a creative hangover

Alors. Attract/Repel being up and running is a tough, tough thing. I’m not in there every night (a good thing), and the nights that I am strategically planted in one of the far back corners of the audience, I can’t yell shit out to the performers while they’re on stage (also a good thing, I suspect). It’s extraordinarily difficult for me. And so, now I am playing with how to give the performers enough outside-eye-guidance so as to ensure the show stays as buoyant and fresh as it landed on opening night, but also so that the cast can without question retain ownership of their own work. Too much, or too little can tip the scales with potentially disastrous effects. This dilemma could exist simply  because I am a perfectionist freak and am trying to achieve the impossible (total control, whilst allowing the work complete independence). At any rate, I don’t feel that the average ‘cutting of the apron strings’ gestures can be applied to this work – attention and care needs to be given right through until the last audience member exits the auditorium on the final performance. I could just be over thinking it at this stage, too.

It’s grand final day in Melbourne. Never having been a ‘footy person’ the weird fervour that grips this city’s streets unsettles me, somewhat – I feel like I am being edged out of my own existence to a degree. Particularly sensitive to an over-inundation of particular combinations of colours and truly awful, poorly constructed anthems, I usually find a way to hide myself away for a good twelve hours. I am told that there will be a grand-final-party in the function room adjacent to the theatre this evening, of which I am truly terrified. Sound bleed? Not a great deal I can do about it, but bump the sound levels up in the installation, and hope to god it rains so that the tin roof drowns out the noise drunken brawls, chants, off-tune singing, etc. Pretentious? Perhaps. Believe me, I have tried to care about football, and failed dismally. It’s not just the Victorian Code, however. It’s pretty much all sports. Hey, it took an immense amount for me to actually admit to enjoying Pilates. I swear that if it were a competitive sport, I’d be outta there in an instant. Physical competition can kiss my demure-but-soon-to-be-incredibly-well-sculpted ass.

It’s an old story, but I am still in the middle of my tax. There’s quite a lot of it to do. And I have no bloody idea whether we’ll be getting returns or bills (hoping desperately, of course, for the latter). I’m sitting in the studio, overlooking Piedimontes supermarket, moodily watching the rain folding forth in bursts, as late-brunchers drowsily drag their dogs and plus-ones down Scotchmer Street. Procrastinating. Possibly why tax is taking so long to get done. I used to love dashing it off, priding myself on excellent organisational systems. Now, it’s kind of old. And then there’s BAS and GST reporting to figure out this year, which, quite frankly, I am somewhat scared of. Scared in the literal sense. As in feeling a significant quotient of fear. Ah, but I am in an embracing-of-massive-challenges-in-lieu-of-sleep mode. Staying up until 1 and 2am (haunting Facebook and) filing receipts into twenty-five separate categories… kind of makes me feel surreptitiously powerful. Even if the power I wield is only over my MYOB First Edge Company File.

On which note, I had better get back to it. Blogging is way up there with Facebook quizzes, SNL on YouTube, and reading every single Tweet in one’s Twitter Feed from the last fortnight with regards to internet-based procrastination. I might feel like I’m getting work done, but none of it involves withholding percentages, so let’s not kid around here.

And just for fun, if you rock up to see Attract/Repel tonight and ask me if I’ve finished my tax yet, I’ll sell you full-salaried peeps a nice, cheap $20 ticket (concession price) affording you a lovely saving of $10 which you can then go on to spend on some nice wine. But only ‘cos it’s grand final day, and I’m trying my darndest to get into the true Melbournian spirit of the thing…

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