Work in progress

Hello friends.

I am in the thick of it. Opening our new work in progress show on Friday, which is always a peculiar mix of terror and thrill and humiliation and pride -- clearly a mix of emotions I'm drawn to though every time we hit this part of the process I question my devotion to the art form, and question my judgment and mental health and clarity in general. You've got to be a bit of a masochist to embrace showing your work when it is purposefully -- nay, DEFIANTLY -- undone. I guess this fits in with my theme of late, thwarting perfectionism, but damn is it hard. And not for everyone.

Yesterday was actually not too bad -- we were all so tired we hit the slap happy zone which was a blessing. That's the only way to handle the extreme stress of a room full people all trying to weave their separate threads into a beautiful crazy quilt at light speed in 36 hours.

If only I could enter that slap happy zone every time I reached the exhaustion point! You just never know when your sleep deprivation will lead you down a path of giggling silly dancing stupor and when it will send you crashing into furniture or crying over a burrito that is not to your liking or snapping I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING in response to someone's concern over your mishandling of an electric drill.

All imaginary examples.

Anyway: we're always writing and rewriting the show constantly up to the last minute which means we never run it fully until 3-4 days before we open (which is pretty stressful for the actors and the director but REALLY stressful for all the designers and tech crew we work with). I've experienced this vertigo countless times in the last ten years, so at least when I feel that panic I can call it what it is instead of associating it with the show itself and with doom and failure and self-doubt.

I know that the day before we run the show in full (and sometimes the day after) I always ALWAYS have a crisis of faith (double meaning acknowledged) and think that this time we're going to crash and burn. And every single time it pulls together in the days after that, and the show may vary and we may want to change 75% of it, but it will be a show. And I can remember the worst case scenarios, and recognize that this scenario is a much better one and rationally know that it's going to be fine.

Still, every time that peculiar, gaping fear hits me: that we will stumble blindly about the stage in un-unified chaos until we shuffle and mumble off the stage leaving the audience in stunned, horrified silence. And every time I console myself by saying this has never come to pass. (Unless we wanted it to).

It's never come to pass... YET.

Because that is the thing: for all my confidence based on past experiences, every time the terror is fresh, because every time could be the first time it's ever happened. Maybe THIS is the one we can't pull off!

Anyway. I could go on all day about it. But we've pulled above the clouds now, we've reached cruising speed. I think this sucker can fly. I once was blind but now I see. I believe the children are the future. You gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em. Etc.