The last few days have been disconcerting, surreal, transformative. I wrote notes of memorial for two beloved ppl, and then went to a writers' salon. At the salon, we talked about Quira's essay, and about retiring from theatre b/c it's too painful for POC. She said it felt like dying. I wondered if something be both painful and terrifying, but also life-supporting? Can we sometimes mistake exquisite pain for dying, and numbing comfort for life? The next day I found out that Andre Lancaster has passed away. I wrote a third note of memorial. Andre was definitely bruised and battered by the institutions of art. At the same time, I also felt it was the art that was giving him life. It was the community most apt to remember and inspire. When he walked away from theatre, it felt like he was crossing over. Less stress? Definitely. But also surrendering that tiny ephemeral circle of light inside of us. No one can touch this island of light, no paycheck can bridge it, no trespassers are allowed. Guests, family, even lovers can come, but by invitation only and then they must leave.
The floating land can burn hot with rage or simmer with cooling satisfaction, but it is sovereign. I sat down to write the epilogue for a play going up next year and my scenes for the next episode of THE GOOD FIGHT. The worries, anxiety, neurosis, all faded. I was inside the stories. I found myself on that floating island. I conjured characters and scenes in the holograph of my imagination. The losses of the outside world entered on to the island. I allowed it. But only if it came in costume. The reality became elevated in a masquerade ball. The scenes and characters swirled around me and then catharsis. In masks, I understood the reality a little bit more than if it was naked. Then we were finished. The world got back on the ship and sailed away. And I, too, got on my own vessel. I moved away from this floating island and back toward the outside world. The scenes are done. I will edit from the sobering shores of reality, but I know I will go back to the island soon. If I don't, I will die. If I stay stuck in hard facts and information, then I will lose sight of the light emanating from a place deep inside of me.
The floating land can burn hot with rage or simmer with cooling satisfaction, but it is sovereign. I sat down to write the epilogue for a play going up next year and my scenes for the next episode of THE GOOD FIGHT. The worries, anxiety, neurosis, all faded. I was inside the stories. I found myself on that floating island. I conjured characters and scenes in the holograph of my imagination. The losses of the outside world entered on to the island. I allowed it. But only if it came in costume. The reality became elevated in a masquerade ball. The scenes and characters swirled around me and then catharsis. In masks, I understood the reality a little bit more than if it was naked. Then we were finished. The world got back on the ship and sailed away. And I, too, got on my own vessel. I moved away from this floating island and back toward the outside world. The scenes are done. I will edit from the sobering shores of reality, but I know I will go back to the island soon. If I don't, I will die. If I stay stuck in hard facts and information, then I will lose sight of the light emanating from a place deep inside of me.
No comments:
Post a Comment