Taking Claytie to the airport at 4:30, and haven’t managed to fall asleep yet. Seeing as how it’s 4:20 now, I suppose I’ll give it another try when I come back. My sleep schedule’s been all funny lately.

Medea Knows Best opened tonight, and nothing blew up! This is in great contrast to my expectations. We had a sold-out house and a partial standing ovation. There was a reviewer from the Seattle Weekly there; I hope he noticed the people standing.

It’s funny, though; I seem to have misplaced my sense of the play as a whole. I came offstage thinking, “Why am I doing this play, again?” So my triumph at its apparent success was somewhat muted tonight. This isn’t the first time I’ve asked myself that question, and so far every time the inspiration comes meandering back when it wants to. So I expect it to return this time too. But at the moment, feeling bewildered instead of celebratory. Why make a play about Medea? About images and ideals? Are we really asking questions I don’t already know the answer to? And then, of course, it becomes: why am I doing theatre, again? What’s so great about this art that using a different medium can’t accomplish the same thing better? And I don’t know the answer, tonight, at 4:25 on Saturday morning, not having slept since the opening show and the cast party. I may not be in the best mental state to analyze my career choices.

Any other theatre people out there ever feel deflated instead of stoked by an opening? Does it mean anything? I can’t remember, now. I vaguely remember feeling this way after some renditions of the Secret Ruths, but usually only after I felt like I had given a substandard performance. But I did all right on stage, tonight. So…

Well, so keep moving forward. This is where faith becomes important. I trust the self that has been inspired by this stuff enough that when the inspiration takes a vacation I won’t collapse. I will be re-inspired. I know because I know. And I think of Mother Theresa and her years and years of agonizing doubt and how she kept doing what she thought she ought to, even when the inspiration and her connection to God was gone, and I think, “did she do the right thing?” and I think, “yes.” and I think, “was she happy?” and I think, “no.” and I think, “is it maybe a little ludicrous to compare myself to Mother Theresa?” and I think, “It’s time to take Claytie to the airport.”

Bye!
Alissa