Sands of time
This week I saw two different performances that reminded me about my own practice. 'Practice' being something I haven't been doing for some time. Days spent knee deep in washing and office admin, wrestling hand held electrical devices from the children have left me little head space to flex the creative part of myself or perhaps that is just an excuse.
The first performance I saw was Ghost Town a play written by my friend. The play was the story of a boy who was suffering with OCD. His experience and his distress was played out on a beach. There it was, a stage full of sand staring me in the face. The play was a personal story, an articulation of my friends own struggles with OCD. As I heard her voice through the boy actor I realised how little I had understood her pain. I remembered my own different struggle with mental health and recalled the extreme catharsis and release I experienced from finding ways to articulate those complex thoughts and emotions through performance and poetry. I was moved to tears with the realisation of what she had shared and by the reality of my own situation. No practice, no release.
My head has been flooding with thoughts and fears with images and memories with words and states of play that need to be put somewhere.
The second performance I saw was a the last 10 mins of another friends show. Upstairs in an old pub people sitting on blankets and cushions clutching pints of real ale. "when are you performing again" another friend asked me.
"yeah, Paula. What's your excuse this time?" I said to myself. I had a little cry in the toilets. It's time to dust of the rollerboots and polish those stones.
The first performance I saw was Ghost Town a play written by my friend. The play was the story of a boy who was suffering with OCD. His experience and his distress was played out on a beach. There it was, a stage full of sand staring me in the face. The play was a personal story, an articulation of my friends own struggles with OCD. As I heard her voice through the boy actor I realised how little I had understood her pain. I remembered my own different struggle with mental health and recalled the extreme catharsis and release I experienced from finding ways to articulate those complex thoughts and emotions through performance and poetry. I was moved to tears with the realisation of what she had shared and by the reality of my own situation. No practice, no release.
My head has been flooding with thoughts and fears with images and memories with words and states of play that need to be put somewhere.
The second performance I saw was a the last 10 mins of another friends show. Upstairs in an old pub people sitting on blankets and cushions clutching pints of real ale. "when are you performing again" another friend asked me.
"yeah, Paula. What's your excuse this time?" I said to myself. I had a little cry in the toilets. It's time to dust of the rollerboots and polish those stones.
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