if you cannot, you can't.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
I can see why hundreds of actors become alcoholics. I went back to work today, and the tedium of it all hit me like a stage weight falling sideways from a great height. and the bastard hit me in the face. that half explains why my eyes have spent the entire day semi-closed and unable to be re-educated. the other reason follows hence:
I'm back from a week run at the 2010 Edinburgh fringe festival. in the 9 days I spent north of the border I acted in about 20 shows. at least I think it was 20. I can't be truly sure. it was about that.
seven of them were definitely Andrew & the Slides of Chaos. I know this for sure, because I spent most of this year writing, planning and producing it. "Andrew" as the thing lovingly became to beknown is a comedy play I wrote with two gentlemen for which I am totally gay for:
Chris Mead - purveyor of poetic talent and dr. who recollective powers that go mostly unrivalled.
Dave Waller - a man who's brain, attitude and way of life creates a lure of enviable simplicity.
I think I just called him simple... unintentional.
fuck, I just saw Matthew Horne of lame-but-rich "comic" duo Horne & Corden. he was dressed like a prick.
the other shows were improvised comedy things. I have no idea how many I did as the semi-organised performance rota was about as improvised as the scenes. and joyously so. it was a great life for 9 days.
"do you want to do a show today?"
"yeah, I'll do a couple actually"
I'm back now. in fact I'm SO back, I'm sitting on a tube heading home from my first day back at work.
I am in pain, both physically and mentally. my body is aggravated by the force I exerted on it to get up at stupid o'clock this morning; after allowing it to sleep my natural sleep pattern for a week (3am - 10am if you crave details).
mentally I am suffering from the anguish that comes from doing what you love for an extended period of time, and then being forced to throw yourself back into the turd-bucket that represents your real life. picture a lively little jack russell, all eager and happy and wanting to play with you and bring you presents. now shit on its face and snap it's back legs.
that's how i feel.
and my eyes won't open properly.
so here i am. on a tube, heading back to a pile of dirty laundry that makes the Tory government look like Little Bo Peep, and I'm the initial stages of a life reconfigure. things now change.
man wasn't put on this earth to have a jack russell's broken femur rammed down his throat for 35.5 hours a week, we were put here to make everyone else's life brilliant and create a wonderful planet to live on. in turn, our life will be made better.
this is a time of change, of creativity and improvement. my deadline is Christmas. i've just created a week of entertainment for audiences who - almost without exception - were appreciative and complimentary. that's better than being gang-raped by a corporate monster and finding it more boring than disturbing.
actors who drink do it because thats the best way to fill the tedious periods between shows. the boring bits when you're not creating stuff.
my tube journey is ending. more on the morrow. what a come down.