October 08, 2011

I can't remember my lines!

Oh, my god. I can't go on stage. Why? Because I can't remember my fucking lines. The opening one is something about chocolate, right?

I say, "May I have the last chocolate?"
He says, "You had the second to the last one, can't I have the last one?"
Then I say, "Come on. I really want it."

Or something like that. The rest of the play is a blur. And, shit, I can't even figure out how to get on stage. In rehearsal, there was no great big house set piece. The stage was bare. Where do I go to get in? Nobody will help me. Everyone is working on rehearsing their own lines. And why the hell is my script, when I start to page through it, filled with clippings from magazines, instead of the actual words? I really do not need to see clippings of high heels and lipsticks when I'm desperate to know my next line!

What will happen if I go on stage with the script in my hand?

This is the dream I woke up from. So funny, because if you think about it, I wrote the play. In my sleep, I mean. So ultimately, I knew all the words — the way death knows where all the pieces go in the Bergman movie the Seventh Seal.

I came across my notebook from my film appreciation class the other day. The professor, one of my all-time favorites, wrote on my essay, "What a beautiful tribute to the power of film and to you and your family. If film be art and the reconciliation of life, then the questioning mind and the searching heart help bring it about."

But I think he would have been unimpressed with my stuttering on stage. I hate dreams like this. And I don't even fucking like chocolate. You can have the last chocolate. Go on. Take it.


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