Trying to get some work done. The work in question is fifteen or twenty pages of BIRDS, my bash at a musical version of the Aristophanes. So the pages will include some songs. Such a world away from The May Queen, which is no doubt a good thing. Occasionally my phone will buzz and I get a question from the rehearsal room. I'm trying (that word again) to set aside the tragic mode and write silly. Not so easy though. Unbidden these words came to me at the desk -
Share your wounds with me
I have always carried you in my heart
And looked after you.
Speak to your mother, make her happy
Though you are already leaving me, my cherished hope.
The death of Christ, the suffering of the Virgin - in 15th century lyrics set by Gorecki in his Symphony No.3 and then used to devastating effect by Robert Lepage in Lipsynch. It comes back to me now, part because the Virgin is central to my play, part because I visited the cathedral to see the statues draped in mourning purple on Easter Saturday, and part, no doubt and rather bathetically, because I just waved off my sons and their mother at Euston, they've gone up to Cumbria, to visit my mother.
Saw Attempts on Monday, off to The Caretaker at the Tricycle tonight, and Satyagraha (omg) on Friday.