Saturday, October 1, 2011

Drowning my sorrows in a bag of caramels.

All of us that ever trod about the stage with varying degrees of success have had....that dream.

You know the one I'm talking about; Christopher Durang captured it quite nicely, back in the early eighties.  You're on a stage, but you can't remember the play; OR, you are stunned that the lines you know are NOT from the play currently being done; OR they are speaking a strange kind of foreign language.

At yesterday's rehearsal, it was that kind of nightmare; and there was no waking up, shaking the head, and letting out a relieved 'whew!"  It was just a nightmare.

I will freely admit that my skills have rusted a bit; in the days of two week, one week, or nine day rehearsal periods,  you get in the habit of making the choices at home, and bringing them to work with you.  You get into the habit of learning quickly, so that the actual work can begin.  But if you don't use the skills, they atrophy. 

Oh, and I'm older now, so the synapses are not firing quite as well as they used to.

So, there I am, with fourteen pages of dialogue in front of me, and none of them sounding the LEAST bit familiar.

To my credit, I toughed it out for the first hour and fifteen minutes; but my calls for line became more frequent, and more frantic, until finally I had to put my head on the desk and wonder what the hell I was doing there.

A voice came from the edge of the stage.

"Would you like to pick it up?"  The kindly director, indicating the book.

"I think it would be better for everybody else if I did," I admitted.  I mean, you can learn a lot when you're standing in the fire, but there are other people who actually DID their jobs, and they shouldn't be punished so that I can bang some lines into my head.

Thankfully, as the old adage goes, no matter how badly the thing goes, it always ends, and I quickly left the theatre hoping that nobody would see the truly pensive look upon my face.  And I went home, curled up in a ball, and slept for five hours until it was time to earn my wages.

I hope that the sleep comes easy this morning.
I hope that the lines come easy after that.

And of course, I hear the voice of Benjamin Franklin quoting himself:  "He who lives on hope, dies farting."

So, work it, old man, for the winter is coming.

3 comments:

Misti Ridiculous said...

Knowing when to work through it, and to pick it back up is a sign of a professional. You'll get this babe. It's part of the process. But you're already a step ahead of the game. You've got caramel. xoxo

Gertrude said...

May be you should play to your current skills and join and improv group! Turn lemons into lemonades. Or may be you should give yourself a break... I can't remember the date. Ever.

Kizz said...

I feel you. The brain is disobedient sometimes. And it's not the only one! You'll get it.