Wish Me Luck, The Same To You

Isn't it amazing that we do the same thing every day again and again and then suddenly we don't do that thing anymore?







Done.

Crazy.

I'm not sure how to process it. Maybe there's nothing to process.

It's ridiculous that someone like me, who hates change, who craves permanence, who dreams of I Will Be With You For Ever and Always, who is looking frantically for the things that last, and desperately trying to hold on to the thing wants to be in theatre, where there is nothing to hold on to. Like, what am I even missing? Not even anything that's real. A sense of identity. The ability to say I'm an actor. Having a place to go and a thing to do, even if I'm terrified that I'm not doing it well enough.

I guess these are things. But the play remains ephemeral, a lot of the work remains touch and go and here and there and indescribable and the things I am often searching for are feelings that don't have words or maps. How can you miss stuff that isn't even there?

Except it is there, somewhere. Somehow. And you can miss people, and you can miss having a purpose, and you can miss you used to think you were.

One of the things I've loved is seeing these quotes every day. The Tarragon dressing rooms are covered in lines from the shows that have been there.

Being a sucker for Canadian theatre, it made me feel quite a part of something to be surrounded by lines said and written by people who get to do what I wanted to do for such a long time. And to see things last, to see some degree of lasting in these plays that have all gone away.

And now there are contributions from Was Spring.







I picked that one because it seemed weirdly appropriate in terms of my own experience, as an actor. As a person too. And it seemed to sum up how scared I was of this experience. Kit's little admission. There were so many lines that I felt were better representatives of the show, but I really did love that one.

And then I drew a flower, because, well, that's the kind of girl I am.