I don’t get stage fright.

My heart is hammering and my hands are shaking and waves of hot and cold wash over me like I’ve got the flu and I have no idea what my first line is and this is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, I have been an actress all my life, I have performed on this particular stage for nearly twenty years, and I do not get stage fright.

It’s Geoffrey’s fault, of course.

Why did he have to come back?  Why couldn’t he have kept on making grubby shoestring theatre and getting himself arrested and not bothering me?  He had all the world to be in; he didn’t want New Burbage.  So why did he have to invade and screw it up for me?

He’s thrown me off my game.  No, he’s changed the game.  Of course he has.  We’re playing by Geoffrey’s rules, now.

Damn him.

And damn me for not being able to tell whether I’m angry at him for coming back or for failing to make it all like it used to be.  For looking at me with longing or for not looking at me enough. 

Hamlet.  I’m about to walk out there and into Hamlet—a play more cursed than Mackers, here at New Burbage, anyhow.  Not surprising I’m falling to pieces.

(Breathe.  Remember to breathe.  I have never passed out in the wings and I’m goddamn well not starting tonight.)

I didn’t want to do Oliver’s Hamlet—God, what on earth was the man thinking of?  What possessed him to touch that play again, much less to do it here, with me?  Maybe he was trying to lay your ghost, Geoff.  Bury you under six feet of mediocrity.  I don’t know, and it didn’t really matter.  What possessed me to go along with it, is another question.  If we’d gone through with it, only two things could have happened.  I would have shattered to pieces (like you did), or I would have died inside—finally, completely—while my body kept on walking through horrible productions like a zombie until the end of time.  Maybe the reason I agreed to Hamlet was plain curiosity to know which way it would destroy me.  Or, you know, maybe I just didn’t care.

So I suppose I should be grateful that Geoffrey returned.  Saved me from a fate worse than death.  Forced me to care again.

Because Geoffrey cares.  Don’t you, Geoffrey?  You care passionately and horribly, you can’t stop yourself.  Not even if it destroys you.  And what Geoffrey cares about, everyone around him will care about, whether they want to or not.  Love him, hate him, follow him, fight him, but just you fucking try to stay apathetic around him.  Can’t be done.

And yes, of course I was looking forward to doing this Hamlet, this Gertrude.  Of course I want to.  Oliver would have had me doing a predictable, passive Gertrude; a sock-puppet, easy for the audience to understand.  But you, Geoffrey, you want a Gertrude who makes people uncomfortable.  Who hurts people.  Starting with me.

Your way is demanding, but I didn’t go into acting because it was easy and I sure as hell haven’t stayed with it so long because it’s easy.

It was easy with Oliver, these last years.  Sleepwalking through roles, never having to think or stretch, because Oliver didn’t care—no, I think Oliver actually wanted that somnolent Titania.  Oliver wanted to give the audiences what he thought they deserved.  Yes, trash, Geoffrey; no one's disagreeing with you.  And no, it wasn’t what I wanted, exactly, but you have to understand, there are worse things than being numb.

I’m pretty sure you’ve tried a lot of those things.

You’ve always hated the easy way, and fine, yes, when you finally started directing this damn show, when you made us really work and think and feel, when you forced me to remember how it feels to really inhabit a part—yes, Geoffrey.  Yes, I liked it.  Yes, I wanted it.

You asked me to bleed for you, and I was ready to do it.  Am ready to do it.

But don’t you ever try to pretend that this show is some kind of gift to me.  This show is your gift to yourself.  Your redemption, maybe—I don’t know what you think it is, I only know that all of this is for you. 

Oh, you’re no tyrant; you’re a generous and sympathetic director and you bring out the best in us (when you can be bothered to direct at all).  You’re not interested in making us your puppets.  But you make us yours.  You call us out, and lift us up, and we shine in your eyes first and last.  We become part of your art.

That’s not the way it used to be, between you and me.  When we were on stage together, your every word and gesture were given for me to work with; my every word and gesture were woven into your performance.  That’s how it is between actors, when it’s good.  And we were very good together, Geoffrey. 

But you’re a director now.  No matter how you feel about me or my acting (what do you feel, Geoffrey-of-the-swan-boat?), you’ll never be with me again.  You’ll always be looking at me from the audience, judging me, shaping me.

And here’s the terrible thing, Geoffrey.  Whether you stay or go, from now on, all my performances will be for you.

Starting with this one.  From the moment I step onto that stage, I can never claim to act for myself, or for that vague entity, the audience, again.  You’re my director forever, even if you never actually direct me again.  The only audience that matters.

Which is why I’m so fucking terrified to step out there.  Once I do, there’s no going back.

I won’t do it.  I can’t.  Fuck the audience, fuck Hamlet.  I can’t let you do this to me.

But it’s already too late, isn’t it, Geoffrey?  It’s happened, and the only thing left to do is go forward and see how it all plays out.  There’s no running away from the future, or from the play.  Jack figured that out, as terrified as he is; he didn’t even need you to help him.

I’m not dumb, either, Geoffrey.  I get it.

Do you get it?  Or are you still running?

Don’t run away, Geoffrey.  I’m not done hating you yet.  I’m afraid I may not be done loving you, either. 

Sorry you came back and woke me up?  You will be, I expect; and so will I.  But nothing to do about that now.  Except go on, and see what happens next.

And there’s my cue.

Deep breath.

Enter, stage left.