Dear Kitty 2.0,
Phew. All caught up on sleep now. Rehearsal on Saturday consisted of another read-through, this one at a more “natural” pace, and some more discussion of character relations. In the margin of my script, I scribbled a few thoughts to write about when I got home:
The eight Annex-inhabitants had to be quiet-- absolutely silent-- every single day, from 8 AM until 6PM, when there were workers in the building below. Every. Single. Day. This got me to thinking-- if they’d been able to talk freely, I’m not sure Anne’s diary would exist at all, or if it did, I daresay it wouldn’t look a thing like the diary we have today. Of course, she was a natural born writer. She still would have been just as precocious as ever. But the sheer volume and depth of her writings were in direct response to that silence, the “waiting,” that Anne talks about so often: “All we can do is wait for the war to end. The whole world is waiting, and many are waiting for death.” (This line, by the way, is from the play. I’ll specify if I’m quoting the play or the diary, itself.)
This notion of waiting-- silent, patient (or, actually, impatient!) waiting got my wheels turning. And then, I read the first line of a post-Peter-scene monologue: “The sun is shining, the sky a deep blue, there’s a magnificent breeze, and I’m longing-- so longing-- for everything!” Waiting and longing, it seems to me, are two sides of the same coin. Or perhaps not even different sides; they both evoke a sense of time-- a suspension of time and emotion and events. There’s an undeniable sense of that suspension, anticipation, and urgency in Anne’s writings-- regarding everything from her love of Peter to her deepest, darkest fears about the war-- that made me forget that the bulk of her work was done in complete silence.
Anyways. Waiting and longing, folks.
In yesterday’s (Sunday’s) rehearsal, we got out of our chairs and onto the “set” that we’ve created in our rehearsal space, with delineations between rooms and floors blocked out in tape. Lots of fun to begin to play with the other actors. And lots of challenges-- How/why am I moving this box across the room when I need to be next to the radio for my next line? I need to show the passage of time for the next scene... so my shoes have to move... when do I pick up my shoes...? And, what might be the trickiest question for me, personally-- How do I read these monologues? Must I always have my diary open? On my person? Do I read them as if I’m writing them? Do I speak to the audience and forget holding the diary?
Eh. I don’t have to figure all that out just yet. Gerald says we’ll have to wait and see. Feel it out, and see what we come up with. In the meantime, I’m going to work on getting my darn script out of my hot little hands. It’s seriously the biggest annoyance to be clutching a stack of paper when you’re trying to be chased around a room, playing tug of war with a pair of shoes, y’know what I mean?