The show must go on . . .


“All the world’s a stage”

Today’s writing prompt invites us to imagine—in the making of a film would you rather be a director, producer or lead performer.

“And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts”

Yes—many parts—as director, producer, performer (and writer) . . .  ticket taker . . . popcorn maker . . . on and on.
Though the prompt is multiple-choice question, it inspires me to answer in another way—a way that acknowledges how we are at different capacities throughout our days . .  . our lifetime.

We often have to serve several roles  at the same time.

For example, as I sit here writing, I realize
the show  (the rest of this day) must go on . . .
which means I must accommodate my other roles
and like a Medieval  Shakespearean jester, juggle them!



.        .        .        . 

Thinking about it further: 

One may hear an urgency and tenacity in “the show must go on” that says “Rise to the occasion. The curtain is going up! Never mind that you’ve never juggled those many hoops and balls—here’s another.  And another.”

It’s surprising how many stay aloft for as long as they do.

Here is the complete passage from Shakespeare’s “As You Like It”:

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.







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