Life. Inly Ruminate the Morning's Danger

It's the night before.
They're not ready. I'm not ready. We're never ready. Maybe, maybe you're not coming?
Then again, seeing as you were invited, maybe you are.

But pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraised spirits that have dar'd
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object.

I keep stepping on steps that aren't there.
I forgot to ask the janitors to set up the chairs.
I forgot to ask someone to make programs and then when someone offered I forgot to get them the info.
I forgot I've got a pair of boots to make black. And the commissions to make because I lost the other ones somewhere.
I forgot I've got to set up lights or go without them. In the other theater my boy set us up with lights years ago, lights, speakers. I don't know how to do this. I never wanted to learn. I miss the moms who used to already know how to help me, they stepped up to hold me in place quietly, I never had to ask, to say please, only thank you, thank you. I've been spoiled, and I've enjoyed it.
I hate asking.
Hate explaining, hate remaining inflexible while holding to an invisible standard of interior excellence, hate saying no let's not worry about that thing it won't matter in the end, while begging. Hate inconveniencing. But more than, worse than hating to ask, I just forget. Forget how much easier life is with help. (he today that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother) How much more friendly with friends.

Step--nothing--hard down--jarred and teeth on edge.

Step.

Nothing.

This is always the way. I only even get in bed every night before the opening night so I can be prone while I'm thinking how crazy, how misguided, how arrogant, how impossible, how prideful, all night, all night. All around me people whose play this is not, who carried costumes and boxes, made swords, shopped at thrift stores, put up posters, memorized lines, helped in any way I thought to ask, all those people get them to rest. People who are not in charge, not the director. The Corrector, my nephew calls me, you know, the one who bosses us around, tells us what to do. People whose idea this was not, on whom none of this is laid, to whom it matters not, really, if all stand as greyhounds in the slip or sinfully miscarry. They will enjoy the play. (As who wouldn't enjoy listening to a twelve year old inform us Besides, their writers say,/ King Pepin, which deposed Childeric,/Did, as heir general, being descended/Of Blithhild, which was daughter to King Clothair,/ Make claim and title to the crown of France, as if it matters this very moment in real time how those deceptive French worded their slippery dispatches and how chuffed we are at having caught them in duplicity by close examination of twisted bloodlines and their own convoluted history.) But little know what watch is kept to maintain it.

In her bedroom my youngest is going over her lines, dreadful note of preparation. My middle child, no longer young enough to be delicately forced to perform in the family troupe, has appropriated my workroom, sewing madly, making poodle skirts for a dress rehearsal tomorrow, dance concert over the top of Shakespeare. I'm teaching her to copy a skirt, to sew without a pattern, not purposely teaching her to do it the night before yet somehow bequeathing an inheritance of such busyness that doing each thing in its time means doing nothing till it stands shrieking that attention must at last be paid.
But not till the very last.

They're not ready. And they won't be. But they'll be more ready after a performance. Battle-hardened.
This industrial carpet shall be our stage, these unused but oddly full classrooms our tiring house and we will try to do it as we would do it before an audience tougher than this one composed of our parents and our friends.
I miss my funny little theater in Kanosh. Funny, but mine.


There's that lovely line just before the battle, just as Montjoy enters to steal the momentum, the forward way and steam, where Henry says, You know your places. God be with you all! And that's how I wish to feel the night before, how I want it to be. You know what to do, tiny shining actors, God be with you as you do this to the full stature of your spirits, to your full humanity, as I taught you, as you believe in your secret heart you can do this. We have worked all these months to make a shape, to find a story, to learn how best to share it. On, you noblest little soldiers, be strong and of a good courage. That's what I feel I ought to be thinking as I fall peacefully asleep the night before. This should be the reward for the director, true in spirit and intent, filled from the beginning with a parent's heartscoring and unspeakable love for at least one member of this cast.
If I were writing the script, that's how I'd want it to be for the character who is me.
But the writer who is also me wouldn't be allowed to let that happen.

No, thou proud dream,
That play'st so subtly with a king's repose.
I am a king that find thee; and I know

That's not how children's theater works out, at least, not in my productions. It's more like trying to shape the weather. I only know something is going to happen, all right. It always does.
I only know they can do this, not whether they will.

And so our scene must to the battle fly;
Where--O for pity--we shall much disgrace
with four or five most vile and ragged foils
(Right ill dispos'd, in brawl ridiculous)
The name of Agincourt.

There are actually not four or five ragged foils but 25 wooden ones. Pretty deadly and we try to be careful.
Five daggers.
Commissions.
Maps.
Treaty and genealogy.
Banners and standards.
Siege ladder and stretcher.
Bandages, bloody and clean.
Crowns.
Lanterns.
And the tennis balls.
He'll make your Paris Louvre shake for it


There's nothing more I can do, though all that I can do is nothing worth.
I can't show you how hard they worked, those that did. And truthfully, they didn't, all.
I can never show you how far they've come, those that traveled. Not all chose to stir, much, from where they began. But some, O, some have come far. I found out only tonight, in an electronic note from a mother, that two of the girls are terribly frightened but working through it. She's so proud of them, attributes this progress to me, wonders how I managed this.
I thought they weren't much interested, stand-offish and stiff. I treated them just like everyone else.
They made those steps alone, and me not knowing.
Brave soldiers, steely hearts.
They need to pluck comfort from my looks but my breath catches and hurts me; I'm stupid and tear up when I have to welcome their families and friends and say some empty little words about the enormity of what I have, all alone, witnessed; my heart breaks, over and over, every every time.


And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work.

We learn some of the ways of the sword. How to stand to shoot with the bow. How to wear large sleeves without fidgeting with them. How to represent one person differently from another. How to pay enough attention to get that line in the battle scene.

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
...For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,

No adults backstage. Props masters, weapons masters, fight captains, all playing lords and foot soldiers. Hang up your own costume. Keep yourselves quiet. Don't miss your entrance or block the exit.

Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,
Turning th' accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass;

We learn all those words, what they mean, why they were said. What a bow signifies. Cressy battle, the strategic importance of a port town, how armies are raised and the time that takes. Nobles are carried off on shoulders or stretchers. When you drag away the dead commoners, get them all the way off stage. Boys in the luggage, let your heads drop back, lie limp in death.

for the which supply,
Admit me Chorus to this history

Will they change the sets? Sometimes they just don't remember for horrible long minutes of nothing. Will they smile through the tough bits in their swordplay? I keep warning them about that--

The best way first steps compare to marathons is in the miracle of this upright human, bringing all that soul to the forefront, moving and moving forward.

Who, Prologue-like, your humble patience pray,
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

O, God of battles, let it be all right.
I think --breathe-- it's going to be ok.
I hope.

Yet sit and see,
Minding true things by what their mock'ries be.