I always remember the floor of a stage. It gleams across my memory of walking towards my seat, shines below my feet, and hovers with smirks behind the music I’m ready to meet. I get there early because I like to be comfortable on the stage; I like to sit for several minutes in the quiet of a pre-performance cavern, and feel like moving within it isn’t foreign.
The last rehearsal is usually about breathing, for me. The gritty work is done before the first rehearsal, the hard-climb learning and large adjusting chunks have hopefully been thoroughly carved before the final two and a half hours before we perform. I try to think about how I breathe and when I breathe and why I need a certain type of breath for a certain type of phrase. I try to remember to let my breath relax my shoulders and I hope that it prevents me from worrying too much (it doesn’t).
I saunter off the stage, light headed because of my deliberate oxygen overdose, and listen to the clack of my heels against the unabashed gleam. The hall is loud with chatter and I leave it till evening, when the gleam will be sultry and I will fold myself into just another streak across the winking shine of the tapestry we made.