04.11.2010

the marathon

It is not just that the carnival is over, but that the marathon is also over.

Earlier this year, while I was on tour, I read “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” by Haruki Murakami. I loved it. A friend had given it to me, saying that he thought I’d enjoy it, and at the time, I’d thought that he was mainly referring to the ideas and inspiration about running contained in the book. As well as, of course, the thoughts about writing. And indeed it did inspire me, because I hadn’t been running since the October before, when I went for a run whilst in New York on a damaged knee and my knee swelled up to such an extent that the only way I could manage performing the play I was there to perform was on quite large doses of anti-inflammatories. It took about three months to settle down, but I feared that I was not ever going to be able to run again, for exercise.

However after reading the Murakami, and experiencing the liberty and leisure of being on tour, I started going to various gymnasiums in the various towns I was in, and began slowly building up my running strength. I started with five minutes on the treadmill, and kept increasing it so that, by the end of the tour, I was doing 4.5 km in about 25 minutes on the treadmill. And I was feeling great. During that period I would often think of various lines from Murakami’s book, for example, “No matter how much you might command your body to perform, don’t count on it to immediately obey. The body is an extremely practical system. You have to let it experience intermittent pain over time, and then the body will get the point. As a result it will willingly accept (or maybe not) the increased amount of exercise it’s made to do. After this, you very gradually increase the upper limit of the amount of exercise you do. Doing it gradually is very important so you don’t burn out,” and “It’s only pain,” and “…of all the habits I’ve acquired over my lifetime I’d have to say this one has been the most helpful, the most meaningful. Running without a break for more than two decades has also made me stronger, both physically and emotionally.”

So then, upon returning from the tour, I start work on recording four talking books, pretty much one after the other, which was fantastic; as well as rehearsing and performing in the wonderful “Carnival of Mysteries.” Also, I keep going to the gym, I keep running.

The Carnival was an amazing experience. Because it was so intense, (we performed 15 shows a week, that is, 2 x 2 hour shows on Tues, Wed and Thurs and then 3 x 2 hour shows on Fri, Sat and Sun) it was even more all-consuming than performing usually is. It was UTTERLY consuming. And it was like running a marathon. I was so grateful that I was fit, and that I had had some preparation, both physically and emotionally, for the arduousness of the task. Because it was, also, incredibly hard. Not only the hours, and the endurance and the effort it required to entertain and communicate to group after group of people for hours on end, but also that I was doing new things, performing in a way that I hadn’t done before with material I hadn’t performed before.

Peta Murray, the playwright (who had two short works performed in the Carnival, one of which, Sacrament, I performed in) wrote to Moira about observations she had made whilst being an audience member of the Carnival. She wrote something like this: (my words) that she noticed that during the course of the show the audience opened up, yielded, became innocent again. I remembered these words because this was certainly my experience with the work that I did during the evening. My first appearance was as The Letter Writer, where, in a small room, with one or two people and a typewriter, I would assist in the writing of a postcard, note or letter. Invariably, as we concentrated together on the task of communicating the ideas which needed to be expressed, a relaxation and openness would occur…the delight of expression, of communication, of care, of speaking and recording thoughts and feelings. Mostly, these few people would leave the little room smiling, happy, and relieved. Similarly, as the show continued, I would see many of the audience excited and inspired by stories, by magic, by skill, by kindness, by the imagination, by the unexpected. It was a wonder and a privilege.

Also, of course, one doesn’t do a marathon alone. The Carnival was only possible because of masses of support and commitment from a huge amount of people: front-of-house, bar staff, ticketing, volunteers, family, carers, sponsors, philanthropists, funding bodies, friends and the incredible group of artists and performers.

The marathon might be over, but the running, the writing, the work, the pain and the pleasure continues. Change has happened, is being assimilated, and I run on.