Thursday, March 25, 2010

Last night was one of those occasions when this strange self-imposed task of writing an entry each night felt like something of a chore.
So in no way did I do justice to the deep fear I felt before the press night.
Fear that manifested itself in the usual rather absurd ways - trying to find cards for cast and crew, worrying I had forgotten somebody - plus another one.
A new one, and not so welcome: anxiety about what to wear.
I managed to get my hair done in the afternoon, in its way a minor triumph; but the rushing about of the previous week had left me no time or space to buy a dress. Or even a new top or skirt.
I found myself in my bedroom doing the clasic thing of trying stuff on, taking it off, throwing it on the floor.. until finally opting for something very dull that I had worn often before but which throughout the evening seemed to continually come apart at the seams.
The skirt felt too narrow so I kept almost tripping, the topkept riding up, the cardi seemed to be all over the place.
It was one of those extremely rare occasions when I regretted not being able to present myself as a man.
That would have been so much easier.

And if I look back at where the far comes from... it's like being in love.
It's the vulnerability of self exosure. And the intoxication of it too...


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