Slowly the mist is clearing although I can’t help thinking I’m overlooking something.
This morning was in The Balcony Room, giving a little talk about the history of the building. The reason behind it, the theft, the fire, the gap, Sam and then a whistle stop through the artistic directors up to Michelle. I get to mention my dear departed friend and teacher Diana Devlin, whose part in the campaign to make the building a reality needs to be remembered. I even got to mention my old school, who performed in the earthworks in 1993. It was well received. Another thing ticked off. As the ticks get ticked the head clears but I’m still a tiny bit overextended. Cramming lines again today and I’ve reached saturation point and they still aren’t fluent but there are two more sleeps so that’s ok. Tonight they’ll all reassemble. Plus I had to hold a couple of scenes in my short term for a tape playing a right old douche. Got out a regency frock coat and vintage riding crop for it. It is now in the can and edited and sent so that learn will get dumped by the 4am dream fairies to make room for more Cymbeline. It’s gonna be ok and I’ve just got to book the van and the first night out and the channel cross and I’m gonna be golden.
This evening I sent some invoices and Lou cooked dinner. It’s her evening off. She’s in bed as I write, nice and early. I’m in the living room watching Brian shoot things on VR. I’m trying to force more Cymbeline into my head but it just isn’t holding any longer so I thought I’d write this as something different for a moment.
Oh and I stopped by Rita’s flat on the way home from The Globe. Turns out I’ve got a diploma in being an SGI Buddhist which is almost as brilliant as it is pointless. Just level 1, which mostly involves having a cursory knowledge of the practice. Got a long way to go but a step is a step.
Being overextended is not the best time to make decisions like “Do you want to be involved in the Old Harrovian production of Julius Caesar?” “Yeah fuck it. I’ve got Marc Antony half learned anyway and never got to play him at The Factory.” September.
Glutton for punishment? Maybe. But I came within a hairs breadth of agreeing to get up at 6 tomorrow to drive to Chatham and shout about gas for two hours then drive back to London, and panic about lines before I drive to Wales and sleep in a fucking tent. I’ll still do the second half. But Chatham would have killed me. I said no, even though it was physically possible. Can I have a cookie?
AlBarclay 