Scene4 Magazine: Claudine Jones |

Claudine Jones


Gauging the amount of shopping  to level of anxiety, this has been a banner month. 

My son calls it retail therapy.

Sad commentary on having discretionary funds & the imagination to potentially fill in every possible gap in
every room.

Or just a view of a messy life. One that cannot be controlled:
if something horrendous occurs, it has truly nothing to do with magical thinking.

I can send out immense waves of shuddering fear. R. has been out for a walk & it's 11:30 where is he? Yet the door squeaks, footsteps in the foyer & he's home.

Our semi-chorus began in earnest to collect everyone's data in a spreadsheet for the upcoming gig to Hollywood.

I beat down my shyness given the obvious bonds among longtime members who already had the column roommate
filled in.

Internet at my disposal, I can whip up travel plans with as much aplomb as anybody. Choose a hotel that was not even on the suggestion list; show some independent thought.

With mp3 files my own rehearsing at home is a good old friend, while insanely different than the distant times when I drilled however I could, usually with a tape recorder, but of such clumsiness in comparison.

Walking around the yard, or reading the news online, or having a sandwich if I happen  just to be listening, not actually singing.

Taking note of the trouble spots, toggling back & forth from the score on my squeaky-new tablet, making squiggly indications with a stylus for a mandatory cheat-sheet.

I look back at the moment when he said well, I have to have an operation.  It was going to be so perfectly timed to fit Outpatient between Last Rehearsal & Trip to the Egyptian Theatre
a week later.

Today the catheter's out & the surgeon's happy; last week, I'd never seen my guy in pain like that, yelling for morphine when they gave him tylenol, crying for something stronger when the morphine didn't work.


I give him his injections in the belly twice a day & hope it doesn't hurt this time. There's not much talk of food.

Like a puzzle or a game, my phone is telling me how much in how much out & whether I'm over-budget or in-the-zone. If I can't control events, perhaps I can control my weight; at least it helps pass the time.

I walk up & down the stairs, turn at each landing, staring at the smooth wooden steps, the rhythm Don't Think of Food [rest] Don't Think of Food [rest] & now I see that the internet didn't save me after all.

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Actor/Singer/Dancer Claudine Jones has worked steadily in Bay Area joints for a number of decades.
She writes a monthly column and is
a Senior Writer for Scene4.
For more of her commentary and articles,
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©2016 Claudine Jones
©2016 Publication Scene4 Magazine



June 2016

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