The Right to Speak Deliriously

I really have no time for this -- writing, I mean, but it has to be done, I have to talk about the things on my mind while they're relevant, while they can still help shape the play.

This is a crucial time, when all the important decisions have to be made, when students (my students) need to be more understanding than ever (they never are), when friends need to be constantly available (despite having lives and troubles of their own), when cast members need to have the patience of saints (they often do).

This is the end of an era and the beginning of a celebration. Ten years here, in Louisiana, twenty years in this country, having survived absurdity and malice (I'm talking about my country now), having made it through the process of learning completely new things, a new way of life, a language other than my own, new rules, new social dynamics, new freedoms. I've made it, and, in the process, I came to love it here. This is where I can speak my mind (most of the time...), this is where I do plays without fear of repercussions. I remember the guerrilla theatre days in Romania, the huge risks we took, our youthful stupidity...

Nostalgia is a disease. Stay away from it. The cure? Start painting giant tree branches in the back yard, as I did this morning under the suspicious looks of the neighbors. I've been storing the branches for months in the shed, kept them in large, black trash bags. Today, when I finally took them out, an entire reptilian colony emerged. I screamed, jumped back, took the branches out of the bag, painted them, opened another bag, screamed, jumped back...The process repeated itself several times until I was done. More painting. More neighborly looks. The plumber got it, though. When he came to look at the outside pipes, he glanced at the giant tree-woman. "Art show?" he asked. "Play, " I said. "Part of the set." "Nice," he said, and went back to banging on the pipes. We understood each other. I liked that.

Now I'm waiting for Mike to go shopping for a camera I can paint white. All the props are stored in the kitchen -- fabrics, tables, chairs, spray paint cans, tools, medicine bottles, chess set, intertitles. Things are coming together. I'm slightly concerned about my dog who, some days, becomes restless and hides in the bath tub. Usually it has something to do with changes in the temperature or storms, but today the weather is fine, so I don't know why he behaves as if he were in need of a bomb shelter. Please don't get sick, Pakki. I couldn't deal with you and the play at the same time.

I'm experiencing a slight delirium. This is how it manifests itself: the world around me is in soft focus, and only things related to the production are in sharp focus. I teach automatically (not wasting people's time, I hope, but in a rather detached manner -- I can't help that). My relationships with the people around me become a bit superficial -- I smile, I comment (on the weather), I say hello, but nothing registers because I think of all the things that need to be done, I think of the moment when the lights go up and the space changes around me and this story I've been trying to tell all this time plays itself out. I have earned the right to speak deliriously. Barthes said that, and I've been in love with Monsieur Barthes ever since I read his pseudo-memoir, ever since I read his most intimate thoughts on the subject of boredom and sensuality...

I love my delirium. Surprisingly, it helps me think. And then, if all goes well, I emerge from this ordeal (the way Victorian heroines emerge at the end of a long sickness), a little lighter perhaps, a little happier, amazed to be surrounded by extraordinary friends.

Delirium Part II

And in just a few hours everything changes. Seth calls, and during an otherwise pleasant conversation announces that he had no idea there was a rehearsal tomorrow. He's out of town.

I've never been this close to wanting to hurt someone physically. These are the moments when I know that these productions mean so much only to me, that for everyone else they are an occasion to do some interesting work, but they're not these necessary, life and death events. For me they are. How can one conceive of having the weekend off 16 days before a production?? In what demented parallel world would we not meet, particularly since our first rehearsal on the stage looked so tragic? I am so angry I don't know what to say. I need to breathe. I need to reschedule. Now, an entire company needs to adjust their schedule for one person. Since August, I've been saying every week: "From November 5th on, you have no life for two weeks." How did that translate into a weekend off?

I talk to Dan. He tells me he's available, but he wasn't sure we're rehearsing. For a moment, I feel like I''m inhabiting an absurd, malicious other world. Where were these people  when I announced the schedule: Nov. 5 through Nov. 20th daily rehearsals? I check with everyone else. They all know what's going on. Ellie has taken time off work to be available all Saturday.

So now I have to sacrifice morning and early afternoon. Meet with people at 5, rehearse two hours without Seth, and at 7, when he can finally be there, begin the rehearsal. A day wasted. Every year when I look back at these productions I love so much, I wonder if they're worth the heartache, the neurosis of the final weeks, the confirmation that they mean so much only to me. And every year, the answer is no. No, they're not worth all this misery. But then time passes and I forget how much these weeks drain me. And I do another play. Perhaps this blog will help me remember. Perhaps all I need to do, when I feel like I have to stage another production, is reread this entry...And yet, I know they all do care. Otherwise, why would they subject themselves to all this work? This is just one of those miserable days. Let's hope it goes away and doesn't clone itself.