If the superstition is true that a terrible dress rehearsal begets a brilliant opening night performance…then tomorrow’s debut performance of “Song of the Sacred Whore” at the Philly Fringe Festival is going to be masterful.
While I cling to that possibility, the monkeys chattering in my head have transformed into an angry mob of jilted lovers. You know, the ones who think it was all your fault. And they want to spend the rest of their lives making you pay for your sins.
Somewhere along the way, I realize I have made this all about the performance. Whether my newfound “acting” skills will be up to the task. Whether or not I will embarrass myself or my castmate. As if I will live or die by tomorrow night’s performance.
Which isn’t the point at all. Never was.
Months ago — maybe even years ago — I started weaving the threads of this show. Not in a linear, or even a conscious way. In fact any time I tried to impose some kind of form or structure to it, the words just dried up. I remember my yoga teacher telling me to “Just write…and figure out what it wants to be later.”
She wasn’t the first who said that to me. My college writing teacher said it. The palm reader I went to on my 40th birthday said it. My ex-husband said it. Almost like one voice talking to me, through as many willing mouths as it could find to give the words sound.
Just write…
It was only when I was willing to trust that voice that “Song of the Sacred Whore” could find it’s way out into the light of the day. With me practically kicking and screaming the entire way! But still, I opened the channel full tilt. I allowed the words to come through. Allowed myself to be revealed in every one of them.
As I’ve rehearsed — adding in a director, an acting coach, a castmate, a stage manager, and a myriad of production details — I am learning that lesson all over again. That I must be an open vessel. Permeable. As my archetypal woman in the show says, “To give of myself. To be used, in the best possible way.”
I remember vividly the days of looking at the blank page, knowing what I needed to write on it…and being too afraid. And then, just a few weeks ago, trying to speak those words out loud…and being afraid. And then, just one week ago, allowing myself to fully feel the words I’d written and communicate them from the stage…and being afraid.
All the way to tonight. Knowing that by this time tomorrow, opening night will have had its way with me. And being afraid.
And I realize, it isn’t about the page or the stage. Or the critics or the audience or my family. It’s about opening. And how scary it can be every single time we do it. Sure, we develop a muscle for it over time. Mantra’s or rituals that help us. Friends who encourage us. But each and every time we take a risk — it’s still a risk. The caveman part of our brain fears death.
The cacophany of jilted lovers is no match for one terrified caveman. But the open heart is. The open hand. The open vessel.
No waiting for tomorrow night to open. No peeking out from behind the curtain. Draw it back, baby. Come out. Stay out. Be out. As if there were nowhere else to go. As if no one could hurt you. As if you weren’t afraid. As if you could melt away fear itself, with that big old open heart of yours.
If you’d like to come see “Song of the Sacred Whore” it will run September 8-11 with shows at 8pm each night, and a matinee performance at 2pm on September 11. All performances are at the Media Bureau on 725 S. 4th Street in the Northern Liberties section of Philadelphia. For more information, click here.
Why aren’t you writing? The advice i received on writing was (rather male), was “you don’t get writing right you get it done”.
I had a dream that we met at a weird trade show. It was really good to see you i could feel in my dream that I always like Monica.
Carry on.
Your Pal Bill