Eleanor sat, perched on the fourth step down a carpeted stairway.
Stop, don't go.
Stop, don't go.
You can get away with it. Don't give in--don't let in. You can fake it. Who'll know?
Each jeering sneer and temptation pooled into Eleanor's head--forming the crust around her claustrophobic overwrought inner neuroses. There was a certainty in doing the familiar--playing the tricks that worked. But the tricks never gave her energy or inspiration--anything genuine. Eleanor hinged further off the step. She had two seconds and one choice.
One second, one choice.
Thin, stale air prickling her skin, she halted her breath. Trapped. Same movements, different dance. She slowly crept down the first step, slid down the second and third, and stopped on the fourth.
(Beat.)
In compulsive splitsecond, she opened herself to reception and closed herself off from negative subjection. Let's go. Let go. Radioactive energy barreling through her body and out her pores, underscoring her electricity...and she ran. As her progression into euphoria surpassed her terror, her cheeks tugged her lips into an easy smile. A thick, muted percussive twang metronomically propelled each greeting between the earth and her muddied feet. The symphonic wind tickled and scatted across each leaf in the entanglement of trees above, and invited Eleanor away from what previously connotated safety and comfort. This was exhilaration--felicitous freedom welcoming Eleanor into the blissful realm of mindless, present reception. Losing control and conscious thought over each individual movement of her limbs, she soared further.
__________________________
Yeah, sometimes I suck at writing. Right now is one of those times. I have way too much to say, too much I'm thinking about, and it comes out in miserable ineloquent spurts. This is me. I know it's a shocker when I confess that I'm Eleanor, that I am plagued with claustrophobic overwrought innerneurosis and that her plight--of trusting herself enough to let go--is mine. It's trivial, fundamental, and almost embarrassing. And I'm not terribly sure why I felt compelled to post it anywhere--let alone in a blog or on facebook. I'm sure I'll edit over time and hone into something lovely. My selective memory will take control and the initial copy--this first draft of quasi-shit--will no longer exist. You'll just have the delightful finished draft that shows very minimal traces of Katharine and oodles of additional Eleanor. A less obvious setting (and fewer adverbs), etc. But I had to at least start writing about this. I couldn't not. (Double negative: Really, guys. This is just bad writing.)
My life circulates around theater right now. My clothes and presence are frequently dictated by an image, my education revolves around (not only the evil "institution" and its rules, but...) learning fundamentally how to act/direct, my evenings revolve around rehearsals, and my weekends revolve around seeing and performing in shows. I'm a tree thinker.
Tree thinker: 1. Primary thought which leads to 2. Second thought which leads to 3. Third Thought. But instead of letting go of the primary or secondary thoughts, I hold onto them and their branches and tangents until my head is cluttered because I don't let go of mental paths until they reach conclusion. I'm fairly certain I have a couple of branches that have been growing for nearly 20 years.
Anyway, my head is cluttered to the point of oompa loompa Veruca Salt implosion and I need to get some of it out. Where was I? Theatre taking over my life. Right. Basically, I'm sorting through a variety of life quandaries almost all pertaining to theatre (how much you can broadcast of yourself without losing yourself/how far is too far with substitution/how much I agree with Mr. Stanislavski/merit of theatre education/education vs. just going out and doing it/straight theatre v. musical theatre/commercial work v. "ART" etc) but one of the most frequent nagging quandaries is one that has just surfaced recently.
I was a dancer first. Smile, do the steps: you get an A. Right? This lead to high school muscial theatre chorus stuff. Smile, do the steps: you get an A. Character development, genuine reactions, and legitimate acting didn't even occur to me until a year ago. (Yeah, seriously. This is still SO new for me.) I learn pretty quickly, but I still feel like I need to be in remedial theatre school just because of its newness and my subsequent facade of utter stupidity. (End of tree thinking branch...)
It seems super obvious (particularly for those who have been involved in theatre longer than I have...which is...everyone) that a huge part of this business is identifying every positive/negative thing about yourself and your abilities and your neuroses on a microcosmic scale so that you can knock them out of the way, let go, and let in. For someone as paralyzingly guarded as I am, this is completely horrific. When I started doing this a year ago, I firmly believed that I could get away with smiling and doing the steps. And while I find this new challenge very appealing and (as stated in my god-awful creative piece) exhilarating, it is simultaneously terrifying.
Breathe has been a huge challenge for me in a myriad of ways...I'm a dancer, I don't have any lines, and I barely sing. What's the problem? There shouldn't be one. I would have been content doing the contemporary movement with a smile on my face and minimal expression...but I seriously would've been the only person in this cast not doing their job. And that's not fair. Even though this piece isn't my hunky dory norm of Millie-esque belting/tapper land, it has become one of the most poignant and remarkable things I've had the pleasure of experiencing. It's a small cast in a small space with a brilliant director, choreographer, and musical director. And I mean BRILLIANT (so brilliant that it merits all-caps, apparently.) The depth and beauty of this piece was quadrupled by the work of the production team and I feel immensely blessed to experience that. Lawson Taitte compared the score to "Ragtime." If he had heard the bad-karaoke-esque recordings of this music, he would be praising Scott Eckert for his brilliance rather than the piece itself. For real.
Anyway, there's a scene where I undergo catharsis. Uh-oh. Acting. Jaws theme music swelling in the background. Basic direction: "you can't find comfort. You're stressed, you can't let go, and you need to be healed." O-kay. Great. While I toyed with a couple of different personal carthartic experiences, once I finally let go in one of our rehearsals last week--it seriously just happened. Something genuine and real poured out of me (on a level that I really wasn't even initially comfortable with). It was unexpected and cliche and bizarre, but it was supremely epic on a personal level...and I'm now addicted to the experience. These moments and the people who help me to them--are the reason I desire to be a performer/director.
Regardless, I am SO grateful to my cast for bearing with me as I stumble through these baby-steps and for being so wonderful to work with, to my brilliant director/music director/choreographer for building something from ground-up into a beautiful piece, and anyone who reads this for tolerating some seriously awful writing:) It means the world.
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