… and The Book of Liz opens. We had an audience member last night at dress rehearsal and it was very nice to get a reaction. I knew I would enjoy this process but I had no idea how MUCH I would enjoy it.
I feel like writing a little something, so hold on and let us see if it ends up being interesting.
I woke up suddenly. It must have been a voice because the sound of it echoed in my head, but I couldn’t remember what it said. I looked at my arms against the white of the down comforter and tried to focus on staying awake. I saw then that those arms were not mine. Impossible! I looked closer. Where was the small constellation of freckles on my left wrist ? Where was the indentation on my right middle finger from holding pencils too tightly? I ran to a mirror. Shocked, my breath coming faster, I saw the same strange arms in the mirror. Wait! Whose face is that? Whose eyes? Once mine were green and brown with a burst of gold around the pupil, not at all like these gray lifeless ones. Whose dry and white lips are these? Mine were soft and pink. I checked the places I always had liked; my shoulders, my neck, my collarbone, my back. Formless and faded now.
How did this happen? And like a dripping faucet drowning out all other noise, I remember. I remember when I erased my freckles, hoping to get rid of my imperfections. I remember when I traded my creative hands for busy ones. I remember when I tore out my eyes, wanting to avoid being seen. My lips shriveled up when I stopped speaking truth and when I stopped kissing truthfully. My body became forgotten when I began to cover up what others didn’t like or appreciate. I remember that this version of myself was my own creation. My own mess.
God, will you take back your creation? The one I was ashamed of? Myself? Will you take it back and restore what I have torn apart?
I miss my details.
