The Fine Art of Comedy; the fine art of pushing everyone away with boisterous laughter

I have always been so sure of my path. Of my life, my dreams, of who I am.

I have had my entire life steeped in my comedy, like the strongest batch of tea that might’ve turned into something else throughout the years, and now the taste might not be acquired to anyone’s liking. My story has been written in wavy lines of large HAHAHA’s not unlike the comic strips of early Batman’s Joker and his gleaming, lime green light of terrorizing mania.

Somehow my light shines through, even with the darkest days seemingly ahead.

Even as I found a way to escape the dreary day to day toil of what most men have to do to earn their living by doing comedy, I feel that I pay for things in other ways. Not by breaking my back. Or breaking a sweat.

By feeling like I’m not real.

By feeling like I’m not really a part of society.

I feel like I’m far, far away from what it means to really have relationships with others.

All my life, for countless hours, for hundreds of hours, thousands of minutes, I go up on stage, and I talk.

I talk and talk, and I have a conversation with myself. I tell myself it is a real part of life, this conversation.

This little conversation that I had over and over in my head, the same dialogue I practiced out loud in front a mirror to make sure my eyes and my mouth and my body language looked on point and that my voice hit all the right notes in volume, precise tone and timing.

And all these conversations I had on stage and all the laughter that I heard back—- was that all real?

Was it really all a dream?

Because I look back at my life and all my failed relationships and what I have to show for my dreams, and I see how much it amounted to.

It gave me a rush every time.

And after…

Nothing.

I felt empty.

Being with family—-maybe was the only time I felt like I could be myself, and even then, I would feel too uncomfortable in a room full of silence; I needed to fill it something.

And I realized it was not laughter I needed anymore.

It was love.

Yes, that really mushy, corny, light hearted and over the top sentimental type of love, the kind where you wanna cry and laugh at the same time, and you wanna start singing on the streets—-that kind of love.

But who knows where you can get that in COVID -19 Pandemic driven, postmodern 2021 New York?

Not anywhere near my neighborhood, certainly.

Maybe in Queens.

Maybe somewhere else, like up in space, near a star that was just born, and another one that had just saw its explosive life begin—-and was utterly dazzled by its effects and what the result was.

Two stars in love, or rather three stars in love….

I know this is real, because it’s a birth of something that has been long written in my life story, waiting to be opened and understood and completed.

My love for these two are unbreakable, and I know that nothing can stop it, or change it. And I know why.

Because we all showed that love to one another way before we left our assuming imprint of a lover’s dream to give it another title, and I know that our stars have always been burning for each other.

——-

Even as Jerry was emotionally exhausted, he had never felt anything so real as he did right now.

He had always thought intimate moments with your significant other was sex. Maybe cuddling after.

No.

Not like this.

After the worst day of George’s life, Elaine picks them up from the hospital, the former’s mother resting and in general better spirits.

They made hot tea, and sat around, talking and laughing and crying together.

Elaine rubbed circles on Jerry’s back.

Jerry held George’s hand against his scratchy face that needed a quick shave and would occasionally bring George’s hand to his lips to give it a kiss, and then rest them together near his thigh.

They all were so at peace.

Then, silence.

The silence was as soft and as warm as a crackling fireplace.

They didn’t need any words, or physical examples of their love.

Just hot tea and each other.