interiore comici

I recently binge-watched The Marvelous Mrs Maisel, and for a brief moment imagined I could also be a stand-up comic. In my head, certainly, I am as funny as she is, and I have these stream of consciousness internal dialogues. But, unlike her, I have zero connection between my inner comic and my mouth. I am thinking that maybe the link between my fingers and comic may be better, so let’s see how that goes.

Of course, my life is too happy and stable at the moment to have much to talk about, but maybe it is also just that I have conditioned myself to simply not say anything? We often do that, we silence ourselves to save ourselves the embarrassment of not being understood. But is that not where the best comedic moments reside, in that moment of confusion where misunderstandings blossom and bloom.

But a happy life is also a muse killer. It is hard to find anguish and angst in a happy life. And it is hard to be funny when there is no angst – after all, the main reason one finds humour is for it to be the antidote to the shittiness surrounding oneself.

Clearly my inner comic does not like to come out at all. Things that have me rolling on the floor of the inner seedy bar just rolls out clumsily through my fingers as it does with my mouth. We will try again. Maybe it is like any muscle, it needs to be pushed and pulled to get into a good shape.