Last show in Austin. Just before the show all the youth from the Winedale set up in the foyer of the theatre and performed scenes from As You Like It to a crowd of mums and dads. My back is complaining again, not sure what set it off, likely just healing. But it made me really want to warm up thoroughly, but I didn’t want to miss out on these young Americans speaking our lines with joy.
Thankfully they held the house for a bit and I got to do the rolling around and breathing stuff I like to do to get myself started. Then showtime, baby! Last one in Texas. We celebrated it out.
Post show we have got quite good at packing the case by now. I went to donate the old Shakespeare book Celia has been reading from in some of the scenes. I opened the front cover to dedicate it over to David and his team who have hosted us here, and found written in pen on the inside cover “Alexander Lothian”. That’s two of my names. My father’s grandfather. I’m glad I spotted it. We’ve been carrying his much loved Shakespeare book around the states without me realising. I just figured it was from one of the many clearances but no, it’s kinda like I almost gave away the family Bible, in context of how my life has been working out recently.
I’m thrilled that I’ve been carrying him around though. They say there’s another death the last time someone says your name with love. I never knew him, never even knew his son. But I knew his grandson. And I read Lamia to his grandson badly when he was on his death bed, cos he loved the romantic poets. Poor fucker, Al at that age reading with confidence and no ability. Still it was a moment. We would often share poetry, growing up. Other Men’s Flowers. We would read poems to each other in the morning room at Eyreton. The same room he tricked out with signs saying “ha ha ha” on the back of pictures or things on the mantelpiece so he could join in with and augment the communal laughter without a voice box. My father named me after him. I was never told a single thing about him. But I can extrapolate.
What are we without poetry. Story. Shared experience around the fire. We were made for it, we grew as a species and learned how to interact. Suddenly now the fire is a social media place, not a true coming together. And like green timber, we warp… warp…
