In my new show, I only find memories of the old. This cast is awkward, cold, aloof. It's a strange new world, without hugs, no twisted family trees, and no bumping noses. Please, take me home.
Take me back to the world of twisted rituals, where we knew everything about each other, from what color underwear to favorite ice cream flavor. To where we'd live for our own craziness. Lemon teas, meditation, relaxation, where the crew in black were my heroes, and my life depended only on a moment.
Take me back to where a smudge out of place was the end of my world, a missing prop, a loose wire. Where hearts were poured into energy circles and the warm ups made you laugh out loud.
Playing mother on the shows when I wasn't performing, armed with painkillers, water bottles, hairspray, and sheet music. Everything could be falling apart, and suddenly pushed back in place with a single bobby pin.
The backstage hallway was nothing less then the artery pumping directly to my heart. Even a trip from getting miked to getting dressed was slow, for one never just walked down that hallway. One bounced from person to person, with one's arms extended. Wrapped into uncountable hugs, whispering unintelligible inside jokes and good luck wishes into uncountable ears. Simply a smile and a nose bump were heaven. My home.
Where am I now? New show. New theater. New cast. No hugs. No warm ups. No nose bumps. Please. Take me home.
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