An unexpected visitor. In my fantasy world, this evening would have been to do with pulling my lines into place with cues and making sure my packing stuff is packed. Not so. Oh lord, am I going to be ready tomorrow? It’s like being on set, all this learning in isolation.
I went to an outdoor shop in Camden and bought the lot. My old festival stuff is all fucked. But I’ve been using it for over 15 years. A five year gap where I weirdly wasn’t getting the festival jobs started just as it reached the end of its life. Now again it is happening. I know this so well. I should bring my tarot cards and my outfit for Melisande and The Master, but I’m not sure I can be bothered to add value and for this festival it would probably have to be Marseilles which is flat to read. I could get away with Ryder Waite but it pisses me off. There’s a conversation between artist, reader and querent. All three have a voice but if one voice is too loud it kills the vibe.
Mel is coming round tomorrow morning fresh from landing at Heathrow. She isn’t coming to the festival but I’ll have a jetlagged festival friend to help me emergency pack. This isn’t a wreckhead festival, I need to keep remembering that. I won’t need lifesaving things but I’ll want comfort things.
Mostly I’m going to have to remember my cues and my lines. Sounds easy but I’m expecting some serious moments of brainfry tomorrow.
And John Holt Roberts appeared. He and I have delightfully improvised many a strange situation. I love him through my bones. He was Marley to my Scrooge, before Jack Whitam, before Will Seaward. Musical Marley, and a good heart, but I needed to work tonight. I’m now writing this as fast as I can so I can do an hour of lineblitz before bed as tonight is the last sleep I’ll get before remembering it live without peeking in front of people.
Half a week at a history festival might be a delight, but I’ve got to get the first show out of the way before I can relax.
AlBarclay 