What you can do is practice specific things. The pantomime, the specificity, the timing and rhythm.
That's why this is so scary. When you finally make it bloody and screaming to the top of the mountain of all the bullshit you ever made up, and every crappy thing you ever rationalized and open the fucking door, it's only you. Just you standing there. With your knees and your hair and your sad little smile.
I wanted to show up and magically be a genius, and GET it and give hope to the faculty for the future of clown, because that is how much I love it. But I opened the door on a bossy, desperate, sweaty B student with passion, baggage, weakness, walls, a shitty temper and a crappy alcohol tolerance.
All I can say is I'm learning to focus, and what is important.
And I'm scared, because my hands will never be Chris' and my face will never be Ronlin's. My feet will never be Bill Irwin's and I'll never have Skinner's perfect stillness. And that scares the bajesus out of me. But I do have what I have, in it's tiny, scattered, painful, choking, unfocused, unglamorous infancy. And I'll be goddamned if anyone can ever take that away from me again.
There's a history here. A brotherhood. It's something you have to give it's due.