Solid wood from Belarus

"Your letter catches me in an awkward moment. Our performance tour to Newcastle just fell through and I am in the middle of assembling a desk from IKEA. It’s a twenty-two step procedure with fourteen pieces of wood, and some of the screws are really hard to get in. Despite my efforts, I’m developing blisters on my thumb and forefinger.

It’s going to be great though when I’m done. The wood is from Belarus, and it is a perfect length between my bed and the window. You would have thought that after a year of swapping rooms with Homei I would have gotten a desk and a lamp by now; but I guess I’ve been pretty busy with theatre + teaching.

And now it looks like I’m going to have quite a bit of time to myself at home.

I’m floundering too, Christine. It’s always like this when I have time to be with myself again. Sometimes, the solitude slams into me, knocks me breathless. Other times it sneaks up on me on the minibus when I am commuting home at night. You would have thought that I would be used to it by now, but the bite always surprises me. Ow! Hello, you.

I’m surprised by how volatile I feel. In this state, small things have the ability to become disproportionally large. Like a plant unrooted in water, I find myself scrabbling for ground. I feel needy, but paradoxically, I don’t want to be among people either. I hate being around people when I feel needy. At the same time, my friends are my lifeline. I don’t know if you know this, but you have got me out of writer’s block many times. When I get stuck with an idea, what I do is write a letter: Here I am, it’s 4.24am. the wood is from Belarus, and it makes me think of a guy I once met from Minsk. He was teaching us butoh, and to help us understand the feeling of “water” we waded into a lake in Broellin. On the last night he was drunk, and I was drunk – not from alcohol, you know me, but from the occasion -- and somehow, I ended up on his lap. To this day I don’t know how I got there. But that was a bizarre summer; I was pretty drunk that summer… careless, and slightly irresponsible in love.

Seriously, writing helps. There’s a satisfaction in being able to nail a certain emotion or feeling down in words. And, as you know, I tend to do my best writing in letters. When I write for myself, my writing tends to be unfocused and slightly muddy, but when I have to communicate with someone, I’m forced to become really clear. So when I get writer’s block, I take a step back and write a letter to you. Or Dan, Chris Gallimore, or Sally….

In being precise about my feelings, I notice how fluid they really are. Yesterday I wrote: I briefly considered going on holiday somewhere for these three weeks, but instead I bought a desk. You want to fight? I’m going to fight on my terms. I’m going to write a script. But in the light of another morning those words no longer ring true. Running, staying, fighting are already non-issues. I have moved on..."

-- from letter to Christine, 16/10/09