Lumina

Writing this on the plane, my heart absolutely sick for Edinburgh. There is nothing, nothing, nothing like the magic of Fringe. The incredible, daring, hilarious, innovative theatre. The millions of twinkle lights. The flocks of happy people. It’s what makes it unlike any other gathering—the happy people, the nice people. This morning in the airport I was shocked a woman cut in front of me in line and then argued with the desk worker, but, yeah, she was American.

 Yesterday morning I was miserable, clawing the walls to leave. My bed was utterly uncomfortable and loud, bees would fly in the open window, but a closed window created the stuffiest nasty box, the carpet that made me never not want to wear shoes, the drunks at 3 AM, the moldy fridge, the sharing a flat with seven other people, the feeling of something closing up around me and wanting to kiss it goodbye before it could break up with me. In the afternoon Stripes took a train from Manchester just to visit me. We roamed about having noodles and catching up and really trying to sort out this life. I remember the night we met walking to our freshman dorms together. We were so tiny and mindless. I waited for her bus with her, watched her jump to the double decker, waved goodbye. It was 22:00. I was farther from how than I thought I was, ended up making my way back through the square I spent the last month hurrying to every night. It was tons of boards and wood panels and rails and boxes. Gone: the flower garden and vegan pbj sandwich hut, the adorable circus tent, the crepe line, the old couples, the drunken bros, the buskers, the light on the cobblestones. It makes me want to cry.

There were nights when it was in its full majesty I also wanted to cry. The rest of my cast was tucked in a theatre doing their second show, and I was alone, blood pumping with the adrenaline of sticking the landing to cheering sold-out house, but now walking in the chilly wind past happy parties and a jillion fliers—wondering who I would most prefer to be—someone in a line going to what’s supposed to be the hottest show, a person on the billboard for the hottest show, or myself.

The company I toured with is certainly dysfunctional (as have been all comedy theatre I have ever worked for, so), but what an utter gift this month has been. I pushed my boundaries in every possible way imaginable. I am so serious, in every single way a person can be challenged I have been. I felt on deep deep levels from new and old relationships, theatre, and performance. I ate a billion treats. I stayed up very very late, I hiked mountains, I evaluated who I am and who I hope to be and what I hope to make and what I do make. I appreciated cafes, castles.

I haven’t felt this way since I was in the backseat of my family’s gray mini-van riding home from summer camp.