Theatrical lessons

Last night I was in my landlord's kitchen, scooping out chocolate ice cream.  (I don't have a functional freezer in my casita, so she lets me use hers.)  She came out to chat, and mentioned she was going to see a play:  it's the 20th anniversary of a local theatre company's founding, and she has been a loyal supporter for most of that time.   To celebrate, the troupe is bringing back old favorites.  We chatted a bit about it, and she invited me to join her.  She was leaving in 40 minutes, and had a reservation.  I said, "do I need one?  should we go together and assume I'll get in?"  Her take on it was, "they've never been unable to find space for me."

I didn't realize what she meant until we got there.

The lobby was about 200 square feet, with 3 plain chairs in the center, backs facing inward to create a triangular seating area.  A young woman stood behind a tall counter/desk to the right, and two thin long-haired arty 40-ish women in jeans sat at a table behind a short shelving wall to the left.  (The wall created a sort of lobby hallway to the closed double doors to the front left.  The right hand counter looked like it might be a snack bar, but instead was the box office for another theatre called The Box.  The desk to the left faced The Box counter and was the box office for our destination:  Tricklock Company. 

At the door we met a group of 5 men and women who greeted M with hugs and a joyous "hello, how are you, it's great to see you!"  She reciprocated and they formed chattering twosomes just inside the door.  Three more people stood in front of the Tricklock desk, two people stood in line at The Box counter, and two young Goth women sat in the central chairs.  There was no room to move.  The women behind the desk both jumped up to greet our group, and when M introduced me I got a hug as well.

It was the most informal theatre experience I've ever had.  You paid your money, got your parking ticket stamped, stood around waiting for the doors to open, and then wandered in.  There were no programs and no tickets, and the seating was festival.

The stage was at the far end, and we walked through a dark empty space that was about twice as large as the stage.  Ranged in front of the stage were two rows of 12 chairs each.  The front row consisted of folding chairs with cushioned seats, the back row had  regular chairs with tall backs and cushioned seats.  Being a large person, I went for those.  Being a small person, M steered me to the front, explaining the view was better.

Huh?  with two rows, I didn't see how that would be an issue, but I bowed to her experience.  And now I understood why there was no need for reservations:  they just added a third row as more people came in.  The final audience tally was about 35.   We sat in the center, between two groups.  Everyone knew one another, and when I asked Margo how she was acquainted she said, "through this theatre."

We were there for a one-woman show, Rot, acted by the woman who wrote the play.  The last showing was in 2004, and many of the people present had seen it then.  It was fascinating on many levels.  It was a play within a play within a play.  Elizabeth, the main character, is a playwright trying to write about Mary Shelley's creation of Frankenstein.  She is suffering from writer's block and a failed romance, and all three of these stories are played in turn, influencing each other with humor and pathos, up to the final scene which leaves you with a question, not an answer.

Unlike a monologue, this required putting on several different personas, in several different time frames.  The plot moved forward but also flashed back to the 1800s, to childhood, to adolescence, to a series of brilliantly delineated failed relationships.  The characters and timeframes were conveyed through lighting, posture, music, and accents.  She had a best friend Heather with a lovely New Joisey accent, and she played Mary and Percy Shelley with distinct voices and British accents.

Because of the tiny space (intimate?  say rather, compressed), I felt like she was talking directly to me.  And I wanted to nod my head, to convey sympathy, empathy, caring.  She was going through a tough time, Mary Shelley was going through a tough time, and I'm going through a tough time.  Let's have a group hug.

The final question was actually two, in my opinion.    1.  How does one continue when one's true love is lost?  and 2.  What can one do with a personal monster that cannot be killed? 

For me, though, the real question occurs 2/3 through.  Elizabeth is processing the failed relationship with the married man Sam, who, she thinks now, might be The One.  Heather tells her, "he's not putting as much into this as you are, it's time for you to Move On."  And Elizabeth thinks, "he should have fought for it more.  But he didn't care enough.  WHY didn't he care enough?  Why didn't he care enough?  Why didn't he....care enough?"

Story of my life.

unwanted feedback

Several months ago, my toxic co-worker informed me that my manner is often curt.  Since she went around in perpetual scowl mode herself, I thought it was a ludicrous comment.  I've always worked to be approachable and generous with my time and attention, so I decided  it was just one more manufactured criticism, an excuse for her ongoing dislike and niggly attacks.

So I thought.

Yesterday I was lunching with a dear friend, and he informed me that I am often rude to the wait staff.  I was stunned.  I love to dine out, and I am horrified at the thought that my behavior makes it difficult for other people to enjoy themselves.  Besides, it's stupid to be rude to the person who handles your food.

He said my manner could be blamed on D, source of all evil in my universe.  But I can't dismiss it so facilely.

Have I really turned into that hideous old lady who makes unreasonable demands and cannot be pleased?   Don't I say please and thanks?  Don't I smile when I make a request?  Don't I look people in the eye?  What is this rudeness of which they speak?

I guess the real problem is that I have been unaware of my negative impact on people.  I don't know how to fix a problem that I cannot recognize.  There are so many things I accuse myself of, but rudeness has never been on the list.

I truly don't know what to do with this feedback.