Originally published at neevita.net. Pictures don't crosspost correctly - if the entry looks like it's blank or doesn't make sense, check the original neevita post to view.
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It's been an interesting few days for me.
Throughout the implication of Obsidian; writing the show, bringing it all together with a cast and tech and raking in ideas from all over to add nuance and meaning, the process has seemed, to me, to be easier than I expected. Particularly emotionally.
I've been amused and beguiled by the cast and crew of the show, the amazing community we've created among ourselves, and my being able to trust in others to help me tell such a huge story. I've marveled at how dense and wide sweeping the well of material I draw from is, that as the show developed more and more into the collaborative effort from us all I wanted it to be, the show still entirely encompasses stories and themes I relate to personally. It's everyones and it's mine.
I dealt with some insecurity about the suicide scene in particular, and my other performances in the show, partially because as the director I didn't have much time to work on my own stuff until the last few days before we opened.
Mostly though, the show has flowed out of me, and I wasn't very concerned. It was a very different feeling from when I first started performing, and then first started telling stories with my performance, when I would nearly throw up before I went on stage and b-line it to the green room after to shake and sob and freak out.
It didn't make much sense to me, why this one was easy. I guess I'd decided that I was going to focus on putting on a show, and not too much on why I had created it as I had. I guess it had to do with having a crew of about 40 other people creating something much larger than ourselves. I guess it had to do with being ready.
On Saturday, I turned what was once my life, things I've held on to for so long, over to my crew to present to our audience. I was, mostly, another performer in the show, compared to my place in the rehearsal and creation process. And it was awesome.
The day after the show, I was fucking wiped. Just drained all to hell. And I was intermittently crying, soft and sad and alone and quiet. Relaxing my hold.
There are countless personal flavors and colors in this show. My best friend singing a minimalist, almost not applicable rendition of the song I, literally, killed myself to as a teen. A swans feather as an implement of self harm. A locket which narrowly survived being burned along with most things physical that linked me to someone I found I never truly knew at all. Homages to films that shaped me. It goes on, and on, as deep and far back and my first memories, of snow.
Obsidian, being the clearing of expression I wanted it to be for everyone involved, is also a story of the romantic relationships I've had in my life. A completion, an epic story, of two characters - each of which I have been, and each of which I have faced. The light and the dark and the layers under what we're allowed to see. And in the end, the light wins. In the end, all that remains of the dark is in someone's head, like it's all in mine.
I find it ironic, fitting, and beautiful that I'm doing this on my own, in no relationship, for the first time in my life. I've valued my solace. And sometimes, I think I miss being lost inside someone else, though I've grown wise enough not to do anything about that right now.
It's quiet here, now that these angels, these lost souls, have others to speak through. And I feel a chill, as their bony fingers seep into the air around my neck. I'm reminded, as I softly mourn the familiar grip of my old companions, that freedom, is never free.
What now? |
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