The Feeling: Trying and Failing and Trying as a Writer/Performer
The feeling of a rumbling desire to create a one-person show about embarking on a yoga teacher training in India as part of my healing quest to avoid destroying myself like my father. The feeling of the idea to integrate yoga into the performance. The feeling of envisioning the audience practicing poses, chants, breathing exercises, and meditation. The feeling of finding a talented director interested in helping me shape my material. The feeling of throwing myself into the world of the work. The feeling of writing and rewriting, sharing sections at performance events. The feeling that this show could really connect with people, could be a work of art that was as much about community healing as it was about sharing my story.
The feeling of discovering the postures and voices for the four characters I was portraying: the seventy-five year old female Indian yoga instructor named Purnima, a thirty-eight year old Canadian fellow trainee, my father and my former self. The feeling of viewing myself as a character and distinguishing the various versions at different ages and stages. The feeling of difficulty with the portrayal of my father: his shortness of breath, his dragging a leg due to an arterial blockage, his cigarette-damaged voice. The feeling of my director telling me that if I focused on his intention moment to moment, the external elements would fall into place.
The feeling of acquiring space at the yoga studio where I taught, to workshop One Breath, Then Another: An Interactive Yoga Show. The feeling of the rhythm of the piece: comedy and drama ebbing and flowing like waves. The feeling of being transported back to India by describing the details of what I saw and experienced: waking before sunrise, dirt roads, green fields, hard beds, barefoot women in bright saris, cows, rabid dogs. The feeling that the audience was with me for the ride. The feeling of their voices echoing back with every Sanskrit chant. The feeling of believing I was an elderly Indian lady thrilled to the brim that these people had journeyed to my ashram from all over the world.
The feeling of hearing people cry as I enacted scenes between my father and me.
The feeling of applying to multiple theater spaces and festivals armed with hope. The feeling of being accepted to Dixon Place for a one-night performance, coupled with a memoir launch party. The feeling of the standing ovation and cheers.
The feeling of rejection after rejection after rejection from festival after festival after festival.
The feeling of finally getting accepted to the Dream Up Festival at Theater for the New City and being granted six performances. The feeling of putting all production fees on my credit card. The feeling of rehearsing in front of a wall for months.
The feeling of acquiring a sweet, supportive stage manager/sound operator. The feeling of being thrilled to have a collaborator in the room. The feeling of chanting Om together.
The feeling of six people in the audience on opening night.
The feeling of two people in the audience the night after that.
The feeling of the numbers gradually increasing. The feeling of standing ovations again. The feeling of people waiting patiently in a line to speak to me after shows, to tell me I had touched them. The feeling of a friend’s tears and arms around me.
The feeling of the show evolving, fine-tuning moments with each performance. The feeling of living in the characters. The feeling of an old woman who could barely walk sitting in the front row and lifting her arms when Purnima invited her to do so.
The feeling of realizing I’d lost money at the end of the run.
The feeling of the show being accepted to The Stagecraft Festival at Manhattan Repertory Theatre. The feeling of paying the three hundred dollar production fee and shelling out additional costs for programs and promotions. The feeling of writing personal invitations to everyone I knew, posting on every listing I could find and rehearsing like a fiend.
The feeling of two people in the audience on the first night and eight on the second. The feeling of no one showing up on the third night. The feeling when the stage manager told me ten minutes after eight that she was calling the show. The feeling of leaving all my programs in the theater office because I didn’t want to have to throw them away myself.
The feeling of being recommended to a director for a play. The feeling of being asked to attend the play reading. The feeling of thinking I had the role. The feeling of realizing I didn’t have the role and needed to return to the director’s home for a callback. The feeling of having all my acting choices criticized and questioned. The feeling of being unable to stop the tears while I was still in the room.
The feeling of writing a new solo comedy show about an eighty-five year old woman named Edith Shlivovitz. The feeling of developing an elderly posture, speaking in a New York accent, costuming myself in a leopard print jumpsuit and spraying my hair gray. The feeling of figuring out how to integrate all my comedic characters into this show: Drunk Homeless Eighties Girl, Kevin the angry yoga guy, Jessica the manic yogi, and Purnima. The feeling of deciding Drunk Homeless Eighties Girl was the younger version of Edith, when she became a drunk in the early 1980s after losing her husband in a bar fight. The feeling of submitting the show to a solo show comedy festival and getting accepted. The feeling of a full audience, laughter and applause.
The feeling of submitting the Edith show to another comedy theater, being granted a slot and performing for another enthusiastic full house. The feeling of strangers shaking my hand to tell me how much they enjoyed the show. The feeling of booking the show for a performance at the theater where it premiered. The feeling of knowing eight of the nine people in that audience.
The feeling of being cast as four characters in a sketch show written by my friend: rehearsing it, learning all my lines, sending out emails inviting friends. The feeling when I discovered that the show had to be rescheduled to a date when I was out of town. The feeling when they re-cast my roles.
The feeling of producing performance series in bars and comedy theaters. The feeling of offering a space for other writers and performers the opportunity to share their work. The feeling of realizing the dire need for a welcoming artistic community, and growing one myself. The feeling of being a champion for the work of others.
The feeling of working with young teenagers to create their own original performance work. The feeling of guiding them through comedic and dramatic improvisational exercises. The feeling of intrigue that they were more attracted to dramatic tones. The feeling of observing their project self-regulation: coming up with characters, relationships, and storylines. The feeling of witnessing their transformation from self-conscious to self-confident. The feeling of their hugs and words of gratitude after performing for their peers.
The feeling that art is an essential part of spiritual nourishment.
The feeling of being continually driven to create my new material. The feeling of continuing to submit to festivals and theater seasons. The feeling of having new headshots taken. The feeling of putting up a profile on Backstage. The feeling of submitting myself to auditions and getting no response.
The feeling of this is who I am, this is what I love. The feeling that I will never quit because when I quit I am not me. The feeling that maybe someday it will all look like what I have dreamed. The feeling of running my eyes over my artist prayer, written in multiple colors, taped to the wall above my desk:
Dearest universe and source of all things creative,
May I be honest
May I be brave
May I enjoy the process
May I be open to possibility
May I be authentic
May I maintain integrity
May I discover
May I never lose faith
May I express what lies deepest within me
May I and my work touch the souls of others
The feeling of standing on a rooftop on a summer night in a thin strapped purple and green dress, back exposed, sun setting, rain clouds gathering in the distance, white wine settling into my blood and brain. The feeling of speaking the words of my short story into a portable microphone, lit by a clip light from the ground below. The feeling of fellow art-making friends huddled together on a blanket, beer and chips in hand — their listening active and taut, like a cord connecting insides to insides. The feeling that maybe I’d swallowed an engine, my tired voice suddenly capable of harnessing such strength. The feeling of words and their meaning, and my mind-body-breath as their source. The feeling of lightning — both literal and figurative — in the distance. The feeling of manifold permutations of blue cascading across the sky. The feeling of exultation as I exclaim: I bite her upper lip until it bleeds so our lips are dripping red like candle wax while I come. The feeling of hoots and riotous clapping as I throw my arms in the air like a prizefighter realizing she has won.