Sunday, March 6, 2011
Man. I thought I was tired last night.
Yeah. Well, I was. But I am tireder tonight. Is that even a word? I have no idea.
Here I am.
And on my way here, the rain began and now it patters down and it smells like ozone and like life and it is so peaceful here. So very, very peaceful.
We did it. Two performances today and I realized that part of my exhaustion these days isn't just the doing of the play- the physical demands- it is the play itself. We go through such a gamut of emotions on that stage in two hours and let me tell you something- almost everyone whom I talk to afterward from the audience has red-rimmed eyes. The men, too. We can hear them onstage as they begin to quietly weep in the seats in front of us and we cry too.
Or we did. Done. Over. It's over.
The fat lady has sung.
And this lady has packed up her stuff and brought it all home and will unpack it one of these days. The hair pins, the nail polish, the hairspray, the picture of her children that was on her station, the ceramic rooster pitcher, the giant conch shell, the Japanese umbrella, the costumes, the make-up, the rollers, the shoes.
The trash here is overflowing, the recycle too.
It is almost one in the morning. I'm hungry and don't have the energy to cook anything.
I am so tired I don't know if I can make it to the bathroom and turn on the shower and get in and wash all this make-up off my face and brush my teeth but I have to. I won't rest if I don't.
You know how that is.
The rain is falling down onto the bosom of the earth here where I live. There is a frog who shrills out, calling for others to join him in the rain dance. There is a sense of accomplishment. We may have had one of the biggest runs ever at the Opera House and we did that with our simple little play and our work and our bodies and our hearts and our tears and our silly jokes and goddam! it was good.
But oh, it is so good that it is done.
And tomorrow we can rest. Tomorrow we can sleep. Tomorrow we can know that there is no rehearsal, no performance, no set-building or painting or gathering of costumes. And the box in the trunk of my car will wait until I have the energy to deal with it and so will the trash and the recycle.
And I am proud of the way we all came together and took these words that Robert Harling wrote about his sister and we made them our own and we gave them to probably a thousand people in that old, old theater in Monticello as countless community theaters have done, each unique in their own creation of the story of a beloved sister who died and who was loved desperately by her family and her community and how that community held the pieces together when she died with fingers in hair and arms around shoulders and laughter through tears.
The rain is slacking off. The frog has ceased his song.
I am going to go take that shower and wash all of Truvy off of me except for the red of her hair which will stay with me some time, as will the memories of playing that woman in Steel Magnolias and I am wondering what will come next but I am not too concerned about that tonight.
I only hope for deep sleep and that if I dream, it is of light-filled places with faces of people I love. Those here, those gone and I wish us peace, whichever realm we inhabit or do not and I love the idea of all the sleeping, dreaming people as the rain falls down on this dark, peaceful night.