Acting in a play. Extraordinary, how the tiny, unreal world of the musical drama expands over time to invade my whole being. In the middle of a run of five performances, normal, everyday existence has taken on a surreal, insubstantial character. The play is all. I have just taken the dog out. Wearing too little warm clothing on a frosty day after a hot bath. Street shoes, to walk the rainswept beach. The back door left wide open. My mind is in suburban Swansea, in the late 1920s.
Things fall apart: yesterday, the elaborate sound arrangements between my laptop, my non-receiving TFT TV and my stereo system, that had worked in the morning, no longer worked in the afternoon. Why? Today, I go to get in my lovely Alfa Romeo, covered in night frost, and the door handle snaps off in my hand. One of the shoes, the left one, has split and is leaking beach-juice into its sock. I have no money to get anything like that fixed. Minor repairs are totally beyond my resources, financial, physical, mental.
Yet a man has just offered me many tens of thousands of pounds for my house and I have some more thousands of pounds squatting in the bank, in a bond that I cannot touch for another year. I now know what it means to be ‘asset rich, cash poor’, for I cannot afford even the most minor of repairs; cannot afford a new amplifier, meat for dinner or to go look for another house; cannot afford new shoes.
This morning I deleted the ads I posted months ago to sell my car, my guitars. Deleted the bookmarks for the sites I visit, where I might expect to find work. No-one is buying. No one is interested in anything, other than watching me capering and gurning on stage twice nitely. The world of the silly play, my character, the others in the cast, props, lines, the faulty lighting board, our mad director, the unresponsive faces of the audience – these are the only truth.