I’m in the eye of the storm, where the pressure’s on

There is nothing like the pumping adrenaline of a tech like the one we had last night. Six different short pieces, no real connection between the actors, a group dynamic that essentially amounts to a lot of mutual respect among strangers. We came together to do a reading about a month ago, and now here we are, ready to present the individual masterpieces. Supposedly finished. Since we haven’t seen each other’s work, we are all very suspicious of it. How will it compare with what I’ve done? Who worked hardest? Who is the most talented? Who will get the best reviews? What are these strangers capable of?

Nope. No pressure.

At the beginning of the evening, I am (to steal a line from my show) in a paralyzed panic. Due to the Martian Death Flu (which I caught, carried to Minnesota, disseminated there, and returned with,) I had to cancel a whole week of rehearsals. NATURE FACT: It’s hard to rehearse a monologue show when you don’t have a voice. I’ve been fighting valiantly to get the damn thing memorized, and it just ain’t coming. Our first day of tech is my FIRST TIME OFF-BOOK EVER. As the only monologue component of this show, I’ve kind of been the freak of this group from the beginning. I really wanted to knock their socks off, but by the beginning of the night all I want to do is crawl into my own socks and hide there.

I am last. By the time we tech through everything and get to me, it is Really Fucking Late. I don’t have much voice left. I am petrified of forgetting my lines in front of the other actors - directors - playwrights - tech staff who are all going to be seeing this for the first time. I do push-ups and lunges backstage to try to wake myself up. My blood feels like petroleum jelly slogging its way through my veins. I wasn’t previously aware that it was possible to be filled with this much dread while still hardly having the energy to breathe.

My pre-show music comes on, and everything comes into focus. For the next fifteen minutes, I don’t remember much. Really bright lights. More music, and then some more music. Laughing. My lines come from God Knows Where, but everything works better than it ever has before. When I finally exit, I nearly lose my sea-legs. Later, one friend will tell me “Shit. That was really, really good.” Another actor will say that it was “inspiring. I was tripping right along with you.”

This is why I do monologue shows. This is why I do theatre. Thank god for legal forms of catharsis.

Please come.

Also, I thought this was funny. Happy Tuesday.