Massage

Tracy just ironed me out.

Loads of the lads and lasses went home this weekend. I stayed up in Stratford. No way I wanted to go haring off round the place just because it’s Sunday. I get it if it’s a child’s birthday, as it was for Scott and Jethro this week. But the trains are terrible here, and it’s a storm. So I stayed put and I put myself into the massage lottery.

Those of us who are here in Stratford can ask for a massage from Tracy. It’s a sports massage with her own aromatherapy blend of oils. “Client is not a salad,” I told her, in reference to Lou’s Ayurvedic training when she said “do you mind if I pour oil on you”. It opened a conversation. It was a very good massage, focusing on my neck area. I’m using the opportunity of a free massage to push Lodo into the most relaxed physical place possible. Obviously not as good as the massages Lou can give. If you’re in the South Downs and want something powerful relaxing and cosmic I can maybe hook you up with something, but it’ll cost ya. I left my massage floating, which is what it would be ideal to be able to do as Lodo. Air Earth. Like me. But earthier than my habit.

The show would be on as I’m writing this. I’m not on stage. I’m in my pajamas and I’ve just poured a glass of red wine to eat with a steak I’m about to fry up. I’m honestly considering having it with Mac and cheese as well as the pepper sauce I’ve bubbled so thick it’ll blow my face off. I did enough washing up to make all this possible but it just means I’ll have to do more washing up later. Dishwashers make you lazy. I hate washing up.

I just sent TC a mildly angsty email related to a style choice we both back in the playing of Lodo. I’ve noticed a degree of kickback. Lodo brings on lots of letters and information, and I think he is often used as a slightly comedic “I’ve got this lovely trick where I’m juggling all the letters” type turn. He speaks last. He is immediately known. He speaks for Venice, but can confidently make decisions way beyond the remit of a messenger. If academics have styled him as such it’s them missing the signals from the writer. He’s an extremely powerful dangerous man, who has his own boat and happens to want to see his cousin. He agrees to bring some letters with him for his mate the Duke, as a favour. He’s not gonna be funny postman. But I think that’s what he has been time and time again. There’s much in the telling that is non literal. Maybe it’s as simple as a click of the fingers…

I’m just happy to have a quiet night. Before long, clever left brain humans will construct thoughtful paragraphs about it. I never like it when that happens at it crystallises how things are thought of. Art is subjective. That’s the point. If you think need someone else’s brain to tell you what to think of art that’s your confidence issue to be dealt with.

Steak time.