my emotions any by writing something equally emotionally ravaging.  And then someone said something stupid.

Maybe the declaration of stupid is still my inner Mercutio acting superior.  But… I just got more angry as my conversation opponent kept persisting he didn’t have an opinion, just that he was delivering a punchline.  I wanted to punch him, but I just used my middle finger and an expletive or two, which made the table uncomfortable.  But no one said anything.  Not to quiet me.  Not to agree with me.  Not to disagree with me.  Not to talk… and therein is where my anger peaked and diffused with an incredible sense of sadness.

No one wants to talk about this.  Some people will let me talk… like maybe you two or three readers do by reading this.  But then… then the idea stops short because the conversation doesn’t even begin.   It’s just a news story.  It’s icky.  It’s easier to not have an opinion, to not let Jessie get all riled up.  Or maybe that is just amusing.  I don’t know.  But the blood is still simmering.

The air is hot.  And maybe that makes me more easily agitated and less willing to calm down.  Maybe I need to go for a run… because I haven’t done that in a while.  But I think, why is my anger wrong?  Isn’t this injustice infuriating?  And why, why, why, why don’t we care enough?  Why have we already moved on to rant about a stupid Rolling Stones’ cover that we’ll forget about next Tuesday?

And I think of Romeo and Juliet.  A cautionary tale that has been told again and again and again for over four hundred years.  But we don’t learn.  It’s just a tragic love story… the definition of romance.  To die for love.  And we ignore the whole part about the heat and stupid choices and… sigh…

I left the table last night heartbroken, but with an attempt at apology.  I don’t know if anyone heard anything I said.  The attempt at gracious or the reason for my mercurial attitude.   Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Maybe I have to take a step back, figure out what to say, and say it with a voice that isn't rude or angry, but deceptive enough that people are willing to listen... and maybe have a thought or two to provoke conversation.  Maybe I'll have to write a love story.