of tribes

The problem with this job is that I become married to the characters. I have seen Sylvia's hand dance over her head like that -- with a slight lilt back and closed eyes -- eight times. Still, even this last time my forehead creases with empathy. She says, I have no empathy. I have so much empathy for these fictional people.

I can shape my consonants properly but I also feel like I am not heard. Though I do choose (at times) not to hear.

So when it comes to the divorce - Closing Night - I can't help but be a little overwhelmed. Three weeks feels like forever, in the theatre world. I quite sincerely begin to believe that this play will perpetually show in this theatre.

When it comes time for a new season, I become anxious about the change. I'm not sure what it is about the change that concerns me. Generally, I'm not one to choose familiarity.

But there is something alluring in repetition. Of reciting the lines over and over with the actors. Knowing where they will stand next, sitting with the pace, eyes and ears bent through the audience. Waiting for that perfectly formed expression or cringing more and more than the last night when they are off. I come out either loving or hating them. There is no middle ground here. This world is black and white. I photocopy your face; the mute usher in the back row. I wear it out. 'Til there is no colour left. I see you in the street and try to figure out how I know you. And realising I've never met you, I feel exasperated that I can't go up to you and talk.

One patron going in for Act II says, Are you signing? "No!" I say. But I have noticed that of late I have become even more articulate with my hands.