Ever been in a place where life had you so destroyed that the only thing you could do was sit with a glass of wine (or your alcohol or drug of choice) and listen to music that both devastates and uplifts you? I'm having one of those moments even as we speak. Or write.
I had an epiphany about why The Pavilion has been so hard for me this evening, but the fact that now that I know what the problem is can in no way help me to deal with it is kicking my ass, and I'm feeling a little left out in the cold, as it were.
I just had the most terrible run-through of the play, and it's the last one I get before we have an audience. I've totally psyched myself out about this fucking play, and become hyper-sensitive about every little word that I misplace. And as if that isn't bad enough, I have to live with the playwright. He's in a bedroom on the floor about me as I'm writing this at nearly 1 a.m. in the early morning of Wednesday. And I'm so fucking messed in the head over this last clusterfuck of a run through that all I can do is sit here on my bed and write a bit in my journal, trying to capture how I feel right now; that, and drinking a glass of wine, and listening to some Beethoven piano sonatas. I'm not entirely sure why, but when ever I'm in a mental place where I can use a good cry and at the same time need to be reassured that life is profoundly beautiful and so much more than my limited experience of it, I turn to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It's like aspirin for my soul. The first movement of that thing just fucking breaks my heart in half, spills the contents onto the floor, and then picks the remains up and cradles them. It's like someone telling me in the same breath that the world is an unmitigated piece of shit and that dying is inevitable, but, fuck me, would you just look at the beauty that's possible before the inevitable end?
Everything about life just blows my mind, man.
I had an epiphany about why The Pavilion has been so hard for me this evening, but the fact that now that I know what the problem is can in no way help me to deal with it is kicking my ass, and I'm feeling a little left out in the cold, as it were.
I just had the most terrible run-through of the play, and it's the last one I get before we have an audience. I've totally psyched myself out about this fucking play, and become hyper-sensitive about every little word that I misplace. And as if that isn't bad enough, I have to live with the playwright. He's in a bedroom on the floor about me as I'm writing this at nearly 1 a.m. in the early morning of Wednesday. And I'm so fucking messed in the head over this last clusterfuck of a run through that all I can do is sit here on my bed and write a bit in my journal, trying to capture how I feel right now; that, and drinking a glass of wine, and listening to some Beethoven piano sonatas. I'm not entirely sure why, but when ever I'm in a mental place where I can use a good cry and at the same time need to be reassured that life is profoundly beautiful and so much more than my limited experience of it, I turn to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It's like aspirin for my soul. The first movement of that thing just fucking breaks my heart in half, spills the contents onto the floor, and then picks the remains up and cradles them. It's like someone telling me in the same breath that the world is an unmitigated piece of shit and that dying is inevitable, but, fuck me, would you just look at the beauty that's possible before the inevitable end?
Everything about life just blows my mind, man.
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