Written September 29, 2007

10:10pm

            Why do I feel so connected to Charlie?  It is a question I have often pondered—ever since that first dream a few years ago…….

I was him, literally in his body, seeing through his eyes, watching myself (himself) on film absentmindedly, in the back of a small room, in the dark, waiting for 2 people (one man, one woman) to arrive.  The laughter of the audience was comforting but not stirring any real emotion inside me.

            Afterwards, I was leaving the room by stepping over the folding wooden chairs rather than waiting for the small crowd to clear by way of the two makeshift aisles along the sides.  I heard a woman in one row saying how much she’d like to meet “that man” on the street and how she wondered what he would be like.  I paused and reached out my hand toward her, never bothering to look at her directly; my eyes still searching for the people I had been waiting for.  “Do you have a scrap of paper?” I asked, to my surprise I had an English accent.  After rummaging in her handbag for a moment the woman passed a scrap of paper into my right hand.  I pulled a pencil from my coat pocket and signed with my left hand.  I then handed the paper back to her and stepped over the next row of folding chairs.  I vaguely recall hearing the woman’s companion ask, “what’s that?” and then “no, I don’t think so…it couldn’t be.”

            I paid them no attention, but continued across two more rows of chairs until I was at the front of the room, heading toward a door behind a crowd of people, most of whom were taller than me.  I remember standing on tip toe, peering over people’s heads, trying in vain to see whoever I had been looking for.  I never saw them and felt disappointed, but not really surprised and not really hurt.

            I awoke with a start and spent the majority of my day disoriented, with a feeling of surrealism to my whole day.

            Before this dream, I had never read about the life of Charlie Chaplin.  I had never viewed Richard Attenborough’s biopic, Chaplin.  I had only seen still shots of Charlie.  I had never seen any of his films.  I had never heard his voice.  I had no idea that he was left-handed.  I had never seen his autograph.  Yet in this dream, I knew who he was and I knew I was him.  It was only after the dream that I discovered the vast numbers of Charlie collectables on the Internet and began buying DVDs, books, and photos.

            While watching his films for the first time, I felt an amazing emotional tug, a pull like I had never felt before.  I am not generally an emotional person.  I’d say I am reserved.  When I watched The Kid, I cried.  No matter how many times I watch it, I still cry.  Just as, no matter how many times I watch it, the short One A.M. always makes me guffaw with laughter.

            That first dream, and numerous other similar ones that have followed, have led me on an amazing journey of discovery.  I have learned about both Chaplin and myself.  I was shocked to see that the signature in my dream was comparable to those autographs for sale on eBay.  I was surprised to hear his voice on a DVD and realize it was almost the very voice that was emitted from my own lips in my dreams.  This all led to more questions.  First, I questioned my sanity, of course.  Then, I questioned the possible reasons for this connection I could not deny.

            Still, the question has remained…What is the connection?  Why do I feel so akin to a man I never met?  Indeed, a man who was dead a year and a half before I was born?  I never sought out this connection.  It just was.  In fact, it seemed to seek me.

            Perhaps it is simply the shared desire for self perfection—perfection in all that one says, does, and creates.  His was far grander and on a scale the entire world would see.  Mine is comparatively small, but equally driving.  His need for what he considered to be perfection led to numerous film takes, months of actors being paid to sit around while inspiration took its time to waltz into the studio, years of “self-absorption” at the cost of unknown numbers of personal relationships, and (ultimately) magnum opus after magnum opus of black and white masterpieces which continue to capture and hold the gaze of thousands.

            My drive for perfection, as I said, is not as obvious to the larger world.  I see it, my family sees it, my friends see it, my coworkers see it.  And, at times, it drives us all to the breaking point.  However, my audience is often virtually nonexistent.  I am an introvert on a grad scale.  I have a few close friends and even fewer to whom I confide my innermost thoughts and feelings.  (My own feelings are things which even I don’t often understand.) 

            Yet I do strive, unendingly, for perfection.  As a human being, I do my best to treat other humans and animals with respect and compassion.  As a wife and mother, I have spent many moments in silent agony, thinking of all my imperfections and ways to do away with them.  As a teacher, I wish for no wasted moments.  I wish to always be “at the top of my game.”  My lessons should be engaging, meaningful, and memorable.

            I am not obsessive-compulsive nor do I have delusions of grandeur—I simply feel as if I have done myself a disservice when things do not turn out as I envisioned them.  I am a logical, intelligent being and, although my stage is small and my faults are many, I feel that it is my duty to strive to make those faults as few as possible and virtually invisible to those around me.

            Maybe this, after all, is what has connected me to Charlie?  I can never be sure.  He is gone and I have no one to answer such questions.  I am left with nothing but conjecture and wonder and dreams.  So, every now and again,  I put in a DVD,  watch him on film, laugh, cry, or simply wonder at the man behind the grease paint, underneath the hat, his image placed before the world, his ideas not always clear to others; but eventually, if he could hold out long enough, clear to him.

            I have now learned, from my own life, that a life without error is no life at all—it is simply one waiting to live.

            “What does this have to do with Chaplin?” you ask.  I answer honestly when I say, I have no idea, but give me time and I will know.