Last night The Boy took me out to go see Eddie Izzard on the Cape Town leg of his Force Majeure tour. Was a fantastic night out, with much fun had.
But it got me thinking a little about performers and artists who produce live shows. I can write my little books and then hole up when they go out into the world. Sure, I can get shitty reviews that make me want to slit my own throat, but I don’t have to know about them if I don’t go looking for them. I can, if I choose, live in a little Bubble of Happy.
Performers don’t have that luxury. They are in the face of your love, your boredom, your contempt, your adulation. They have to be “on” at all times.
I get tired just from socialising at a party and being in extrovert mode for a few hours every month or so. These people are on for two solid hours at a go, with no-one else to pick up the slack if they get bored or tired or are just having a shit night. And they’re doing it in front of thousands of people.
I’m supposed to be working but I have a headache (there is news about this, but it makes me sad so I’m burying it here where no-one will read it: optometrist says I am left with 50% vision, so I’m kinda depressed about it but oh well such is life.)
So instead of working I doodled about Tyops, who live in your manuscripts and eat your vowels and steal your plot threads to line their nests.