This morning, the weather hovers around inclement. Tonight’s performance? Outdoor venue. Let’s take this one step at a time.
Maybe I should add the word Mess as a category. The word describes the state of the draft right now as various forces within the psyche (whatever a psyche may be) wrestle with the durn critter. The image of a match between a man and a large boa constrictor comes to mind. Some stories look cute enough at birth; others, damn ugly but the relatives say he/she will grow into a fine specimen. This one started off as a wrestling match. A squawler. A bawler. Given to waking the parent at unearthly hours. You want a bottle? No! A diaper change? No! A hug, a lullaby, a jolly jumper? No! No! No!
In dreamtime, two people were sorting through garbage. Decent sorts; people recycle over here. Even the finest of the fine rinse out their cans, tins, plastic containers, and plonk them into one bin; their paper and cardboard in another; their glass jars, in a third; and their plastic wraps in another. One character was sorting through one end of the room. The other was going through mountains of flimsy plastic bags, and stuffing them down in a larger one.
Given the state of the draft right now? Apt. Will some of the pieces find their rightful companions at day’s end? We (the overall me + the writer) hope so for our own sake.
Meanwhile, the mystery: five minutes or even thirty seconds before showtime, energy levels so low I can’t see myself pulling it off, this time. We start on the first number; run through the repertoire. At one point, the bare feet on concrete cramp up something fierce; the voice carries on. After the third encore, walk to the backstage area, limping, then inch my way home. Too tired to eat. Rest a bit, then tear into the draft. Leave it alone when the mess stops making sense. Sleep.
Now, to find out what happens next.
Title: a line from a song in the repertoire, written by Natacha Muet for a show by Théâtre du Rugissant called “La Peur au Ventre” (Fear in the Belly). The full line: “My song forever shall record the terrible hour when a great fish was done by Lord for Jonas to swallow.”
It not being clear this morning which, of Jonas or of the great fish, swallows the other.