IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE WORD. . .

I stand alone on the stage facing the audience that sits en masse. I stand silently for several minutes with my attention split between my self and the audience; and as I peer into that sea of shinning eyes, I sense my breath tightening, for I see, indeed, for what they came to the theater to see: not the play nor the characters nor the sets nor the costumes; not the director nor the designer nor the writer nor the stagehands; not the actors to my right nor to my left nor those standing behind me. My throat seizes. My left hand uncontrollably waves at the boards. The ringing in my ears is louder than any thought I have. I can stand it no more. The moment has arrived. I must speak. . . speak the word. . . the word that cannot be spoken with these dry, parched lips. . . the word that I could not find in any dictionary nor in any book nor in any newspaper nor in cyber space. . . the word not taught in any school room nor heard in any college auditorium nor on the radio waves nor the TV-waves . . .

How patient the audience waits for the word, knowing that it will come, not from my mouth, but from that unseen place, deep within, that has always been inaccessible to those who could not or would not or dared not know me. Who in this audience I see does not know me? They all know me. Some know me better than I know myself. They see me, now, and demand that I let loose this word or they will surely rush the stage and tear it from me. Oh, God! Open throat! Lungs, pull my breath in! I hear for what they have come to the theater, tonight. I hear thy word! It. . . is. . . Me. . . mySelf. Not I, but thee!