Its now been more than a week of sleeping on the floor in a dormitory. (I tried using the bed, and ended up twisted like a Rubik’s Cube. Mentioned the shitty mattress to the powers that be, who suggested either a plank under said mattress, or putting mattress on the floor. No use. So I’m been getting more or less a good nights sleep, sleeping on the thin carpet on the floor.)
Can I just say that I miss my bed?
Its interesting how its the simple things that I crave as routine. The morning smokes, cup of coffee, a ‘bed.’ Before I start sounding like the angels in Wings of Desire, and list the feel of palms being rubbed together on cold mornings, to my list, I’ll change gear.
Rehearsals have been going at high speed. Its been interesting to be confronted with student actors, and to see what the taught approaches to performance are in America. I’d go into detail, but as Inspector Clouseau would say “Now is not the time, Cato.”
I miss writing; feeling the satisfaction of observing the emergence of well-crafted sentences from out of the morass of jumbled words on the printed page.
There’s a scene in Dennis Potter’s Black Eyes, where characters literally pause midway up stairs and awkwardly loiter, waiting for the instructions on what to do next, as the narrator (the writer of the piece) verbally doodles and ums and ah’s over what happens next. That’s roughly how my characters are feeling at this point. They’re all standing around, eying me and waiting for me to direct them towards their intended actions. But currently writing isn’t possible. The rehearsals are long and cut into my morning wide-awake hyper period – whereas by nightfall and around 8 or 9ish, I’m slitty-eyed and ready to fall over. The cast and director kindly cut me enough slack and realize its not coz I’m lazy – truth be told I’m probably not getting enough nutrition to last the very long days, given that mine starts around 6am. (Good nutrition is a daily struggle – I’ve got my rice cakes, fruit, and diminishing supply of broccoli, and that’s what’s keeping me alive and well-fed. I’ve learned enough previously about US food, to deliberately avoid the toxic sludge of it. Stupidly ate some bread from the scam known as ‘Wholefoods’ when buying fruit and vegetables – my mouth was stripped raw, and my whole body took days to recover. Gawd knows how people can eat the stuff on shelves and restaurants here.
But the rehearsals continue, and I step through old thoughts and old material. I think I have a glimmer of what Michael Palin felt/feels like, when people quote Python material at him, and he’s having to think back decades to the person he was when doing it.
That said, ‘Dogs’ is fairly funny, and is a self-contained little story which is still effective. Its doubly interesting seeing what the cast and director are able to by turns, perceive and not perceive, in terms of the nuances in the script – this alone is teaching me volumes about American society, in a way that is profoundly educational. Its fascinating seeing what constitutes ‘complexity’ locally – and how script is approached and understood.
Scientists and hunchbacks, cooks and broth.
Its these and other issues that draw me towards Prose, where what IS – provided its written correctly – remains unassailable and undeniable on the printed page. And others wanting to pretend they’re part of the artistic vision, can simply fuck off and wander in the wilderness of their own vacuousness.
As opening night draws near, I wonder sometimes about what constitutes ’success’ and how one is supposed to appraise this…
I know I’ll be sitting outside on the steps on opening night, smoking and looking at the Moon, and thinking my various thoughts. Hopefully the audiences inside the theatre will be having a good time and enjoying themselves.
I’ll find out soon enough whether I can reach through the numbness brought about by a million miles of concrete highways and parking lots, and sameness – and make some folks ‘feel’ something.
/Goth mode off
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