Love does tend to make people mad. In both senses of the word. Crazy, yes. And also, angry. It’ll pull the mad right out of you, even if you think you have none.
But for me, at the moment, it is not romantic love that makes me mad. No, no, the love that mads me is my damn love for the damn theatre. It hath made me mad, over and over again. Today it hath made me mad that no one can really make a living doing it – no one but a small handful of artists and a world of administrators. It hath made me mad that the most creative and innovative work is made on the backs of people who can’t afford to have children or get health insurance (until recently that is.) It hath made me mad that everyone is so enamored of the glamour of Broadway that they cannot see the theatre in front of them without putting it in a Broadway frame. [“That was as good as Broadway! That show should be on Broadway! This is like Broadway, but different!”]
It hath made me mad with its persistent sexism and racism, with its ableism and ageism.
It hath made me mad with its sunny lies about how great its doing, how well it is, how it’s got some great projects coming up.
It hath made me mad with its promise of inclusion and diversity and the reality of just the most beautiful people making their way to the jobs.
It hath made me mad with its extreme extroversion, with its gladhanding and self-congratulation.
It hath made me mad by not being all that I’d hoped, all that I thought it was, all that I’d imagined.