The play is finally over, and I’m exhausted, of course. It was a wonderful, depressing, fabulous, frustrating, joyful time. I just want to curl up in bed and never leave, but now everything feels empty up here until next year. There’s such community in theater – community that disappears as people go back to their day jobs and what draws us together is finished.
I acted. It was interested, as performances went by I actually expanded into the role: sometimes I’d emphasize one line, sometimes another, depending on how my character was feeling. It was almost like a playground, where I could experiment and try things as long as I kept within the boundaries. Almost like writing genre fiction. I love the framework, and then going wherever I want within it. The same with acting.
Except … I had a horrible time remembering lines until I dropped my Lyrica. I don’t know if that was it or whether the finally just reached another level in my brain, but it was the most frustrating thing. I’d never worked so hard at something and then failed. I’m not a perfectionist — I usually accept failure with sang-froid because one cannot be brilliant at everything. But I would have the lines down pat and then suddenly draw a blank onstage.
It also might be that acting brought me back to my fourteen year old self, who was very vulnerable, so it raked old wounds.
But it was glorious as well! Everyone was wonderful in it — the young man who played Billy Bigelow brought a vulnerability beneath the bluster and it changed the entire play.
The work isn’t quite over. I have to help get the costumes ready to return, I have to help sell books at the Writers’ Forum. Next week I’m free?
Never. Too many other things weighing me down. But the only way to deal with these thing is to keep moving, which is what I’ll do. I’ll finish the book today. I’ll go see Sally. I’ll curl up in a tiny ball.
I need just a little bit of peace, and I can’t find it.