Makeshift closed today.
It was amazing.
Hundreds of people came. They seemed to like it. The team was incredible.
We got one lovely review. Another ever-so-slightly less so. (Only slightly. Seems about right, right?)
People said wonderful things. The audiences were incredibly generous.
And mostly, we made a show. We took nothing and made something. We started with ideas and they became words and we added some geniuses (a director, a lighting designer, a sound designer/composer, a set/costume designer, a stage manager, a technical director) and we put up a fucking play.
I hope you'll indulge me this bout of utter sentimentalism, but I wrote a little something. It's short. And plus, I feel like one's allowed sentimentalism at times of utter, perfect joy, right?
When it's all over and the world has been dismantled, carefully, fabrics wrapped up and 2x4s returned to their brethren in a workshop. When furniture has been driven away in U-HAULs, costumes returned to racks, props thrown into trashcans, basements, storage bins. When the words have retreated to the script, nothing more, again, than dashes and curves across the page. When thoughts turn to money, sleep, and memories of moments already lost to time. When it's all over, you're left feeling full and empty at the same time - too packed with that elusive, impermanent, ever-fleeting sense of self to appreciate its perfection, and yet aching, desperate for more, forever, an endless supply, of this magical drug which is capable of giving you the one thing we were put on this p