I've been trying to blog this for ages, and it just hasn't been working out. I can't leave my thoughts on musical unspoken, but there's simply no way to explain it to you.
If you've never been on a stage, you can't possibly comprehend the feeling that wells up inside you in the seconds before you go on. A reverential hush settles over the murmuring audience. The lights go up. You step out into the glorious warmth of the spots. That's what you can see-- but how to explain the rush of joy, the adrenaline, the heart-beating-out-of-your-chest feeling as you take that first step? It can't be done. There isn't a metaphor to do it justice. What about the swell of pride that erupts in your heart as you take that final bow? If it's never happened to you, you can't possibly understand. And if you've been on stage, there's no need for me to explain it to you. You know exactly what I'm talking about.
I don't know how to explain the bond I formed with a person who doesn't even exist. I feel bad for people who don't do theatre-- they only ever get to live one life. Theatre nerds get to slip into someone else's life over and over again, experience things they would never get the chance to otherwise. However, when you spend the majority of your free time in someone else's skin, it takes effort to peal away and become yourself full time again. I swear I'm not schizo, but I can't bring myself to say goodbye to Laurey Williams. As disgustingly cliche as the words are coming out, she's a part of me now, and I'll be keeping her strength, her determination, and her "come hither" looks in reserve for whenever I should need them.
Perhaps the most inexplicable thing is the profound connection you make with inanimate objects. A ribbon in your hair. The "Elixir of Egypt" that's actually a bottle of candy from the dollar store. The set. Oh goodness, the set. They tore down Aunt Eller's house last week and I cried. I feel crazy for caring so much about a few pieces of wood and a ribbon, but I do. That ribbon was as much Laurey as I was, and that house had become so much more than a set.
I'm not gonna lie, I'm still coping with the confusion produced by sudden copious amounts of free time. I have frequent withdrawals that only listening to the Oklahoma! soundtrack on repeat can resolve. (Haha.) But I can't tell you how thankful I am for the incredible experience. There are moments that will remain in my mind forever, for whatever reason.
There are firsts: the first time we saw the lights on the finished set, the first time we sung with the orchestra, the first time I hit that note in "Out of My Dreams," the first time I nailed the hand jive in "Oklahoma!"
There are in-betweens: dance parties in the wings during "Scandal/Outrage," green room Adele sessions at intermission, goofing off on stage between school and rehearsal, fireside chats at Ms. Murphy's house.
There are lasts: The last time Murphy called places, crying on stage for real on closing night, the last "Yeow!", the last curtain call.
To those of you uninvolved, these mean nothing. They're words strung together. But to me, and anyone else reading this who knows what I'm talking, about, they're everything.
About halfway through, I received a pair of leather character shoes. They're black, scuffed, and vastly uncomfortable, but I wouldn't trade them for anything. Remember how at the end of the ball Cinderella got to keep her slippers? Yeah. That's how I feel. :)
Thanks for the adventure. I love you all. :)
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