^^Why, oh why, did I decide yesterday to re-read Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair? Neruda, guys. He knows angst. I was intermittently crying and laughing - laughing because I was reading my original copy from 11th grade, the one that's marked up and highlighted beyond comprehension, and there are all these hilarious notes written in the corners. (The one that most frequently showed up: "NOT ABOUT SEX.")
Last night Anika and I went down into the Meatpacking District (or, as we call it, the Nexus of Evil) since neither of us has partied in weeks and we both felt like we've lost our mojo. We started at the Standard, which is just the douchiest place since douchey came to Douchetown. Seriously. The guys are never really all that interesting or cute - but they, of course, think they are - and the girls are all bitchy. (Anika and I both separately noticed a table of girls glaring at us angrily every time we wandered in their direction.) Very bridge-and-tunnel, that crowd. We bounced around to a few places, eventually ending up at Cielo where I met two cute neurosurgeons from Colorado. (Or so they said. Who knows.) Unfortunately I couldn't party all night; I found out at 10pm that I had work at 8am.
So after about two hours or so of sleep, I dragged myself out of bed today and spent 10 hours doing the weirdest smattering of work notes - changing gel scrolls, moving some lights around on the balc rail (oh, my stomach hurt after that), wiring birdies, adding connectors to live cables (I really loved it when I was stripping the wires and the metal of my Leatherman made contact with the copper wire, eliciting a huge spark and zap, thus blowing the breaker but allowing me to continue stripping wires without electricity coming through them). My favorite moment was when I was asked to go find four gobos that were supposed to kind-of-but-not-exactly look like this other gobo. Hot damn! I love these kinds of adventures. And the one I picked out was perfect, of course, because I had an idea of what the look was trying to achieve. (It was like when designers would ask me to pick color for them. "Kate, find me a really nice yellow for like...a hazy early morning sunrise." "Kate, find me a blue that doesn't wash too grey but isn't, you know, too blue without any grey at all." Today's was, "Kate, find me a gobo that's like 'Dappled' but not really.") Spot on.
I really like working. Not just because of the money, but because being in the theater does something for me. Especially working on these big shows. I feel like I'm part of something, and that makes me feel less alone, I think.
**
Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Something with the wings of a bird, something of anguish and oblivion.
The way nets cannot hold water.
My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.
Even so, something sings in these fugitive words.
Something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth.
Oh to be able to celebrate you with all the words of joy.
Sing, burn, flee, like belfry at the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what comes over you all at once?
When I have reached the most awesome and the coldest summit
my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.
See? ANGST.
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